"What does Jesus do?" "Wuvs you."

My daughter and I pray together every night before bed. She's only two, so it's a simple one - "Thank you Jesus. Amen." She always shouts the "Amen" and is so excited to do it. Our sitter has a woodcut painting of Jesus in her entryway, so I pointed Him out to her a while back and told her "Jesus loves you." I didn't mention anything about it again for a while, so I was surprised and had to smile when she brought it up again herself.

We were in her room for some "quiet time" before bed, and I said "Mommy loves you." Normally she'd say "yeah" or "Wuv you too, Mommy." But this time, she instead went to my husband (who is agnostic) and said "Jesus wuvs you." And now, if you ask her "What does Jesus do?" she says "Wuvs you."

And in this tiny person and this adorably mispronounced sentence, I see everything I want to be when it comes to my relationship with God. Jesus loves you. It seems like such a simple thing, but it is so important to remember. Our Lord isn't just some celestial judge who sits far off and waves souls up to Heaven or down to Hell. He truly is our father. And he loves us. He loves us so much that he sent his son to die for our sins so that we could be saved by grace.

As humans, we tend to focus on our flaws, or what's wrong with us - or wrong with others. We write others off, or feel worthless ourselves. But what could possibly show our worth greater than the fact that the creator of all existence loves us? And not just in the way you totally love the designer jeans you got on clearance. He loves each of us individually, just as we love our own children - even more strongly than we love our own children, which is something I can't even wrap my mind around.

Meredith's enthusiasm also reminds me of what a wonderful gift it can be to share God's love with others. I've mentioned before that I'm not great at witnessing, but I am a firm believer in bringing joy to others. I get made fun of sometimes for constantly talking to absolutely everyone - people in the elevator, people at the sink in the bathroom, the clerk at the grocery store. But I challenge you to try it. You don't have to go all Chatty Cathy like I tend to, but try something little. Tell the woman next to you in the elevator that you like her shoes. Ask your co-worker where she got her earrings. (Clearly both of those work better if you're a woman.) Ask someone how they are, and really mean it and listen to the answer. Ask how someone's day is going, how they're feeling. Tell them they have a beautiful smile. Admire their kindness or generosity out loud. All of these things can make a person feel loved, even if only for a moment.

We share God's word, and we can also share His love without saying anything, if that's what you're more comfortable with. Leave a dollar taped to the vending machine at work. Put quarters in a few carts at Aldi before you leave. Put a gift card in your mailbox for your mail carrier. Throw a little extra onto the tip for your waitress who looks like she had a long day. Send a copy of your favorite book to a friend.

My daughter has no reservations about showing her love (aside from occasionally deciding she's too busy playing to give a hug or a kiss). And while I don't know that I'm going to start hugging strangers anytime soon (I might - I am Sicilian), I plan to study her example and be open with my love for others, just as God is so clear in His love for us. You never know what a person is going through, or how one word or act of love and kindness could change their day, or even their life. Fill up on God's love, and pour it out to others. Whatever you give out, I promise you'll get back many times over.

"Think of your fellow man, lend him a helping hand - put a little love in your heart."

A Candle Shines Brightest in Darkness

I read a post on a message board I belong to about a woman who would not let her children associate with their best friends after finding out that the friends' parents were a gay couple. I have two problems with this:

1) Though not the focus of this post, further questioning by other members revealed that this woman did not keep her children from associating with children whose parents cheated, gambled excessively, etc. You can't say you don't want your children around those who don't share your values and then ignore all of your values but one. It's ridiculous, and it's going to confuse the kids.

2) As Christians, we are called to witness. To share God's word and the message of our salvation through Christ. To bring people to him. If we only associate with other Christians, how are we accomplishing that mission?

I did ask the woman about the second point, but I never received a response. I hope it at least made her think. I will admit that I'm not the best when it comes to witnessing (unless you count by attempted example or through this blog). Put me up on a stage in front of a thousand people, and I'll speak without a single stutter or shaking hand. But the thought of witnessing to someone one on one makes me want to vomit with anxiety. So I get if someone is hesitant. However, it's still necessary, and it can't really be accomplished if we isolate ourselves into separate pockets that only contain the saved.

Let's look at a few analogies to shine further light on this. Say you're asked to sponsor a family for Christmas this year. Do you go to the wealthy banker up the street who makes millions of dollars and whose family is financially set for the next three generations? Or do you go to the couple who lost their jobs and have no gifts for their children because they can barely afford food? The first already has everything - they don't need your gifts.

If your ship is sinking, and you need to hand out life jackets to the passengers, do you give one to a person who is already wearing one? Or do you give it to the person who doesn't have one at all?

Jesus walked among sinners. Whores. Criminals. Why? Because they were the ones who most needed His word. I can understand the hesitance. Jesus was God made man. You and I are not anywhere close to that level of holiness. And it's easy to worry that you may end up more in the world because you're associating with others who are in the world. But if you wrap yourself in God's word and God's grace, you can stay in Him and still walk among those who need you, just like Jesus did.

It's so easy, as human beings, to condemn others. To write off their sins as worse than ours. But when we say that, we are attempting to negate the grace that they have been given, just as we have. My sins are not any better than the sins of the people in my life who are atheist, agnostic, Muslim, Buddhist, Wiccan, or anything else. I don't get a free pass to write people off because I'm saved and they're not. Where would I be today if those around me who were saved had taken that attitude? If they'd left me out of their circles because I wasn't like them?

So if you've been saved, you have a responsibility to help and guide others. I'm not asking you to agree with them. I'm not asking you to live their life. Really, I'm not asking you anything. But God is asking that you share His light, and sometimes that means going where it's darkest.

Schrodinger's Whore - trigger warning: rape and sexual abuse

I am being convicted to talk about rape again. I have no idea why, and I'm sorry if that's upsetting for you. I don't like it either. Talking about uncomfortable topics is good. Trying to make change is good. But for some reason, I hate writing about it, even though I just had a 30 minute discussion about it this morning. I don't want to put off readers, and I certainly don't want my morning to begin this way. Yet here we are. Lest I be swallowed by the proverbial whale, here I go.

I read this article a few years ago on Schrodinger's Rapist, and was intrigued by the premise because it seemed so accurate. (Fair warning - there is some language in the links.) I've made this argument myself many times, in the context of trying to prevent my friends from leaving a bar with a stranger. That person might be the nicest person in the history of the world. But I don't know that. And I'm not gambling with my friend's life. Because they might be a crazed serial killer. Ted Bundy was terribly attractive and "nice", after all.

Some men (and women) were upset by the first article, and I think the second helps to allay those fears. And let me say this - I am so sorry that good men are negatively impacted by their brethren who have chosen to cause harm to others. I hate that my loved ones are seen as someone that a person would need to protect themselves from. But I'd rather cross the street to avoid a guy who turns out to be nice than not cross it when it turns out he really isn't. (Note - I generally don't cross the street to get away from people. But I do take plenty of precautions like looking under my car before I get in or holding my keys between my fingers, no matter how ridiculous I feel doing it.)

And I'm not here to talk about how women have it worse. For one thing, there are plenty of male rape victims. (Language in that one, too, and please note, the first part of it is satire. It's a very good article, and necessary.) They should in no way be excluded. But I am here to talk about the other side of the coin - Schrodinger's Whore. You don't like reading that, do you? Whore is an ugly word. It's used to condemn women who have had sex (often women who have had sex with someone who isn't the person using the word). Well, I mean it to be ugly here. Much like men who have raped women have cast a pallor over all other men, women who have falsely accused men of rape have cast a pallor over all other women. These women may regret their encounter, or may not want anyone to know that they've consented to sex. Worse, they may want to harm the target of their accusation. Lives can be ruined this way. It is never ok to make a false accusation - especially in this area. I cannot imagine the terror and devastation inflicted on someone who is accused this way.

