thank you, mr. president

This week, I was given a very wonderful gift by the State of California.

President's Week.

President's Week is a beautiful gift that the state gives to exacerbated teachers and mentors everywhere when they just happen to run out of money. While I would usually protest budget cuts for public schools and have a mouthful to say about the priorities of the state, this week I'm keeping my mouth shut. 

Because it's President's Week.

So, in honor of the 44 of them, I have taken a week for myself. 

Now it's time to say "thank you."

Mr. President(s): Thank you for allowing me to sleep in, five days in a row, no questions asked. Thank you for not judging me when I stay in bed reading for the better part of the morning. I appreciate you creating space in my schedule for yoga. And nutrition. I'll give you the credit for the time I was able to spend reconnecting with friends and old coworkers. Thank you for the space to sit outside and enjoy the perfect San Diego weather, to consider a million different things, to hold babies, to be lazy, to play way too many games of Scramble with Friends, to do what I wanted to do, to slow down and just be.

I've never been more thankful for democracy. 

found here

found here

found here 

[re]considering beauty

"The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It's the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows and the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years."

--Audrey Hepburn

I have nothing new to say about beauty, only what I've experienced. Nothing I say will be all that special and certainly many women have overcome far more than I. I don't have a story about learning to love myself despite missing limbs or an eating disorder that took hold of my life or any other heart-wrenching story about being at odds with the cultural values of beauty. I only have my experience and my belief that a conversation about beauty is a conversation worth having.

March, 2009: Very short hair

In January of 2009, I chopped off 13 inches of hair. It was an odd decision, considering that I was always told, "Long hair is pretty hair." I believed it too. But, in January of 2009, I was not quite myself. In January of 2009, I described myself frequently as a "ball of mess." In that ball was wrapped up joylessness, darkness, fears of failure and feelings of unworthiness and a complete inability to see God as Himself, or myself as the woman I was. I felt ugly, body and soul, and I hated the way I defined myself. IAll this coming from a girl who received compliments, whose parents lavished praise, who had good eyebrows and a body that was just the right size. My insecurities were normal and because of that, they were normalized. But I hated that I felt the need for hair--dead follicles--to make me feel beautiful. I cut it all off, wondering and hoping if a detachment from what the world said I should be would make me feel more like the me that I wanted to be. I felt empowered, holding years worth of growing and striving in my hands. I saw it as a distinguishing moment, a fresh start, as if I was cutting off all that was dead within me. 

With a set of scissors, I transformed from a cultural image of femininity to an undefined woman. There was struggle that came along with it. One moment, confident in all that I was without hair, the next, trying to convince the world that I was still what they wanted: beautiful, worthy, valuable, feminine, a woman. Particularly helpful were comments from the people in my life, openly showing their disapproval: "Don't you miss it?," "I just like long hair so much better," or, my personal favorite: "Just don't become a lesbian, okay?"

In those moments, I was sad. I was sad for the urge that we all feel to look like the girls in magazines; sad for the urge to adjust our own temple of expression to the idea of beauty that the world holds. I was sad that having short hair took "bravery," that we were all admitting to hiding behind pretty and long locks. I was sad for the ease with which I let statements like that make me feel ugly (or for feeling ugly independent of statements of disapproval), for wondering if a man would ever pay attention to me (especially on a college campus), sad that sexuality was wrapped up in "beauty," sad for feeling like something was missing that went beyond thirteen inches of hair.

But in that time, on days when I struggled with bobby-pins or my anxiety-induced weight fluctuation, when I compared myself to the "perfect" girl to my left in Calculus or when I cried because I looked like a boy, all that was dead within me was brought back to life. Probably not because I cut off my hair, but because I admitted defeat and gave up control. It was a fast of sorts: I gave up trying and striving, and my attention was lovingly refocused on more important things. During that time, I found myself belonging to community, being accepted for what my heart could bring, discovering that I enjoyed making art, learning to love, traveling to Jamaica, finding healing from anxiety, finally being honest with myself. During that time, I became who I wanted to be, even without hair. That fact alone made me feel more beautiful than any curls or extra inches ever could.

