Plans & Revisions

At the start of the year, I sat down with pen to paper and enumerated a list of goals, and then a bucket list for 2022. As the year comes to a close, I look over that list with a hint of satisfaction and a much greater dose of almost-sadness. There are far more to-dos than done items on each list. I am tempted to give in to the sense of disappointment that comes with those stats (and with being an enneagram 1), but I am learning to leave room for grace and to appreciate every small victory.

When I made that list I was working on a degree in education. Since then I have successfully obtained said degree, secured employment at my first-choice school, and started attending grad school. At the time that I made my lists, grad school was not thought in my mind yet. This past semester I went after it full-time, alongside my first year of teaching.

I am learning a lot about these given pursuits respectively, but especially about myself, what matters to me, and what it means to plan and revise my goals in real-time.

If I had to name this chapter of my life within the last semester, it would be called I Have Regrets. I’m sure my situation is not unique, but here’s my cautionary tale in a sentence: Do not begin grad school during your first year of teaching. I’m not saying it’s impossible - I’m just letting you know it’s madness, especially in the post-covid world of primary education. I have never been more tired and felt less ____________ (insert positive feeling here).

Despite my regrets, I am grateful for this season. I love my students, I have a wonderful cohort, and the most understanding professors and faculty imaginable, and if first-year teaching is trial by fire (trust me, it is), then by golly I’m going to be pure gold by the end of all this. My family has been incredibly supportive, and my friends have stood by me.

That said, I think every person who’s been in my corner this semester would agree, that it’s okay to slow down. Between uncontrollable circumstances and youthful mistakes, I took the scenic route to get to where I am, and now I have this desire to gun it the rest of the way to where I hope to go. Gunning it will only get you so far before you run out of gas or find yourself spinning your wheels in the mud. I see that now.

I recently sat down with a young friend of mine whom I taught in youth group for some time. She mirrored a question I had asked her: what has God been teaching you? I had to think about that, and I’ve been mulling it over since. I think one thing God is showing me - or rather has continued to show me is my need for grace and my need to depend on Him. The lesson is not only for dependence to do hard things, but dependence to trust in His timing.

I see that need in my work and in my academic pursuits, but it goes so much further. Life being what it is for us all, I dealt with (or maybe lived through) some hard things in my personal life this year. I think I’ll be recovering from those things for some time, but I need to rely on Him all the while, and trust in His timing.

So I’m making revisions. I’m slowing down and living more fully. I’m letting go of the gas pedal and holding onto what is most important in the coming year. I’m regarding my plans as hopes and waiting on God’s timing.

A Poem A Day

I wrote a poem a day for (almost) a month and these are my takeaways.

Writing every day is like working out (from what I hear). Sometimes you feel like it, sometimes you don’t, but you’re always better off for having done it. A lot of my writing happened around midnight in part because that’s when the prompts became available and in part because I am a compulsive night owl. On the nights when I wrote I found I could not go to sleep until I had written my poem.

Chances are, you’re going to miss a day (or a few). That’s okay. Give yourself lots of grace, get rest when you need it, and maybe spend a few extra minutes on the next day. I still have a week’s worth of poems remaining and although I would have like to finish within the month of April, at the end of the process, I’ll still have 30 poems.

Don’t overthink it. You’re not going to hit a home run every day, and that is also okay. Simple is good and profound would not be profound if we experienced it regularly. Try your best, but don’t stress. I wrote a one-word poem with a five-word title and I love that poem. Sometimes a good poem is just a punchline.

All in all, the APAD Challenge was a lot of fun and reminded me that the practice of daily writing strengthens my creative mind. I’m contemplating how I’ll go about it next, and I am open to ideas.

Origination Versus Inspiration

One of my absolute favorite past times is watching live music (so much more exciting than baseball). For sometime, the pandemic interrupted musicians and music lovers everywhere, and I felt the absence of live music deeply. This year I am making up for lost time. I kicked off the year with one of my favorite bands, Jospeh, at their Requests Only Tour. These magical, musical sisters brought a stripped and moving set of beloved songs to the stage and connected with the audience like we were all old friends. (And, aren’t we? Is that not what music makes of the performer and the audience?) Although the setlist consisted primarily of familiar songs, there were two new songs introduced that night. The band explained the inspiration for each song, which combined their personal experiences with experiences they observed.