The saddest effect of this is that an actual rape victim often feels like they are the one on trial. What was she wearing? Was she drinking? Has she had sex before? Has she had sex with the accused before? All of these questions trying to prove that the accusation is false. Much like the author in the articles referenced above has no way of knowing whether someone is a rapist because there's a chance they might be, those who hear these accusations, unless there's clear evidence of physical wounding, can't know that a claim is legitimate.

Compounding this issue is victim blaming, which is based in the same psychological shaping that creates a love of fairy tales. Good people are rewarded. Bad people are punished. The good guys wear white hats, the bad guys twirl black mustaches. And if you're a good person, bad things won't happen to you. See, if the victim is at fault in a rape, I won't ever be raped. I don't get drunk. I don't wear super revealing clothes. I don't walk in shady areas at night. So, phew, hooray! If, however, rape is the perpetrator's fault, you can be raped even if you do everything right. I hate sharing this story, but if I don't speak up about my own experiences, I can't expect others to do so either. When I was in college, I was dating a guy we'll call Mark. He was a friend of my friend, so he came complete with references. We had only been on a few dates, and had shared a few chaste kisses, no more. He drove an hour to see me one night, and we watched a movie. He was falling asleep, so I told him he could just stay because I was worried about him getting in an accident if he drove home. I woke up in the middle of the night with one of his hands up my shirt and one down my pants. When I shifted, he immediately pulled back and rolled over as though he was asleep. I was frozen. Rooted to the spot. Did that really just happen? Scared, I went back to sleep, and pretended to still be asleep when he left in the morning.

And then I did the worst thing I could have done - told myself it was my fault. I let a guy sleep in my bed. I was only in pajamas (which for me was a tank top and sweat pants). I did this, I was responsible. I even went on more dates with this man afterward because I didn't hold him accountable. When I did break it off with him, it was simply because he was constantly calling or messaging me and I needed space.

I still feel sick to my stomach thinking about it. When I see anything having to do with his favorite TV character (fortunately a show I never watched that is no longer on), I cringe. Now, many people will side with me here - I was a virgin, we hadn't done anything, and I was asleep. Others will insist that it must not have been anything victimizing because I didn't fight. Because I went on other dates with him. But here's the thing - I was sexually touched without my consent. That is literally the only important thing here. I could have been someone who slept with thousands of men. I could have been walking down an alley in stiletto heels and a mini dress while drunk. None of that matters because, and here's where I need you to pay attention: only a rapist will rape you. A decent man will not use an unconscious woman. A decent man will not attack a woman in an alley.

And it gets even greyer. I know a woman who lost her virginity to her boyfriend in high school. Not so uncommon, much as we may not like it. But in her case, it wasn't willingly. Yes, she had been dating this man for quite some time. I knew him - I'd even helped her with a gift for him on a special occasion. But she did not want to have sex with him. She said no. And he did it anyway. She didn't come forward, either. She was hurt, and devastated, but she was also ashamed. Who would take her side? He was her boyfriend, after all. And she didn't punch him in the face. Didn't kick him in the groin. The funny thing is, I told her over and over that it wasn't her fault. That she wasn't to blame. That he was the bad guy. And then a year later, with Mark, I told myself the opposite.

We blame the victim because we want to feel like it can't happen to us. We don't want to think that we could ever be powerless. We want to think that we'd fight back. That no one we know and care about would do that - only shady figures in dark alleys. And women who cry rape when there wasn't one compound the issue, making even some who would normally act with compassion act with suspicion instead. That's why I didn't come forward. I didn't tell anyone about Mark until I was dating my husband. I was too ashamed. Even then, I was surprised when he was mad at Mark and not me. And what happened to me, while awful, could have been insanely worse. There are women who are violated repeatedly - sometimes by family or friends - who feel that they can't come forward because they think people will see them as liars, or whores.

I can't tolerate that. I can't just sit here and not speak out against it. I have a daughter. And I pray with every fiber of my being that she will never go through anything like this. That she will be treated with respect, that no man - or woman - will ever steal her sense of security from her. But if, Heaven forbid, someone did, I would want her to be able to tell someone. To get help. And to receive compassion instead of blame. Healing instead of insults. If life were easy, I would simply say, "Ok, everyone, stop raping and stop lying", and that would be that. Life isn't easy. All I can do is talk to my own child. Teach her the virtue of honesty and the importance of consent.

One more point I need to make is that rapists don't want to see themselves that way. Victim blaming also goes toward wanting to blame someone else rather than believe they (or their loved one) is capable of that. No one wants to think of themselves like that. Which is why coming to Christ can be so difficult - you have to admit that you are a sinner. And you have to repent. If it's this difficult for me to admit that I can be lazy, I can't fathom having to admit to something darker, like abuse, or rape.

If you got this far, good on you. I barely made it myself. And I'm sorry if I interrupted an otherwise lovely day with this topic. But it's important. And if something like this happened to you, and you haven't told because you're ashamed or think people will think you're a liar, tell me. I'll believe you. And I'll help you however I can.

True Faith is Not for the Weak Minded

One of my friends who is an atheist (yes, I have friends who are atheist. And agnostic, and Jewish, and Muslim, and a million other things) once posted a meme showing a man with an incredulous/amused look on his face with the caption "My face whenever someone with a college degree tells me they believe in God." The implication is pretty easy to read - only stupid people believe in God. Then there's the ever-famous "Religion is the opiate of the masses." In this day and age, so many people see being a Christian (or other faith) as being a crutch for the weak - something we lean on because we're not smart enough to figure out the science behind the world. Because we don't want to take responsibility for ourselves. Because we are horrible people who only act decently at the threat of Hell. Pick any of the above - I've heard them all.

I certainly don't deny that there's an amazing comfort in the belief that God is there for me. That I am watched over, and kept in His hands. But having recently been born again after years of not really having a relationship with God, I can tell you that so far, it's harder to be a Christian. And I don't just mean the early Sunday mornings.

Let's start with the fact that I am called to love my fellow man - including my enemies. I'm sure most of you know how difficult it is to so much as stomach someone who has been unkind, abusive, etc to you or someone you care about. If I didn't believe, I could write these people off as awful and go about my business without a second thought. They don't care about me - why should I care about them? But I can't. I struggle daily with seeing everyone as God's child rather than simply judging them by their actions toward me or my loved ones. This isn't to say that non-believers don't strive to love their enemy. But to them, it's not weighted as a command.

Then there is the part where we are supposed to be following the path of God, not of the world. As John Bevere says in his series "Good or God?" (which I highly recommend), the world pulls at us. There are so many temptations that can take our focus off of God. Replace him as our priority. This could be something as small as a football game (seriously, watch "Good or God?"), or as large as an addiction.

And some of the time, we don't even see that it's what we're doing. I'm starting a non-profit, as I've mentioned before. But I didn't start it for the glory of God. I started it because I needed a way to cope with all of the crazy emotions that go along with a baby having heart surgery. I needed something bigger than myself, and I went directly to something I could create, rather than to God. That doesn't mean my non-profit is bad. But it does mean that something I saw as 100% GOOD wasn't being done for the right reasons. Even a ministry can become "of the world" if I put my focus on recognition, or what I'm doing rather than what He is doing through me. Look at it this way - Adam and Eve literally knew God directly. They walked with Him, talked with Him, and saw His hand work. And they still felt the pull of the world so strongly that they disobeyed. How much stronger, then, is that pull in us, when we won't see Him directly until we die?