I say all of this to let you know that I understand the struggle to feel beautiful. I understand that the issue of beauty has more wrapped up inside of it: self-expression, acceptance, worthiness, security; at the same time, it brings us to striving, to wasted time in front of a mirror, time that could be spent doing anything else. I understand the tension and allure of being beautiful. Beauty is a gift from God, but perfectionism is not. Beauty is a gift from God, but He cares more about what you're doing to bring life to the world than what shirt you're wearing. Beauty is a gift from God, but He'd rather see you learn how to love than learn how to apply eye make-up perfectly. He'd rather you grow your wisdom and knowledge of Him than your hair and He has a greater purpose for your life than trying to meet an impossible standard of beauty. And even knowing this and finding relief in the truth of it, I still find myself saying, "I just want to look cute today and I don't think that God finds it wrong." I really, truly don't. The issue of beauty is complex. 

magik Beauty Store

Over three years, my hair has grown back. It's long and healthy and I can curl it whenever I want. I love that. Occasionally, I find myself looking to it for affirmation. There is a deeper concern, though, because not everybody struggles with the tension of beauty. Not everybody believes in a God who redefines it; they simply accept what the world says as ultimate truth. I work with young men and women who already have their own ideas of beauty, and it doesn't stop with thirteen year olds. Girls want the perfect eyebrow shape, dark hair and light eyes. [In very uncomfortable interactions, they tell me each day that they'd trade their dark and "boring" eyes for my light eyes. They don't know that I once, in a very awkward time in life, hated my eye color and wore blue contacts because blue eyes were "prettier."] Girls will let no emotion show on their faces because they don't want the laugh or worry lines, or they will spend an entire day at school with a mirror hidden in their purse, applying and reapplying mascara. And boys want the typical "hot girl," a look that no thirteen year old girl (or any-age girl) can ever achieve (nor should they feel forced to spend their time trying). These cultural ideals are passed along through generations so that we learn to strive after them, but we are forgetting to train our kids, or retrain ourselves, to care about what beauty truly is.

Maybe because we still don't know. 

We are forgetting to tell ourselves that an unforgiving heart is uglier than any set of bushy eyebrows.

We refuse to accept that hatred shows itself on a person's face and it is not a wonderful thing to behold.

That a mouth full of criticism is more unattractive than laugh lines or cellulite. 

That short hair, even a pixie cut, is more attractive than a mean spirit on any day of the week. 

That clothes, hair and makeup are accessories (fun ones at that!), but never the defining feature of a person.

No one tells us that unique self-expression is beautiful. Very few people grow up aware of the freedom  and beauty of being different, living to different standards.

We forget that by the standards of models or magazines, you could be completely perfect, but if you lack love, 

you are nothing. 

The mentor in me comes out to say this:

Many old, wise people have said "there is more to beauty than what meets the eye." It's true, and I want the world to believe it. So strive for beauty, look cute doing it, but please, I'm begging you, do it in the ways that matter. Don't lose sight of your value, your true identity, or the person that you want to be at the end of the day or the end of your life. The world is an ugly enough place on its own. 

Take care of the dead inside of you to find yourself as an embodiment of what is truly beautiful.

For further reading about beauty:

Good Women Project

The Resurgence: What is Beautiful?

Wonderfully Made

"Sometimes, people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are."

--Marcus Zuzak

mud + spit + oaks of righteousness

Have you seen the way that I journal? 

It's a bit nuts, I know, but it helps me to make sense of all the thoughts inside of my head. I'm hugely visual, and, when I have time, I pretend to be intellectual. (Okay, pretend might be the wrong word.) I love times with my Bible and all of the resources that I use to understand it more fully. To me, reading the Bible void of context, without knowing the people, the time, the place, seems frustratingly incomplete. For me to know the Lord more completely, I need to STUDY. Which means resource books laying everywhere, multiple colors of pens, dictionaries and blank paper. Occasionally, when I am disciplined enough to participate and open enough to receive, I get some strange and beautiful insight into my life that makes me know + love the Lord all the more. For now: 