“This song is inspired by two things. The first is a show I watch on Netflix called “Love Island”. Only check out season 6 and pretend someone else told you to. No - I stand by it - it’s a good show. The other half is basically [about] some advice from a friend about love, that I very strongly disagreed with. Perhaps you can pick it apart and see which is what.”

— Allison Closner

The inspiration and the resulting songs both resonated. You know when you experience something in your senses that that warms your heart and lights up some part of your brain, like a little match struck inside of you? I felt that little spark in the moment, and I knew it was inspiration.

Their words and their songs danced over and over in my mind, long after the evening ended, and although I have yet to know where they’ll take me, I know they will find their way in some new creative expression of mine. However, there is a dark little cloud in my head that worries me about whether that is okay, and how I can share it without having it mistaken for a set of plundered words or a stolen idea (more on that soon).

A week later, I found myself reexamining this concern, or rather this notion at another concert, The Blue Flower Tour. This time around, I examined the notion from a new point of view - that of the observer, rather than the creator. David Radford, of The Gray Havens described the process of drawing much of the inspiration for his his latest album from the work and life of C.S. Lewis. The entire concept for the album, and several lyrical ideas and themes came from Lewis, after a friend of Radford suggested that he read Planet Narnia, which prompted him to read several books by Lewis, including The Chronicles of Narnia (of course) and his autobiography, Surprised by Joy. Radford went on to explain that a striking , almost passing image or memory that served as the premise of Lewis’ autobiography rerouted him from a broad Lewis concept album to more pointed concept album about the blue flower.

“As a six year old, the first time he mentions joy, he talks about a blue flower... he’s looking at the Castlereagh hills in Ireland: ‘there I was, a six year old votary [or admirer] of the blue flower’. And that’s all he ever says about the blue flower. And I was like, WHAT? It seemed like a hyperlink to something that I should know more about, so I looked it up and it was used in German romantic literature as the symbol for the longing that Lewis talked about. And so that kind of pivoted all my plans. I wrote a concept album about the blue flower.”

— David Radford

For a long time I have believed that art is the unique expression of an existing concept or truth. Creativity in the hands of human beings is a new way to explore and understand something that is already present in the world. Only God can make something out of nothing, which means that we are building on and borrowing from what He has originated and we have experienced (consciously or subconsciously). How can I believe, let alone claim that I am the originator of anything, when I know so little of the world, where those concepts and truths I have expressed may very well exist elsewhere in some other context or form. For lack of a better way to say it, nothing is new under the sun - subjectively or even objectively better maybe, but not new.

A couple of years ago, I had an unexpected encounter that might reasonably be referred to as “creative differences” with someone I thought to be a friend, because we had very different ideas about the distinction between origination and inspiration. We were participants in a conversation with members other than ourselves, and someone posed a question: How would you treat people differently if you thought of them as eternal beings? A certain response came back which included the following words: “you are forever”, and a little spark went off in my mind. It was as though a thought that existed in my head had just been voiced on someone else’s tongue. I jotted the words down for later contemplation. Sometime later, this person, some friends, and I sat in my living room sharing our latest creative offerings. I prepared to share a new poem: You Are Forever. I began by stating the source of inspiration was the utterance of words from this friend in a conversation. This person shared that she had not even remembered saying those words. I read the poem and asked the group what thoughts it evoked to determine if the message I intended was in fact what was being received. We discussed it for a bit, and moved onto someone else’s work. Later that afternoon, I learned that this person who’s words had inspired me (and whom I had in fact credited) felt betrayed because I had used her words without her consent - words that she had forgotten since speaking them. She stood at my doorstep and accused me of plagiarism, then informed me that we could no longer work together (we were set to do so later that week), and that she wasn’t sure we could carry on our friendship if I could not see the matter the way she did. Some time passed, a discussion was had, but long story short: what might have been a blossoming friendship dissolved over three little words, and hurtful lack of faith in my intent.