And I'll tell you this - I have not even remotely reached a place where I truly feel that I put Him first over my husband and child. If God gave me the same command He gave to Abraham, I'd die before agreeing to sacrifice my child.

That's another struggle. We know what we're supposed to do. But it isn't always intuitive. I look at what I just typed in the paragraph above, and it seems right to me. When I read Kierkegaard's "Fear and Trembling", which posits that Abraham was being tested and chose incorrectly by agreeing to sacrifice his own child, that resonated with me. Who agrees to kill their child? Common sense dictates that anyone who does that may as well be one of those moms or dads who snaps and says the voice of God commanded them to drown their babies in the bathtub.

Then there are the debates. I don't debate God's existence. I'm not Bill O'Reilly (I had to watch his show for a school project and didn't like it one bit, if I'm honest), and I won't ever try to offer any form of scientific "proof" of God. If you're an atheist, you have science to lean on. Proofs, experiments, tests, and studies. I have my faith, and a book. I will never "win" a debate because someone who is scientific and atheistic won't accept my faith as proof. And I believe science and God co-exist just fine, so their arguments will never convince me that He isn't real.

Let me say this - I know that atheists can struggle with temptations, etc as well. I'm not saying it isn't difficult. I absolutely cannot fathom not having God's love in my life. And that brings me to my last point. We are called on to share the gospel. To baptize the nations. And I have no issue with being an example. But I know that directly speaking the Word to someone may cause rejection, hate, resentment, and a myriad of other emotions from their end. The calling to save souls is not for the feeble. And I don't mean someone who walks up to you and tells you why you're going to Hell and throws a pamphlet at you (please see my first post - those are NOT what I consider Christians). I mean truly trying to change hearts. I want you to have what I have - the sense of peace and purpose that can come with it. But I don't want to sour you on faith by pushing you too hard. It has to be between you and God, though I am here if you question or need guidance.

Perhaps the most difficult part of being a Christian is how we are saved. We have to acknowledge that we are sinners. That we are not better than anyone. That we cannot do it on our own. I always tried to do everything on my own. I didn't want to burden others. I was so driven in my desire to take care of my own issues that I wouldn't even pray about things that I didn't deem "worth" God's time. I am fiercely independent, and I have to battle that "me"-ness every day.

I'm still friends with the person who posted that meme. I still love them, and still miss them (they live out of state). And believe me - I'm just as down on memes that make fun of other religions, atheists, or agnostics. I don't condone name-calling and finger-pointing as a means to move others. It doesn't work - it just makes them dig in. I just want people who may not realize to notice that faith is not the antithesis of intelligence.

Faith Means Fellowship - Oh Boy.

I have a confession to make: I'm an introvert.

Stop laughing. Really, stop - I'm serious. Ok, fine, I'll give you a minute.

...

We good?

Ok. As I was saying, I'm an introvert. No one ever believes me because, as I've mentioned before, I can talk to anyone. I can talk in front of everyone. I delight in public speaking - something more people fear than even death. I talk too much. My family, my friends, and certainly my Bible study group can vouch for that. And yet.

I am very much in my head. People think I have no filter, and yet for every 10 words I say, I keep 100 to myself. My majors were psychology and philosophy in college. I'd rather be in a library than at a club, and I find myself easily exhausted at parties. So whether you use Jung's traditional definition, or that of Urban Dictionary, I am an introvert. The most defining characteristic is being recharged by spending time alone, in reading or reflection. Some people relax by going out, having large gatherings, etc. I need time to relax after any of those types of functions because they wear me out. I rush home after evening functions so I can just be home with by daughter before she goes to bed, even if there's someone I want to speak with. The best way to describe me is "outgoing introvert". I could hug the person who came up with that term.

Each side of that description can be a struggle when it comes to my faith. I want to have fellowship with my brothers and sisters in Christ. I want to learn from them, to be energized by their faith, and to share my observations. That's the main reason I began going to my current Bible study. But when I'm there, I feel as though I exhibit the worst of each piece. I talk quite a bit, simply because I am comfortable with speaking in front of others, and not everyone is. I was the student who always raised by hand because I couldn't stand the silence when the teacher asked a question and no one wanted to answer. I wanted to answer, even if I just answered the last five questions, because I wanted the teacher to know that their lesson was sinking in, and I wanted to preserve the flow of the classroom. I'm 30 years old now, and haven't been to school for over 5 years (law school was the most recent), and I still cannot stand that silence. And to someone who doesn't know me, this may come off as my being self-centered, or a know-it-all. 

Sadly, I feel like this potential misconception is only reinforced by the fact that I don't talk with my brothers and sisters much outside of church or study, due in part to my introverted tendencies. They all seem so much deeper in Christ than I am. They know verses, and don't have to check the index of their Bible to figure out where a particular book is so they can read. They've been on mission trips, raised multiple children in the faith, and served on the altar team. Some of them have known one another for decades, and I don't want to horn in on established patterns and relationships. I don't want to bother them. This is the same reason I almost never call or text my friends, although I'd be happy to take a call or text from them.

I know that the first item is ridiculous. My salvation isn't any less valid than theirs due to its shorter duration. But the second is harder to shake, and my life-long struggles with depression and anxiety don't help. I've always been this way. At work, I eat lunch alone, both to re-charge and to avoid butting into a set routine. 

So between keeping to myself outside of discussions and hogging the floor on occasion during them, I don't know that I paint the best picture of myself. And yes, I'm aware that I kind of sound like I'm starting middle school. But the fact of the matter is that I've never had a "group." And I have a great difficulty with acknowledging that I belong anywhere. Again, ridiculous. Of course I belong with God and His people. But those habits are hard to shake.

I guess what I'm saying is that it's a process. The Lord made me who I am for a reason, and I need to grow into that and embrace it, and use it for the best. Now I just have to figure out exactly how that works. And in the meantime, if I talk too much, or too little, bear with me - I'm working on it.

Faith Doesn't Mean Not Feeling

As I've discussed in previous blogs, I believe everything happens for a reason, even when we can't see it. God knows what's best for us. As my pastor put it during yesterday's sermon, "God wants more for us than we want for ourselves." That being said, I can't count the number of times that I've been sad, angry, or upset, and when venting to a Christian friend have been told "You just have to have faith."

And this, friends and neighbors, generally just upsets me more. I understand that the sentiment is well-intentioned. The speaker wants to remind me that He is taking care of things. But the hidden implication of this unassuming phrase is that if I just had more faith, I wouldn't feel these feelings. And on that, I call shenanigans.

When I've been turned down for jobs in the past, I've always known that it meant something better was on the way. But that didn't mean I wasn't disappointed that what I wanted isn't what's actually best for me. When M was diagnosed with her heart condition, I knew that what was meant to happen would happen. But that doesn't mean I'd have been any less devastated if what was meant to be had been my losing her. Knowing a loved one is with God when they pass doesn't mean you can't be sad for the loss of their presence. My brother-in-law's grandfather (who was also the pastor of their church for quite some time) passed almost exactly a year ago, very unexpectedly. The family was happy that he was with God, but there were still tears from them and from the congregation. That's only normal.