1 As he passed by, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" 3 Jesus answered, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him. 4 We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world." 6 Having said these things, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva. Then he anointed the man's eyes with the mud 7 and said to him,"Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent). So he went and washed and came back seeing.               [john 9:1-7, esv]

I can't separate this passage, with all of its rich meaning, from what I feel stirring in my own heart about family and restoration and freedom from my assumptions about the nature of God. This blind man could be any one of us, with physical ailments or emotional baggage, and the world asks (and us right along with them), "Whose fault is it?" We need someone to blame, something to make sense of why things are the way that they are. A perfect God would never allow causeless imperfection, so it must be our fault. The disciples thought this way initially. (More extreme, we think that imperfection=the non-existence of God, but I'm not getting into that.) Blindness because of sin. Cause and effect reality, void of grace. Credit it, maybe, to ancient philosophy: Sickness is a product of sin; he is blind because of something he did, or something his parents did. Sin stalks through the generation. It's what they believe. It's a sad and cruel way to understand God, inaccurate and damaging, giving evil far more power than it deserves. How shaming, how isolating, to think that He keeps record of our wrongs through the generations, forgetting that forgiveness is His constant gift + His mercies are new with the morning. We've heard the phrase though, and it's frightening:

generational sin

This line of thinking is not foreign to me, with anxiety and fear of the legacy of divorce in my family. But I love this passage, because in the competition between cruelty and compassion, the character of Christ is revealed. 

I love that this passage draws us back to the earth, back to the way the world works: "In this world, there will be suffering, but take heart, I have overcome the world." This is the way the world works: we were born into a world full of sickness and sin (separateness from God + the things of God). God loves us no less for it. We were born into families that conditioned our behavior, for good or for bad. God loves us no less for it. We were born unable to see, through no fault of our own (Jesus said so), and God loves us no less for it. Ultimately, His purposes win. His purpose: healing. Relational + physical. For this man, it was physical and immediate. Drawn back to the earth, almost to force us to reevaluate the goodness/badness of nature, that tendency of ours to blame creation. We come from the earth, fallen, and yet the Lord uses His creation to grow and heal us. He uses mud. 

Mud + Spit. It's gross, especially by our standards of modern medicine, but I can think of nothing more beautiful. (Yes, I think weird, unbeautiful things are beautiful.) The thing about spit is this: it's typically an insult, an image of revulsion or rejection, and yet Jesus uses it to heal, to pause and reverse the natural workings of the world. To bring a person out of isolation, to include this blind man in His kingdom. Mud + Spit. Nothing more natural, more "of the flesh," something so socially undesirable used by the Lord to heal, used to glorify and reveal His character. Brilliant, actually.

This passage makes it seem so simple: anointing and washing and complete, immediate healing. Yet I find, in my life, a struggle to "maintain" healing--constantly falling back into my areas of poor health. My issues are not birth defects, but learned behavior--you can call it generational and you'd be justified in doing so. Generational legacies of divorce, of selfishness, of Jesus-less-ness. Things many families deal with. It is learned behavior, engrained deeply and passed down in years of parenting. God loves me no less but He calls me to healing, a process of unlearning and creating new legacies and it is a struggle to do so. You'd be crazy to go back to the habit of blindlessness once the world of sight had been opened to you. But what about the comfort of self-service? The pattern of avoidance? The habit of abandonment when things get hard? And many, many others. Those are difficult habits to break. Entirely impossible to do it along, despite the allure of self-help book and therapy and the practice of yoga (all good things, but an incomplete form of healing). You'd have to step into an entirely new identity, an entirely new family.

Source: alisonyinblog.com

One of the many things that I love about the Lord is His intentionality. Here, I would have been stuck. It's the longing of my soul for as long as I can remember: Oaks of Righteousness and generational restoration. It's heavy on my mind these days. I think about the ways that I have been gathered into the families around me, welcomed and wrapped up with friends that are second family, and how I feel the tension of that adoption: Will it last? Is it strong enough? Will it define me? Is it only blood that binds us? I think about the ways that my life, a marriage, a welcoming heart could be a mode of this restoration.