I wrestled with her point of view for a long time. I made a pros and cons list for each of our viewpoints. I researched thoughts about origination and plagiarism I sought counsel from creative friends, and even a published writer. I did not emerge with a clear answer, because there were so many nuances to consider in how these were perceived at all, and in what our particular situation looked like. Some common factors that came up were:

• Variation - did the new work merely copy its source or did it reinvent it enough to become something new?

• Context/Form - did the new work replicate its form or context or change them enough to express its own meaning?

• Intent - did the new artist intend to pass off the source of the other artist as their own?

• Credit - did the new artist properly credit the artist as the source of inspiration for their work?

These factors seem straight forward enough, but they are not so simple. In the case of writing for instance, does the reinvention of a phrase require a change of words? How does one measure the degree of change in context or form that is required to give the work its own meaning? Who can actually judge an artist’s intent other than the artist (and God)? And what does it look like to credit an artist for inspiring your own work? Does acknowledging the source require you grant that artist ownership of your work?

I came across a very interesting conversation between music artist, Pharrell Williams and producer, Rick Rubin in which they discussed some related ideas surrounding a song that initiated similar questions in the music industry. My experience does NOT parallel the situation discussed here, but there are aspects that overlap. At one point, Williams recalls feelings of hurt and perhaps a bit of self doubt that I relate to. Rubin speaks my own fears about our ability to create being hindered by others’ perceptions of origination and inspiration.

“It hurt my feelings, because I would never take anything from anyone. And that really set me back.”

— Pharrell Williams

“It puts us as [art] makers in a really uncomfortable place making things, because now we don’t know what [we] can do.”

— Rick Rubin

I’m not sure who makes the rules about art and creativity. I suppose anyone can be the jury, but who is the actual judge? I think as an artist, I should be wise enough to seek counsel, but ultimately I have to be my own judge.

I never did finish that poem. I laid it to rest for many reasons. I wanted to do what I could to keep from losing what I thought to be a friendship. I offered the options I could think of - to cite her as a source for the phrase (which I had already done) or to list her as co-author (even though she had only contributed three words, and in a context other than a written or otherwise premeditated context). I could not imagine what else she could have wanted. She wanted to me to change the words or to kill the poem altogether. I felt certain that having given the words a new form and context, I had not done anything wrong. Furthermore, having cited her for the words that inspired the poem, I had been mindful to do what was right. Still, I could not afford to be unsure of whether I was right at the expense of my integrity. And I could not bring myself to change the words, either. So I killed my darlings and the poem became a ghost, dead to the world, and haunting only me. My relationship with the other person was also lost. My integrity remained in tact, and my creativity suffered a bit, as I tried to wrap my mind around how to have both.

At the beginning of the year, I determined that I wanted to return to creative pursuits. I realized that I had allowed necessity (pressing goals or obligations) to eclipse my creative side. Now I see that time was only part of the equation. I lacked inspiration, because my surroundings and interactions did not have variety enough to excite new ideas, and because I’ve been afraid to act on what little inspiration came my way. I lost faith in myself, and I feared that nothing I could create would truly be mine. I think inspiration is the product of external stimuli at work in me internally. Since January, I've hosted 3 Creative Brunches, read half a book (I’m working on the other half), and attended 2 concerts. The resulting inspiration has been revitalizing for my creativity. I don’t know what to do with it yet, but I’m starting to feel okay about it. This is how art is made - one beautiful thing gives rise to another. The new creation is no less its own than the former. Origination is the beginning or creation of something made new, where as inspiration is the catalyst for that creation. It’s marvelous really - how a catalyst does not cause a reaction with everything (or anyone in this case) that it touches, only those it was meant to. And a reactant feels no shame for responding. I’ve been imbued with the confidence of these artists that I trust and respect, who are confident enough to own both their inspiration and their origination. And that gift is so much more than I could hope to get from a concert - it is incredibly freeing.

Bucket List

I’m writing my way through an interactive journal meant to free my creativity, and I recently came across a prompt that read “Money is no object! Create your bucket list right here, right now.” There was a drawing of a bucket and a blank list numbered from 1 to 10, awaiting my hoped-for adventures. I wrote in the first one without pause: Full Anne of Green Gables experience in Canada. And after that, I thought for a bit. I added a trip to Phillips, in Baltimore, with my Dad, because we love good seafood and I have rosy memories of visiting there as a child. I added more travel - “all of my dream stops in Europe + Haiti” and upon further consideration, I added, “and around the world”. It felt like cheating - like asking a genie for infinite wishes, but I suppose the primary theme of my bucket list would involve travel experiences. Having neatly tied all those up within 3 bullet points, I was at a loss for what to add next. What an overwhelming little prompt this was proving to be. Sure my list should include things I want to do, but what?