Sometimes this sentiment stretches even further, to a spiritually dangerous conclusion. On one of my mommy forums, a woman posted about a friend of hers who had chronic pain. This friend had back problems, and found difficulty in working and in caring for her children. The poster was a Christian (the friend, from what I read, was not), and she was of the opinion that it was her friend's own fault because "If she would just pray every day, she would be in perfect health." The poster further opined that the fact that she herself did not have any chronic illnesses or pain could be attributed to the fact that she had faith. And, extrapolating further, if you do have those issues, it's because you don't have enough faith.

Paul suffered. Job suffered. Jesus himself suffered and paid a dear price to take our sins. Sometimes we need struggles and trials to get us where we need to be, in life, or in spirit. If M didn't have her heart condition, I wouldn't be organizing a non-profit that has the potential to help hundreds of families every year. If I didn't suffer from depression and anxiety, I wouldn't have been able to help friends who are similarly situated. Some of my greatest suffering has led to my most positive traits, and the best things in my life.

All of this is a really long way of me saying something very simple: feel your feelings. Express them, work through them. Deal with them in a healthy way, certainly, and trust that God is leading you in the right direction. But it is OK to take a minute to be human.

"Never do anything when you are in a temper, for you will do everything wrong." ~Baltasar Gracian

I have a daily devotion app that gives me a verse and some thoughts on that verse every morning and every evening. Yesterday’s was “Don’t sin by letting anger control you. Think about it overnight and remain silent” (Psalm 4:4). This verse is particularly dear to me, as I do put in a great deal of effort to ensure that I control my temper, and not the other way around. I know that a moment’s release when I’m upset is not worth the hurt I could cause someone else. My philosophy is that if I’m yelling, I’m no longer in control. As a slight control freak who still sometimes struggles with even giving my issues over to God, that’s not ok with me. I’ve been around people who spew anger all over everyone like a negativity-breathing dragon. They lash out, claws extended, with no thought as to who they hit. I can’t be like that. I won’t. To that end, I’ve only actually yelled once in about 19 years. Not that it excuses my behavior, but it was while I was hugely pregnant and house hunting. My poor husband.

It seemed like an even more appropriate verse later that evening. I took M to a local park after I picked her up last night so that my sister (who is an AMAZING photographer) could take pictures of her with her cousins. I didn’t think to bring a snack, so when we had to leave, my 22-pound teeny tiny toddler erupted into a hangry fit. She backed away when I tried to pick her up to put her in the car, shaking her head and saying “No!” I picked her up, and she smacked me in the face. I told her that I understood she was angry, but we do not hit mommy. So she began smacking her arms and saying “Hit ‘syou!” (Hit “it’s you” – which is how she refers to herself). I told her she shouldn’t hit herself either, and she calmed down after a minute. Then, when I informed her that she needed to eat some dinner before she could have “ice cream” (blended bananas with vanilla and cinnamon), a chorus of angry “No! No! No! No!” ensued, followed by crying. I ignored the yelling in the backseat, and a few minutes later she began a new conversation with “Airplanes fly – way up there!” and was fine the rest of the way home.

Later, as we wound down for bedtime, she said to me “angry” and clapped her hands. I told her yes, we get angry sometimes. I explained that she can’t hit or kick, but she can clap her hands really hard if she feels like hitting, or she can say, “I’m angry!” She found that fairly amusing. I know she doesn’t get it all yet, but I think it’s so important to raise a child with a high “EQ” (emotional intelligence) and the ability to channel her feelings in a productive, or at least harmless, manner.

I didn’t think about it anymore until I read this article this morning before work. I felt sick. A four-year-old girl is dead – shot in front of her father and brother. And for what? Because someone got angry while they were driving and didn’t bother to make the attempt to curb their rage. Let’s take this apart. First of all, I know everyone gets annoyed when they drive. Unlike walking in a group of people, there’s no “sorry” forthcoming when someone accidentally cuts you off. No ability in some situations to go around if someone is being slow. And I get that. But unless you’re driving someone who’s bleeding to death to the hospital, chances are you say a few choice words and get on with your day (my favorites are “jeepers creepers!” and “son of a monkey!” if I say any at all).

How does anyone justify violence based on being inconvenienced for a few moments because of another person’s driving? How does that make sense to anyone? I can’t even understand having a heated confrontation over it, much less firing a gun into an occupied vehicle. I imagine the thought process, if there is one, is “this person did something I don’t like, so I’m going to punish them.”

Well, congratulations, Mr. Torrez. You’ve punished him.  Because you were upset about being inconvenienced for a few minutes, he will be in unimaginable pain for the rest of his life, as will his family, including his 7-year-old son who will likely be in treatment for PTSD for a large chunk of his life. A beautiful baby girl, gone. Because you didn’t think. Because you didn’t exercise self-control. Because you decided that a gun is a great way to solve problems. (No, I’m not trying to start a gun rights debate here – although I will say that if he hadn’t had one, Lilly would still be alive. I’m all for gun owner rights, but saying that they’re no worse than a knife – which is an argument I’ve heard – is truly ludicrous.)

When I think about controlling my anger, I generally think about not hurting others with my words. Teaching my daughter to think before she reacts. I saw it as very important, but didn’t think about it much. But if this story shows me anything, it’s that self-control is one of the most important things we can teach our children. It could save a life.

To the person who stole my catalytic converter

I'm guessing you've done this before, given that I'm not the first person this has happened to (nor was I the only one last night - there were at least 5 of us). You saw cars you could easily get a part off of. Cars that were empty. And you took those parts, ostensibly to sell to shady scrap yards who take these things, despite knowing that no one just has 5 catalytic converters on their hands for legitimate reasons.

But let me tell you what you didn't see. You didn't see me stumble out of work, sick from some ridiculous virus and in pain from an ovarian cyst that's large enough to exhaust me, but not enough to be removed. You didn't see that it was an effort just to walk to the car, and that all I wanted was to go home and rest. Maybe even go to bed early. You didn't see that my husband and I have varying schedules next week, and will be scrambling to rearrange things so we can drive together.

You didn't see me picking up my toddler two hours late from the sitter's, at a time when she should have already been in bed. She's also getting over a virus, and needs all the sleep she can get. You didn't see the mountain of medical bills we have from her open heart surgery and my autoimmune disorder. You didn't see our mortgage or my crushing student loan debt, all of which are going to make it an extremely tight squeeze to try to replace the part without making some big sacrifices. You didn't see that my daughter's birthday is coming up, and we probably won't be able to get her as much as we wanted to - as much as she deserves - because of this. You didn't see that my food bill is higher because I have Celiac and need to eat gluten free.

You didn't see that I am the kind of person who tries to see the good in everyone, and to help anyone I can. You didn't see that this kind of thing breaks my heart because I'm having a very hard time coming up with a decent excuse for your behavior. 

You probably think I'm angry, if you even think of me at all, which, I honestly doubt. And I was. I am extremely slow to anger, but I was furious. I can't maintain that for long, though - your actions are not worth my peace of mind. So let me tell you what I'm going to do - I'm going to pray for you.

If you needed the money for an honorable cause, I pray that you soon find yourself in a place where you have a legitimate means to provide for your needs.

If you stole it because you are a drug addict and needed more, I pray that you face your addiction and get some help before it destroys you.

If you stole it because your friends are a bad influence (there had to be at least 2 of you), I pray that you see your own worth and find better friends who will elevate you - not bring you down with them.