It's as if Jesus knew this longing for family and understood the tension of adoption when he says, "You are heirs with Christ in salvation." And more: "You have been grafted in." Grafted in, married in to a family of righteousness, made so by a desire for Him.

In the midst of reflection and anaylsis, comparing and contrasting what I want vs. what I have (and I need to emphasize comparing: in many ways, my actual family is a dream come true). It is easy to hope for simply an earthly family. One that prays genuine prayers before meals, one that seeks transformation by Jesus, one growing in the fruits of the Spirit. It's natural to find that and cling to it for the life that it gives, to want to be grafted into that family, already in existence. To want them at my wedding, standing next to me in support, to be in the waiting room when I give birth and to act as family until the very end; to want spiritual parents and wise + righteous counsel. It's easy to forget that they have been grafted, too. I have not been grafted into them (though they may be the tangible representation of what Christ has done), but we, separate branches, have been grafted into THE Oak of Righteousness, with THE head of the family. We come from the same broken world and God loves us no less for it. From Him, new branches shoot out--a new family and a new identity, that the weight of who God is would be revealed. 

the way i see it, #76

Sometimes, Starbucks is good for more than caffeine.

room for hope

"Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments — but all of this is transitory it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.”          --Paulo Coelho

There are a few things that I've learned from my job thus far:

1. Carpool naps make me a better person.
2. Every student needs to be celebrated.
3. The depth of a person's story, especially their heartache, will make me cry every time.
4. There is almost nothing more necessary than hope. 

hope (noun)

a feeling of desire for something and confidence in the possibility of its fulfillment 

disappoint (verb)

to fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of

 I went into this job knowing my tendency to over-invest, to take too much responsibility and to feel the burden of other's circumstances.  In an attempt to protect myself from the emotional weight of 50 hours of this each week, I told myself to hold loosely to hope, to not put too much hope in one particular student, to not let one good day get my hopes up for lasting transformation. Still believe,  always believe, but possibly from a distance.

hope --> expectation --> disappointment

hope --> expectation --> transformation

Disappointment and transformation are bound together, with hope at their center. Without it, neither can occur. If I seal myself off from hope in an effort to protect myself from the sting of disappointment, I am working my way fearfully through my days, afraid of the power of hope, afraid to be wrapped up in it with my 30 students, carrying their stories, hoping for them when they cannot hope for themselves. Without it, and without the potential for disappointment, I am not doing my job.

The potential for disappointment is always there. It always will be. At the end of any day, I've likely experienced it. In the sweet kid who visited D3 at every break and ate lunch with me and talked about his desire for change but ended up with a suspension by 8th period. In the girl who shared her heart with me then manipulated me minutes later. In the smart boy who refused to do his math homework. In the kids who seemed genuinely excited about progress, yet find themselves in the principal's office for something so preventable.

They say that adolescents have a limited perspective on time and responsibility. They don't see cause and effect, they don't see the end of the road. Their brains are still developing; their mindsets are short-sighted, unaware of the potential of the future. I suppose that's my job. To help them see; to help them change their own minds, to see beyond the routine of junior high and neighborhood activity and to hope for something more.

My only words for them are, over and over again, "Baby steps. I want something better for you. I believe in something better for you. We will get there." And I say it to myself, too, because despite long and hard days, despite tears of sadness and frustration, this is my job. This is my work and my ministry.  Until June by contract, and beyond. Because tangled up in hope and expectation and disappointment and possibly transformation, is love. And that's what I have for them. And it's in the disappointments I feel it most, when a new day comes and there is infinitely more room for hope.

slow down: a reflection

The last few weeks have been a showing of the chaos of life. Crazy work schedules and adjustments in community; travel and a wedding and weekends that feel like paradise; jam-packed days and nights of far too little sleep; not enough time to process and tired emotionality and excuses for all of it. 

In the midst of it, a longing to slow. 

More than a longing. 

A conviction. 

A conviction rooted in another conviction and another conviction beyond even that: 

to add to the healing of the world

to live an intentional life

to create and care and relate meticulously, authentically, intentionally

It was easy in the summer, with no job and endless time for sleeping and journaling. Life picks up speed, though, and if I'm not careful, I find myself adding to the brokenness.