I thought about what other people might add. Climb the tallest mountain? Pass - although I might settle for a small one under the right circumstances. Sky diving? Could be amazing, but could also end in death, and did I really want to be the girl who died, because she felt the need to fall out of a plane just for funsies? Swim with dolphins? Disney princess vibes for sure, but I don’t know how to swim, and I don’t know if I can trust the dolphin. Am I being too close-minded? Omg - is this like my (non-existent) dating life - am I missing out because I’m too critical and fearful?

I thought for some time about what a bucket list really is, and I’ve decided that it is whatever I want it to be, so I added “buy a home and build my little mug wall finally” (if you know, you know) and few more wishes of that nature.

But I want more than standard milestones and beautiful things. I want adventures that are more than metaphorical — outside-of-my-ordinary experiences. And what I came away with after my best attempt at this list, was that the best way to add adventure was to invite others into it. I thought of every time I did anything remotely adventurous and the common thread was that I had not sought those experiences out on my own - kayaking, mountain climbing, horseback riding, white water rafting - none of these were my idea. And every single one of them was a growing experience that ended in a good story. So I’ve asked my friends to add to my bucket list, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store.

P.S. You can be a part of my adventures too…

2022, A Year to Create

Last year was difficult for many people for many reasons, and I am no exception. I lost my job in the midst of COVID uncertainty, I moved back home so that I could afford to student teach in the fall, I lost my first car in an accident caused by a drunk driver, and my grandmother passed away unexpectedly. While hard things piled on, I worked tirelessly to keep up with school demands as I work towards becoming a teacher and I did my best to uphold prior commitments and maintain some remnant of my social life. When the year started, I had hoped to live with less yes and more value - to prioritize in a way that allowed for more rest and fulfillment. Alas, there was so little rest and so much stress. The only things I could afford to give up were the things that I most enjoyed. And so, 2021 became a year without a pen.

I gradually pulled away from my writing and my amazing writing group. I stopped hosting my creative brunches. I didn’t take on personal art projects. I hardly played for Musicians on Call. I gave up open mic nights. I abandoned my creative pursuits. Perhaps that was necessary, but I think it made me a bit miserable. And if I had to do it over again, I would look for a way to make room for creativity.

This year, I will certainly do things differently. My one-word mantra for 2022 is CREATE.

I am returning to creative pursuits and finding assurance in their lifegiving value from God.

From a pretty early point in my faith, I knew that God granted us different gifts that we could use to honor Him. I knew that His marvelous creation revealed Himself to us. In my 20s, I began to appreciate how God’s use of creativity in all of His beautiful forms of creation had a way of drawing us nearer to Him as we encountered and engaged with them. I have known these things for a long time now. The first time I heard the notion that creativity was not just something we enjoyed, but a trait of God reflected in us, it sounded too good to be true — like a man-made proverb that permitted me to assign undue meaning to something I did simply for enjoyment. And then I saw evidence of this notion in the Bible for myself.

The very first verse in the Bible: In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth (Genesis 1:1) is soon followed by the Bible’s first mention of the Imago Dei (Image of God): Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” (Genesis 1:26)

And God did just that - after creating a series of amazing things out of nothing - light, sky, land, sea, sun, moon, stars, animals - God made man in His image and gave him dominion over the animals. And the first task God gave to man was to name all of the animals.

Now out of the ground the Lord God had formed every beast of the field and every bird of the heavens and brought them to the man to see what he would call them. And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name. (Genesis 2:19)

Voila - an act of creativity! It’s not an arbitrary act either — it is God-given and God-glorifying. Somewhere out there, there is a theologian (probably several) who can cite you a list of verses that demonstrate what I have become convinced of: Creativity is an aspect of God’s character that is reflected in us, and the act of being creative can be good for that reason alone. Better still, creativity, for all of the aforementioned reasons, can stir my affection for God. I am not a theologian, but I am a writer, and a few years I came across a liturgy for fiction writers that so resonated with me and captured the nature of our relationship with God and creativity. It reshaped the way I approach writing fiction, and the way I understand all creative pursuits endeavored by Christians. I’ll share a bit of it with you and highly encourage you to purchase a copy of your own.