If you stole it because you never learned any better from your parents, I pray you learn to let go of their poor example and start accepting responsibility for your current actions.

Above all, I pray you come to Christ and are able to turn your life around because this is no way to live.

No One Wants to Read This One

I'll be perfectly honest - I don't even want to write this one. But I feel convicted to do so, and have for days. I've been trying to ignore it, but it's not going away. I'm likely to upset people on both sides of this issue with my thoughts, and for that, I apologize. I'd also like to give a trigger warning for anyone who wants to avoid reading about abortion.

I'll start with my stance: I am pro-choice, and anti-abortion. I know, I know - what the heck is that supposed to mean?

I am not and cannot be ok with abortion. I told my husband the day my daughter was conceived that I was pregnant. When a test a week later came back negative, I told him it was wrong. A week later, I got the positive result. She was there. I knew she was there. And as much as I tend to be very much steeped in scientific backup for my views, she was a baby even then. My baby. From the second I knew I was pregnant, she was my baby. Clump of cells though she may have been, I loved her. And this, of course, is where I tick off the side that supports abortion. I believe a baby is a baby as soon as those cells start dividing. When I had a miscarriage at just a few weeks, I sobbed. I considered that losing a baby. Nothing in the world can back me up on that assertion. And a lot of people may think my reaction was ridiculous. To each their own. But I can't condone abortion because I do believe it is killing a baby. And I could never do it.

But here's where I tick off the other half of the equation. I have no idea in the world what it's like to be raped. To be robbed of your sense of security. No idea what it's like to be sexually assaulted by a family member. To experience such a heinous betrayal of trust. And then, to compound that awful trauma, to have a reminder growing inside of me every day. To know that a part of my attacker, my abuser, the monster who did this to me, is literally attached to me. There are three choices if this happens: abort, give the baby up for adoption, or keep the baby.

If you give the baby up for adoption, you run the risk of your child growing up feeling unwanted because you gave him or her up, and they don't know why. If you keep the baby, you may be re-traumatized on a regular basis if your child has the face of your abuser. Your significant other may not understand your keeping the baby, and you may lose your relationship with them. And in both circumstances, the child may find out how they came to be. May be traumatized themselves by their origin.

Now, in my case, I'd still do one of those. But I say that knowing that I have no idea what either is like. No idea how broken I might become from the constant reminder of the trauma, either by the child's presence, or by knowing they may someday find me and have questions I don't want to answer. I have never walked in those shoes, and pray that I never have to. That my daughter never has to. And I believe that unless you have been in those shoes, you cannot judge, as much as you may want to.

Back to upsetting the fully pro-choice segment, I will say that it upsets me to no end when people use abortion as birth control. Take a pill, use a condom, abstain. Once the child is conceived, you can give it up for adoption. Yes, I understand that it will change your body and it will never go back to normal. And there is always the chance that you'll become attached when it's born and decide to keep it. It's a very messy thing. But I can't condone avoiding the consequences of your own actions by depriving the world of a child that may be destined for great things.

Finally, if you are going to be anti-abortion, you need to be active in supporting these women. I don't mean protesting. I don't mean reminding them that their child at a certain week has a heartbeat. I don't mean posting videos of late term abortions to shock people into a reaction. I mean real support. Volunteer at a rape crisis center. If a friend becomes pregnant and isn't sure if they're happy about it, be a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Foster. Adopt. Donate to causes that help with all of the above. Some people don't realize they really do have a choice, and it's time we started stepping up to show them.

Complaints of a Privileged Christian

I am utterly ashamed of myself.

Sunday morning, when my alarm went off for church, I grumbled. You see, Saturday is my day to get up with M (my daughter), and Sunday is my day to sleep in. But I wasn't sleeping as late as I wanted, thanks to that doggone alarm.

I grumbled while I got ready. I grumbled while I got M ready (all in my head - while I do talk to myself, I'd rather not have everyone hear my entire internal monologue). I took her with me so that Mike could get some things done around the house.

I wanted to go back to bed and fight off the sinus infection that keeps threatening. I wanted to call off on the grounds of recovering from a particularly nasty ovarian cyst that had me in pain for weeks. I even (briefly) thought about how much more sleep I'd have in the long run if I'd just been saved a few years later. Definitely one of my uglier moments.

I got to church and got settled in. I sang half-heartedly along to the first song while bouncing M. Then our pastor's wife asked us to pray for a particular man. This man is in prison a long way from home. Countries away. And why? Because he dared to preach the gospel. Three years he's been imprisoned. Away from his wife and children. Suffering for his faith. For following Christ's command.

I felt about an inch tall.

Here I was, complaining about "having" to go to church, when, in quite a few other countries, they'd give anything to "get" to go to church. I can go to church on Sunday. I can sing at the top of my lungs. I can miss 2 minutes of the sermon because my toddler has walked to the row in front of me and loudly exclaimed "Ka-boo!" (peek-a-boo) around the chair while grinning widely at me. I can openly say that I'm going to a Bible study (which I am - it starts next week). I can walk out into the street and declare at the top of my lungs that I love and follow Jesus, and the worst consequence I'll probably suffer is someone telling me I'm nuts. Or possibly stupid.

It's not always easy to get up when you're tired or not feeling well. It's not always easy to sit for an hour and a half when you forgot to eat breakfast and your stomach is growling. But if these are my biggest "problems" with regards to being a Christian, I need to reevaluate my grumbling. I am privileged to live in a country where I can freely express my beliefs. Where others may think I'm nuts, certainly, and where the laws of the land don't always line up with the laws of God, and where not everyone may respect my beliefs; but where the government can't stop me. They can't silence my singing. They can't confiscate the praise song I wrote. They can't burn my Bible and send me to prison for what I believe. I am currently writing a blog, that anyone can read, and that I will share on social media, that tells everyone that I'm a Christian. That may not seem amazing to us, but it would be cause for joyful celebration to some people.

So I'm going to work on the cliche "attitude of gratitude" and quit my crabbing. And if you find yourself feeling more obligated than excited about God, I encourage you to do the same. I'll be right there with you on the path, stumbling, but always moving forward.

Why Meeeee?!

This is something I found myself asking over and over again when my newborn daughter was diagnosed with Tetralogy of Fallot - a congenital heart defect.

You see, my pregnancy was totally normal. Idyllic, even. Only a few weeks of "morning" sickness, a Buddha-like peace, and a giant burst of energy in my second trimester made things run perfectly smoothly. I worked my company's busy season, planned my high school's 10 year reunion, and even hunted for and moved into a house, all while big-bellied.

Then came my 40 week check-up. My blood pressure was high, which was vaguely worrisome. Then my doctor informed me that they couldn't even find one pocket of amniotic fluid. The fix for this, she said, was to be induced and have my baby. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out. I called my husband and had him leave work. In the meantime, I went home, showered, shaved my legs, curled my hair, and put on make-up. I figured there'd be pictures at some point, and I'd be far too tired to do any of this after labor.

I was induced on my due date, and had my daughter the next day. She was only 5lbs, 9.5 oz. It turns out my placenta decided to just stop working late into the 3rd trimester, so she hadn't been getting the nutrients she needed to grow. They took her out, and placed her on my chest, and my husband cut the cord. I was in heaven. Then they took her away, and I heard the words "respiratory distress". No one was talking to me. They whisked her to the level 2 nursery, and a nurse filled me in. She had a pneumothorax - a pocket of air outside of the lungs. I was worried, but they said it would likely resolve on its own.