Without intentionality, I find myself overlooking stories and fears and the things that make us human.

I find myself fumbling through my days: thoughtlessly relating, hastily replying, foolishly bypassing the hearts of others.

It's damaging. To me. To my relationships. To my sanity. To my faith.

And yet, I have a thousand excuses for why intentionality is too lofty a dream, some legitimate. I find myself putting off intentionality under the guise of other forms of service: my job working with at-risk youth, my independence, my Meyers-Briggs (ENFP), my church. I claim that I'll get to it later and rush off to my next highest priority.

I am learning the hard way that intentionality is a discipline, and a Jesus-oriented one at that. 

He is never not intentional. His words and His time and His every movement. 

He is meticulous in all He does and encourages me to the same. 

He challenges me to slow my way, to prioritize and invest and protect time for the people and things that matter.

More than that, to taste the sweetness of intentionality and enjoy.

dreams and futures and things like new jobs

To date, I have been in 16 hours of training for this new job that I keep talking about. We have 56 more hours until my supervisors consider me trained enough to work with thirty at-risk youth at a local (ish) junior high. We are learning about a long list of things that put them at-risk: neighborhood gang presence and peripheral involvement, bullying and the rise of the commercialized sexual exploitation of children; poverty and single-parent households, lack of support, the education system on a macro level. On and on and on. We are learning to fill up our schedules with the stories of thirty kids who might not pass their classes, that might not make friends, that might become truants, or maybe they have a dysfunctional family; maybe they have nobody to help them with their homework, to make sure they are eating well, to tell them that they are loved and valued and that their dreams matter. Thirty kids that might not have dreams at all.

You might not know--dreams are my thing. I can't imagine a better thing for me, for my heart and my strengths, than to help somebody to dream big things, God things, redemptive and new things, for their lives. I could not be more excited to set up my classroom and spend an entire school year turning ideas into reality, showing kids their value, loving them, helping them see their potential. (This is tricky--I don't really ascribe to the If you can dream it, you can do it idea, but I do believe, unwaveringly, in the power of a dream and the necessity of commitment and work and so much of yourself invested to make it "come true." More on this later.)

And yet, I'm hesitant. I know that the next 10 months promise to be difficult: Working with junior highers. (I remember junior high. I remember myself in junior high. It was awful.) Mentoring 30 kids. Meeting the goals of the program: a decrease in truancy by 100%, a marked improvement in all core subjects, finding service projects that they will invest themselves in. Doing enough. Sleeping enough. Budgeting and commuting and surviving traffic on the 5. Maintaining my life and relationships and sanity outside of this job.

Today, in the midst of reflecting on the struggles that are sure to come, the lives of at-risk youth, the disappointment and failure and shame that is wrapped up in poverty, the difficulty of adolescence, I am thankful for a story that inspires hope. Today I am particularly inspired by a little story about a boy called Lula:

Lula was a skinny kid, who looked straight out of the Third World, undernourished, filthy. He was standing by himself, and no one seemed to include him or pay him much attention...'My name is Luis, but everybody calls me Lula,' he said. I remember this a week later, when I pull up to an intersection and see him entering the crosswalk alone, his walk clumsy and self-conscious. I roll down my window and catch his attention.
'Hey, Lula.'

You would have thought that I had electrocuted him. His whole body spasms with delight to be known, to be called, to hear his name uttered out loud. For his entire trip through the crosswalk, Lula kept turning back and looking at me, smiling.

Lula didn't do well in school...When Lula first started to come to the office, shortly after I met him, he'd make a beeline to my office and just sit there. He was not much of a conversationalist. One day, when Lula passed by all the other desks and staff members to get to my office, several called him back. 'Hey, where do you think you're going?' They proceeded to explain to Lula the whole 'what are we, chopped liver?' concept, that it was rude to walk past folks without greeting them. They suggested he try it again. Lula goes to the front door, exuberant at the mere idea that folks would actually want to be greeted by him. He walks in again and in a singsongy, lilting voice, nearly approximating Gregorian Chant say, 'HELLLOOOO, EVERYYYYBOOODDY!' He would enter our office for the next five years with this exact same greeting. Lula came from a huge family, and he was attention deficient, except in our office. Everyone lavished Lula with care he didn't get otherwise.