Lord, let me love this world into being
because you are the author of stories
within stories within stories and of poetry
within all of creation and you have made us
lovers and stewards of this same gift.
We who live out our small stories
within your greater story would also tell,
by your grace, such stories as would
somehow awaken hearts
 to wonder,
 to beauty,
 to truth,
 to love.

-Douglas McKelvey, Every Moment Holy

This is what I want from 2022. Whether it is my product, my process, or the ways that I am impacted by the process of creating, I want to create. And not arbitrarily, but with intention and an understanding of my relationship with God and creativity. This year, may I engage in creativity often and in such a way that awakens hearts to the wonder, beauty, truth, and love of God. Amen.

No Turning Back

There is a certain kind of quiet stillness out on unknown waters that tempts you to be afraid. You think of everything you can't see below the surface of the water or hiding in the trees or waiting for you up ahead. There comes a moment when you desperately wish to go back the way you came, but it is too late.

Last weekend I found myself out on new waters in Broken Bow, Oklahoma for my friend, Sonja’s birthday trip. It had been raining all morning and the water on Mountain Fork River had risen. As I sat in my kayak full of water with my mind full of questions and worries, I pondered these things. Most days, my mind is half memory, half song, and at that time it played like a broken record: “No turning back, no turning back.” I had not thought of that sweet hymn in a long time.

I have decided to follow Jesus;
I have decided to follow Jesus;
I have decided to follow Jesus;
No turning back, no turning back.

What if following Jesus is not unlike being out on the water? Sometimes it is calm and it seems easy, and other times it is scary or difficult. The challenging days may be on still waters where unknowns abide, or in turbulent waters where we are reminded of how little control we have.

Out on the river in my little kayak, I was challenged many times. As I tried to find the rhythm between the water and my paddle, I was caught off guard by a rock that I could not see above the water. I struggled to push off of the rock without falling out of my kayak, and with some effort, I managed. It was not long before  I hit another hidden boulder, and that time around, I could not free myself. One of our traveling companions, Caleb turned around and pushed my kayak forward for me. As we continued on, someone pointed out a snake on the river bank. Any calm that I might have had disappeared then, and from that point forward, I struggled to maintain my composure anytime the current carried me towards the river bank. In the midst of these troubles, there were moments of relative peace, and as I started to settle into the ride, the current picked up and I could hear a waterfall up ahead. I became more aware of my lifejacket and my inability to swim, and I wished very much that I could turn around, but there was no time for that now, and I braced myself for what would come.

The details between the drop and the events that followed are a bit fuzzy in my mind, perhaps because panic frays memory somehow. What I do recall is my kayak flipping over and my more-than-mild sense of terror as my head dipped below the water. I closed my eyes instinctively and panicked more because I could not see anything around me. I could not seem to get upright in the water and I feared everything that was or might touch me underneath - rocks and snakes and fish and trees. My head must have come up a few times because I knew that I was screaming and better still, someone could hear me. Another one of our traveling companions, Josh made his way to me and grabbed my hand. I don’t know how long he held on while I struggled to calm down enough for him to help me into his kayak (mine had long since traveled down the river without me). I do know that at that point I was crying (something I really try not to do in front of other people) and that even in my panic, I found a moment to worry about how horrible I must have looked with my hair wet and flat and my puffy crying face. Eventually, we managed to get me into his kayak, however ungracefully - I kind of rolled over and collapsed into it. I was tempted to stay there just like that.

I sat up and regained some composure, and Josh guided the kayak in the right direction. There was only room for one of us, and so for a good distance, he ended up swimming, until a few of our traveling companions were able to locate my lost kayak and bring it to him. For someone I really had not known before, from that moment he became someone I’ll never forget. Life is funny that way.