When I finally got to really meet M, she was under an oxygen hood that she was valiantly trying to push off with her teeny-tiny fingers. She was also jaundiced, and ended up under blue lights. Whenever I fed her, her bandaged IV hand would beat against my chest, desperately trying to make contact. Then the doctors told us she had a hole in her heart. They didn't have the proper tools to diagnose it, so they'd be sending us to a pediatric cardiologist when we were released. She also had a white spot on her eye that would require us to see a pediatric ophthalmologist (at this point, she wears glasses for astigmatism, but is doing just fine). When I started to tear up, one of the doctors put her arm around me and assured me the hole would resolve itself, and M wouldn't need surgery. She called later to check on me, after we'd gotten the official diagnosis. I refused to speak to her. I'd taken her word as medical fact, not mere comfort.

We took her straight from the hospital to the cardiologist when we were released 4 days after she was born. He apologized when he was late getting into our room - he had just had to tell a set of parents that their baby needed heart surgery - never an easy thing, he said. M had an echo, and a few other tests. Then Dr. B came back and told us that she needed heart surgery at around 6 months. Never an easy thing, indeed. I held it together for about a full minute before I started to sob. She was so tiny. So helpless. I knew as a parent my child's heart would get broken and I couldn't do anything about it, but I didn't think she'd be born with a broken heart.

The defect, Dr. B said, was Tetralogy of Fallot. It's a cyanotic  defect, which means that deoxygenated blood was mixing with the oxygenated blood and circulating throughout her body. Her pulse ox was about 96 at that point, but we could expect it to go lower. We also had to keep her from crying to prevent "tet spells" - spells where her oxygen could drop, turning her fingers, toes, and lips blue. How do you keep a newborn from crying, you ask? I don't actually remember. I held her a lot.

Some days I was sure she would be just fine. Other days I would stay up until 2am, holding her tightly and composing her eulogy in my head. Chastising myself because it sounded too much like the one in "What Dreams May Come". Failing to imagine a coffin tiny enough for my little pixie. Ending all of my prayers with "Please don't take my baby."

They put M on heart medications to prevent tet spells. They made her so cold that her sleep outfit was a onesie, pants, socks, a footed sleeper, a sleep sack, and a hat. Despite this, she was so cold that, upon feeling her hand in the middle of one night, my husband thought she had passed away. Our lives were a rotating blur of medication doses, doctor's appointments, and juggling the usual new parent problems like lack of sleep and a million outfit changes from diaper blowouts.

In the meantime, Dr. B. put me in touch with a mom whose son had gone through surgery for ToF the year before. She and I had a long conversation, and discovered that our reactions (and, oddly, our husbands') were much the same. She shared her experiences, and gave me an idea of what to expect. It was wonderful to talk to her - someone who actually knew what I was going through.

Finally, at 2 months old, her blood oxygen level was hovering around 60%. The surgery, Dr. B. said, would have to be moved up. So on the day she turned 11 weeks, I sat in a waiting room with my husband, mom, sister, and niece, while my 9 pound baby had her chest cut open, a Gortex patch sewn onto her heart, and her pulmonary valve removed. When we were shown to her room, she was the most beautiful, heartbreaking mess of tubes I'd ever seen. She had her first tet-spell then, not from the disease, but from holding her breath in annoyance over the breathing tube.

I couldn't pick up my baby. I held her foot while they suctioned her tubes. I stroked her hair and sang her "Simple Man" by Lynard Skynard (seriously her favorite song at the time) while they drew blood and changed bandages. The day I got to barely lift her while they gave her a sponge bath felt like a miracle. I slept in her room while she went through morphine withdrawal. I read her books when she was weaned enough off the medications to really look at the pictures.

When we took her home, it was still a whirlwind of medications and follow ups. We couldn't lift her under the arms for fear of interfering with the healing of her breastbone. I was alone for most of that week, and it was exhausting, but it was so amazing to have my baby home. To have her healthy. To be able to hold her, and to know she would be ok.

Still, through all of this, I wondered - why me? Such a selfish thought, but there it was. Why my perfect baby?

And then it hit me. God blessed me with the gift of gab. I prefer the company of books, or one or two people, but I love public speaking. I can talk to anyone about anything. And I will. I'm the person who compliments someone's manicure at the bathroom sink and ends up knowing their life story by the time our hands are dry. And I thought about the other mom I'd talked to (who I'd also texted nearly constantly while I was in the hospital with M after my husband had to go back to work and could only be there at night). About how much talking to her had helped me. And there it was - I was going to start a non-profit. I was going to make sure that no parent had to go through this alone - that everyone had someone like I had.

So today, that other mom and I are steadily working through the process (along with Dr. B) of forming a non-profit for just that purpose. To educate. To help. To comfort. To make sure our babies know that their zipper scars are badges of courage. To make sure that other parents know that their baby isn't defective, even if their heart started out that way. To be a resource at 3am when a mom would feel like a crazy person texting her cardiologist (although I texted Dr. B on New Years...).

I don't always know why things happen to me. We can't always know. But this one I'm sure of. My brave, beautiful, healthy, happy baby girl (who will be 2 in November) is my inspiration. Because of her, and because of her special heart, I will be able to reach thousands of people. So now, to me nearly 2 years ago, I respond - why not me?

When Bad Things Happen to Good People

"Sometimes bad things happen to very good people and sometimes good things happen to bad people. But at least if you try to do good things, then you're spending your time doing something worthwhile."

~Helen Mirren


I don't know about anyone else, but one of my greatest struggles as a Christian is accepting that sometimes really bad things happen to really good people. I know that God has a plan. I know that there's a lot of sin, and a lot of terrible things happening. And I do believe that things happen for a reason. But sometimes, not knowing that reason is more than I feel I can handle.

Twelve years ago, an amazing family came into my life. I met the oldest son first - we became friends freshman year of college. Just a few months after we became friends, his parents came to his dorm to take him to dinner for his birthday. I met them, and talked with them for a few minutes - mostly because his father was an attorney - my chosen career path. As they went to leave, his dad said "Are you coming?" When he responded that he was, his father said "No, Stephane - are you coming?"

And just like that, I had another mom. Another dad. Not to mention my friend's three brothers, who are all phenomenal people. Kind, loving, funny, and willing to do anything for the people they loved - and even people they didn't even know. That description is especially true of the family matriarch. She is the heart of the family. She takes care of her own, and even takes in strays like me. She runs charity events, is active in the community, and would give you the shirt off of her back (and probably offer you her shoes for good measure). I love these people more than I can say.

And now my friend's mother, this whirlwind of love and generosity, has an inoperable brain tumor.

It can still be treated. And let me tell you - this woman is the only person I know who is more stubborn than I am. Those of you who know me understand what a bold statement that is. I have every faith that she will kick this tumor's butt. And she has so much love and support to help her do it.

But I still feel like she shouldn't have to. I know that struggles can bring us closer to God. Closer to each other. Enrich our lives. What we went through with my daughter's heart surgery has led to some pretty amazing things. But there's still the part where I don't know why this happened to her. Why someone so wonderful is dealing with this. Why her family is dealing with this.

In my darker moments, I think about people who abuse their families. People who rape. Who kill. Who treat everyone as though they're garbage. And some part of me wonders "Why not them?" This, I'm aware, is an insanely un-Christ-like thought. And it's not one I entertain for long. But it's still there. I think it's doing a disservice to those who struggle with their faith to not admit that even the saved have these moments sometimes.