Ten-year old Lula walks into my office one day and stands in the doorway. I wave him in. He hands me [his report card] and stands by my side, resting his elbow on my shoulder. His glee cannot be contained. I glance across the piece of paper in front of me and locate the subjects. F, F, F, F, F, F. All Fs and nothing but damn Fs. I think, Why's he so excited to show me this thing? I am frantically perusing every inch of this report card to find something, anything, for which to praise Lula. I find it.

Absences: 0. 

'Lula, nice goin', mijo, you didn't miss a day (I'm thinking, a lot a good it did ya)--you didn't miss a day."

[Father Gregory Boyle//Tattoos on the Heart]

I can't help but wonder, and maybe secretly hope, that I have a Lula on my caseload.  If interactions with my students will parallel this story. Not all of them, I'm sure, but one or two. Maybe even ten or fifteen, fingers crossed. But, I'd be happy with one. One for the hard days, to remind me of the importance of simply loving somebody. Knowing them, calling their name, lavishing them with care, celebrating their accomplishments, big or small and encouraging them on. 

A guest speaker, a former gang member, encouraged our team on Friday. I'm holding onto it, right there with Lula, as I begin this new journey. 

Make this your passion, your calling, your ministry. Nothing could be more important.

 

...and I think I just found the first quote for my classroom :)

 

roots, indefinitely

Today was the day that I was supposed to move to Boston. Boston had it's own category in my Google Calendar and I'd been planning on it for months:

August 30: Fly to Boston

August 31: Move in Day

September 1-5: Orientation

September 6: Classes begin

[Essentially: August 30, a new life begins]

It feels a bit strange to be approaching this day with an entirely new set of plans, and stranger still to feel so much contentment and joy in all of it. I expected a stronger desire to grieve the loss of this graduate school dream--a new city and open doors and every opportunity under the sun. I expected to feel suffocated by a closed door, fearful of my inability to freely pack up and change my life. But there is a strange freedom that comes from committing to put down roots. 

 

I grew up between two different homes, switching weekly, packing bags and visiting parents and whatnot. I guess I grew accustomed to movement. I thought it defined me. There may be some truth in that: I am an explorer, I am curious, I crave adventure. If I'm being honest, there is an element of escapism trapped in there. Constant movement means I never have to do the hard work of long-term relationships, vulnerability, depth, despite my desire for that type of connectedness. Of course, all of this is relative. I've been in San Diego for almost six years now and there is so much depth to my existence here. But something changes when you decide to make a place home. 

There is no threat of moving boxes or looming goodbyes. There is no need to self-protect, only the freedom to grow deeply here. To put roots into the earth (or, even better, the San Diego sand)--to nurture and learn and invest in difficult but beautiful things. And that is what this summer has been for me. An invitation to put down roots.  To make this my real life: not just college, not just my transition years, but my reality. There's a lot wrapped up in this new(ish) life.

It started with a little form required by the DMV. Change of permanent address. For the first time in my life, "permanent address" does not mean the place where my mom or my dad live. Home is San Diego, and the State of California knows it. For the first time in my life, everything is in one place. All of my clothes, all of my books, everything that makes my space mine. No more split time or doubles of everything. [This is a joy unique to a kid who had shared custody...and it's a beautiful, beautiful thing and I am celebrating.] I can hardly believe it: I am settling, in the best possible way. 

Beyond that, there are a billion little plans to make this place my home, and I am genuinely happy about all of them. Painted walls. Fire pits. The sharing of spare keys. Theodyssey. A new job. Hopes for intentional relationships that are edifying and encouraging and prayerful. Women Mondays. And on and on and on.  

Have you heard that common phrase, "I will go wherever the wind carries me." It sounds ever-so romantic, and once upon a time, my idealism would've clung to it. For now, though, the wind has calmed and roots are growing deep--indefinitely.