By our nature, we want to understand things. We want reasons. We despise uncertainty. And yet, that's so much of what life is - uncertain. I know that just rewards are given (to both the good and the wicked) when mortal life ends. But when that's not what you actually see, it can be hard to hold on to.

And this, I think, is one of the most defining things for those both with and without faith. Those without faith can point to these situations as a reason why they can't believe in God. They can't accept a God who would allow these things to happen. And those with faith can point to these situations as a reason why we have to believe in God. We have to believe there's a reason and that this isn't just random.

So I pray. And I research the type of tumor she has. I bookmark pages with alternate treatments to supplement chemo and radiation. And I struggle to find any words, any deeds, any small tokens that might ease this even a little for her and her family. For my family - because that's what they've been to me. And I ask that you add them to your prayers as well. Because right now, I don't know what else to do.

Sometimes God looks like a person - or a boat.

"God helps those who help themselves." Who among us hasn't heard that expression? And yet so many people seem to fall into one of two camps: those who believe that everything they do, they do themselves, and those who believe that God's intervention has to look like a bolt out of the blue or a burning bush. There are two jokes I've heard more than once that I think illustrate these archetypes perfectly:

1) A man is circling the mall parking lot, having left his Christmas shopping until the last minute. It's so crowded, there are lines of people just waiting for a space. He bows his head and says "God, if you could please just open up a parking space for me, I promise to devote my life to you." As he circles around another time, he finds a spot just a few yards from the entrance. He looks up and says "Nevermind, God, I found one."

2) After a great deal of rain in a small town, the floodwaters have risen to dangerous levels. One man stands outside of his house in water up to his hips. A neighbor passing by offers him a life jacket, saying "we're headed to higher ground if you'd like to come with us - this will keep you safe." The man declines, saying simply "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Later that day, the water has risen much higher, and the man is perched on his second story balcony. Another neighbor passes in a small boat and says "They say it's only going to get worse, and we have room for one more. Will you join us?" The man again declines, saying "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." That night, the water is so high the man has to move to the roof of his house. A rescue helicopter passes and lowers a ladder. The man shakes his head, shouting up at the pilot, "I have faith in the Lord, and He will rescue me." Finally, the water is so deep, the man's head can barely stay above it, even on the roof. He shouts to God "I have faith - why have you not saved me?" And God replies "I sent you a life jacket, a boat, and a helicopter - what more did you  need?"

Today I find myself compelled to talk about the second train of thought. Now, I firmly believe that miracles happen every day. That God heals. That He saves. But I also know that He uses people and situations to do those things. The most visible example in my life is my daughter. Those of you who know me are aware that she was born with a congenital heart defect, called Tetralogy of Fallot. Because of this, she had open heart surgery at 11 weeks of age. Prior to that, we weren't allowed to let her cry, for fear she'd have a cyanotic spell, and she was on medication to keep her alive until the surgery could be performed.

I believed (most of the time - I'd be lying if I said I never despaired) that God would save my baby. I ended my prayers with it every night: "Please don't take my baby." And I believe in the power of prayer. But I didn't wait for an angel to appear and lay their holy hand on her chest. I didn't imagine for a second that a bolt of lightning would strike her and seal up the hole in her heart.

You see, God sent us to the most amazing doctors at Akron Children's Hospital. He had gifted those surgeons with steady hands and incredible talent that led to them having one of the lowest fatality rates for this surgery. God also created scientists and substances that worked together to produce the medications she needed.

This isn't only the case for life or death situations. When I was unemployed, I prayed to find a job. But I also joined job sites, sent out applications, and made phone calls. When I took the bar exam, I prayed about passing it. But I also studied my head off (some days it felt like literally) and took the prep classes.

God isn't a magic vending machine you put prayers into and everything you've ever wanted falls out. (I'm paraphrasing a very witty person who used a similar analogy to explain the "friend zone", and I apologize that I can't find the citation.) Sometimes He does step in and fix things in a way that can't be explained. But much of the time, you have to work toward your goals, too. He'll carry most of the weight, but we still need to do our part.

Sometimes a situation is beyond your control. But when it isn't, do whatever you can. And be sure not to miss the boat (or the helicopter) when it comes.

"You keep using that word - I do not think it means what you think it means"

Like most Christian bloggers, I feel that it's finally time that I comment on the Kim Davis situation. There are two words that are brought up fairly consistently around this issue: "freedom" and "persecution". I don't believe either is used correctly.

Before I address either, I would like to say this: you will never hear me personally attack Davis, nor those who oppose her stance. Ideological debates should remain focused on ideas. If you can't make your point without devolving into personal attacks, you don't really have a point.

Because it strikes me more deeply, I'll start with "freedom". Religious freedom was one of the great foundations of this country. Freedom to practice one's religion without government interference. Free to worship in the way one believed to be right. Supporters of Davis argue that her freedom to practice what she believes is compromised by the government forcing her to issue marriage licenses she deems immoral.

This requires addressing on two levels. The first is that she has been told she must issue these permits if she wishes to continue performing her job working for the government. Government jobs, as the name implies, follow the laws of the land. I do believe that God's law is higher than the laws of the land. However, I also believe that you cannot reap the benefits of a government position, yet expect to not have to follow the government's laws. The saved may belong to God, but we are still required to live in the world, and to accept consequences if we do not follow the laws. I understand that it can be difficult to find a new job. But if your job requires something you don't want to do, you may either do that thing, or leave that job. At my prior job, I hated taking phone calls from people who blamed their failed background check on me, rather than on their prior crimes. But that was part of the job. I couldn't simply tell my boss that these people weren't behaving very Christian-like and that I was not going to answer the phone anymore.

The second level is that of the distinction between "religious freedom" and "Christian freedom". If one accepts that a government employee who is Christian can choose to not issues marriage licenses that go against their beliefs, one must also accept that a government employee who is a Quaker can refuse to issue a gun license because it violates their belief in peace and non-violence. I have never heard anyone argue that the government should incorporate any religious beliefs other than Christian. In fact, President Obama so much as reading an Islamic text has been known to spark outrage. Why, then, should Christians be afforded a privilege that no other religion has?

And this brings me to the other word - "persecution". When my pastor and his wife returned from a visit to the Ukraine to share the teachings of the Lord, they came bearing stories of those who have been kidnapped, harmed, tortured, or killed for expressing their beliefs. And this isn't terribly rare in the world. There are governments that refuse to allow Christian prayer. Terrorist cells that will threaten one's life, home, and family to sway their beliefs.

In the shadow of these atrocities, to say that a person is persecuted because they are jailed for breaking a law (albeit one they disagreed with), or because people disagree with their stance, is insulting. If you can get up on Sunday and go to your church and practice your faith without fear, you are blessed - not persecuted.

I will always support someone in following God's law. But I will never support the idea that one should be able to avoid all earthly consequences while living in the world. If you need to change jobs to feel you are following God, change jobs. If you feel you need to stand against a law to follow God - do it. But humbly accept the consequences.

Eminem Helped Save Me. No, Really.

If you had told me a couple of years ago that I'd be in my car on the way to work belting out a praise song at the top of my lungs, I'd have politely inquired whether you might like to follow me to the padded walls and straight jackets. If you had told me that I'd listen to one of those followed by Bone Thugs & Harmony (which I did this morning), I might have taken you a little more seriously.

My taste in music has always been eclectic. In college, I had a playlist that featured "Closer to Fine" by The Indigo Girls, followed by "Party Up" by DMX. And it only got weirder from there. Now, as a child of Christ, I still listen to a very wide variety of music. I don't sing the curse words (it's good practice for being around my almost 2 year old who repeats everything anyway), and there are a few songs I don't quite love anymore. I know that a lot of people see born-again Christians and imagine that all of their pre-set stations are set to 95.5 The Fish (or the regional equivalent). I thought that, too. Knowing now that this isn't the case, I thought I'd let someone who has greatly influenced my current musical tastes - 17 year old me - help me out with this post.

This particular story starts with a couple of uncomfortable facts about me. I suffer from depression and anxiety, and have for most of my life. I'd like to tell you that with God, there will never be sickness. Never be struggles. Never be sadness. But that's not the case - we are given challenges in life - all of us. Clearly, God is my rock through all of this. But I still see a psychiatric professional, and I am on medication. The second fact is that when I was in my teens, one of the ways I coped with these overwhelming feelings was by cutting. (Oddly enough, I never even thought to do such a thing until I watched the episode of 7th Heaven where Lucy's friend does it, and they get her help because it's obviously unhealthy. Talk about missing the message. And no, I don't in any way blame the show for that - 17 year olds are pretty inherently dumb sometimes.)

I stopped at the same age I started - 17. And one of the pillars of the foundation to make me strong enough to do so was an unlikely source - Marshall Mathers, AKA Eminem. Eminem - a brilliant man, whose violent lyrics have been blamed for an insane range of crimes and disturbing behaviors (really - Google "Eminem blamed for violence" and see how many results you get). The theory goes that people listen to angry, violent music, and it makes them angry and violent. For me, it was the opposite. I listened to angry music because I was angry. Angry about being depressed and not knowing what was wrong with me, angry about the way I was treated by certain people at school (as a side note, I have no issues with these people - I don't hold people accountable now for being jerks as teenagers - see above, re: 17 year olds are dumb), and angry about life in general. And I had no idea how to deal with it.

I didn't have God then - I broke with the Catholic church when I was 15. I knew God well enough to say "hi" to in the hallways, but not to have a conversation. I didn't trust anyone enough to really talk in depth about what was going on. Writing my feelings made me angrier - seeing these injustices in print just made them more real. And my hobby was reading - nothing physical that might have helped me get those feelings out. So I bought "The Eminem Show" and listened to it on loop. And what I found was this: I may not have known how to get my anger out, but if I let him be angry for me, I felt a catharsis. Every ticked off lyric siphoned off some of my stress and anxiety. I quit cutting. I started seeing a psychiatrist. His music got me to a point where I was ok enough to ask for and get the help that I needed. And that snowballed into a whole host of help that led me to where I am today.

Now, was that the ideal way to deal with anger? Probably not. Are his lyrics something I'd want my daughter listening to? Probably not. And hopefully she won't need to. But I firmly believe in acknowledging those who help bring you to a place of healing, and he was one of them. I try to look for the good in everyone - regardless of public opinion. And the thing is, I usually find it. Sometimes hope is found in the most unlikely places.

Confessions of a Hateless Christian

In the wake of the recent SCOTUS ruling on gay marriage, I was incredibly disappointed by the number of extremely hateful comments I was seeing from fellow Christians. These individuals were not decrying homosexuality as a sin – they were commenting that gay people should die. That God hates “fags” (I cringe even typing that word).

What disappointed me just as much were the comments that would follow, from people stating that all Christians are hateful. That we are judgmental, and superior, and don’t follow the teachings of Christ to love our neighbors and our enemies.

When I tried to defend myself and those Christians in my life who are not that way, I was told that it’s just as much my fault (and the fault of those like me) for not speaking up and trying to show what Christianity is really about. That I am letting it happen.

What everyone forgets is a point that I made in this article, which is that “crazy shouts, sanity whispers.” The vocal minority often overwhelms the quiet patience of the majority on both sides. But here’s the thing – even if I were shouting my message of love from the rooftop of my office building, that’s not going to capture the attention of the country or the media. The Westboro Baptist Church picketing the funerals of those they deem sinners makes for great news. A woman buying a homeless man juice and a muffin and sitting to ask about his life for 20 minutes on her way out of work does not. A pastor preaching that you should give your gay children to Satan and cast them out of your home is fantastic click-bait. A man praying for the drunk driver who killed his wife and child isn’t.

Despite that, here I am. This is me yelling at the top of my lungs that I don’t hate you. Either of you. Not the fanatic who decries everyone else’s sins as unforgivable (often while excusing their own), and not the people committing whatever those sins may be.

I wasn’t always that way. I was raised Catholic, but I broke with the church at 15. A number of factors including my sister’s baptism, a lost job, becoming a mother, and a wonderful group of women brought me to my current church, where I was baptized in the spring. Prior to that “come to Christ” moment, as some call it, I thought Christians were superior and judgmental for the most part. And I hated certain people – abusers, addicts – those whose sins I deemed unforgivable.

But something happens when you come to Christ. There’s a misconception that being “saved” means you are somehow above others. That you are better. Nothing could be further from the truth. To be saved, you first have to admit that you are a sinner. That you are not better than anyone. That you cannot, to paraphrase, examine the speck in your neighbor’s eye before you take the log out of your own. It’s the most humbling experience I’ve ever had in my life. And when you truly believe that, and truly believe Jesus’ sacrifice and resurrection, you also realize that He died for all of our sins. Not just mine. Not just the ones I think of as “minor”. Whether you overeat, play flash games when you’re supposed to be working, drink until you pass out every night, neglect your children, or do something I deem unconscionable (rape, murder, and molestation come to mind), we are taught that Jesus died for all of it. I can certainly understand struggling with that – it’s very difficult to separate the person from the act. I still have A LOT of trouble sometimes.

But beyond that, Jesus didn’t just hang out with his apostles and religious leaders. He sat with lepers, prayed with sinners, and even saved a woman about to be stoned to death for her sins. He associated with those society deemed to be the worst of the worst. I think this writer said it better than I ever could: “He didn’t stand on the shore and yell across the water that Peter better follow or he’d be going to Hell. He invited him into a relationship and offered him a role in the story.” I’m not going to lie – the thought of Jesus acting like that actually made me laugh it was so ridiculous.

And that’s the point – how on earth can we ever share God’s love with those who need it if we’re too busy throwing stones at them? No one has ever come around to another’s point of view by that person shouting at them and calling them names. And you can’t look someone in the eye and share the gospel if you’re looking down your nose at them. Why would they want to be a part of something that, as far as they can see, makes you cruel to others? As a Christian, I hope to be an example. I don’t know that I’ll ever be as good of an example as I’d like. I don’t exercise like I should, I’m on my phone too much, I’ve said unkind things about others, and I sometimes let my pride get the best of me. Let’s not forget that I actually like the music of Creed and have owned three of their albums since high school. But I want my faith, and my imperfect life, to be a beacon of light to others. I want them to look at me, to see the love and joy that I’m receiving and sharing, and want that for themselves.

And you know what? If you see that and don’t come to Christ, I won’t love you any less. I won’t stop showing you kindness. I won’t think for one second that I’m any better than you are. I won’t call you names; I won’t cast you aside as hopeless. I will laugh with you, share meals with you, and spend time with you. I will love you. Because I can’t imagine what it’s like to walk around with a heart full of hate. What a pointless, needless burden.

All I ask of you right now is this: help me shout. Help me drown out the anger. Share this piece, write your own, or just talk to someone. But don’t stay silent. Don’t let the word “Christian” become synonymous with “hate”. Because that’s not what it’s all about.