Later on, my friend Sonja came alongside me in her kayak. “I heard you say ‘Sonja I love you, but I hate this!’” she informed me. I laughed and I told her not to heed anything that I say when I am panicking. The funny thing was, I did not even recall saying that.

In the relative calm that followed, my mind amplified its song: “No turning back, no turning back.”

My trip to the landing was less eventful, although admittedly, there may have been more tears as the current carried me right into a bank and I could feel the trees touching me like ghostly hands reaching out for me. As we entered the landing and exited our kayaks, I felt great relief and a quiet little joy.

I have determined, that following Jesus is indeed like being out on the water. Having committed and come so far, it would be fruitless to turn around. As difficulties arise, Jesus will not leave me to myself, but help me through with His sacrificial love. Unseen obstacles will come up out of nowhere and seem to hold me back, but Jesus will help me to move forward. Snakes and other unpleasant things may come out of hiding when I lose my focus or life’s current seems to carry me adrift, but God’s strength will be made perfect in my weakness and nothing will keep me from the path He intends for me. Trouble will come suddenly and turn me upsidedown until I can’t seem to get my head above water and every passing thing around me feels like danger. Jesus will extend his strong arm and wait patiently for me to stop struggling and grab hold and be saved. And even as I am shouting “Jesus, I love you, but I hate this!”, He will not lose heart but encourage my spirit. The most challenging parts of the journey will grow me, make me stronger, and teach me how to trust Him, even when I fall short.

On more than one occasion, God has taken his people to the water to demonstrate His character, and grow their faith. He parted the Red Sea. He calmed the storm. He walked on water. He even allowed Peter to walk on water. It seems there is always something we can learn out on the water, and it will always involve trusting God.  The journey will bring us closer to Jesus and end in more than relief or joy; the journey will end in glory.

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life.
-John 10:27-28a

Always Be

One Sunday morning, as I sat in church and listened to the speaker at the podium address a short and simple verse, I was struck by new thoughts about a familiar verse.

Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving each other, just as God also in Christ forgave you.
Ephesians 4:32

I look at that verse and I marvel at the word be. Be - an irregular verb that denotes (an often aspirational) state of existence. Sans conjugation, the timeline on the implied state of being never expires. This command is not “be kind until”, or “be tenderhearted if”, or “be forgiving when”; this is an always be.

Beyond its constancy, this “be” is a verb, which signifies action, and is compelling, if not convicting. Oftentimes, I may look at such a verse as a list of characteristics that God wants me to have, rather than a set of actions He expects me to take, and while both are true, one should not exist without the other. Our actions are the evidence of our character, just as our faith and our works go hand in hand.

In a highly individualistic culture, like the one we live in, it is easy to miss the hurts or needs of others, or even to deliberately ignore them. Sometimes the best-case scenario in which an individual does take notice results in a response of well-wishes, prayers, or sentiments. These are fitting responses, but they are often insufficient. Per the command given to us in Ephesians 4:32 (and throughout the Bible), I think that more is required.

I wonder, am I prone to insufficient response, and if so, why?

Perhaps I suffer from a lack of willingness to spend what is costly - whether that is time, resources, or energy. That is not to say that I am unwilling to give of these things; perhaps I am unwilling to give at the point where it costs. For example, it is easy to volunteer my time when it involves making music or art, but it is another thing entirely to commit to cleaning toilets or doing manual labor. It is easy to offer a listening ear to a friend over dinner, but perhaps a bit more challenging to sit down with a member of my church that I am not naturally inclined to spend time with.

After observing me leaving the house to have dinner with folks several nights in a row, my brother asked one night if my meeting would be mutually enjoyable. I found this to be an interesting and insightful question. He looks out for me in this way, because he knows that I can easily overextend myself, and there is merit in that. The flipside however is this: should the offer of my time be transactional? Should I only be willing to offer up my time in exchange for my own enjoyment? I think not. Likewise, I believe that kindness, tenderheartedness, and forgiveness are not transactional. Like God’s grace, they are to be freely given, and the fact of the matter is a free gift is likely going to cost the giver. What costs us “bandwidth”, cost God a son. These will never be equivalent.

Another reason why I may fall short of effectively being kind, tenderhearted, or forgiving is that when I regard those action-items as simply a list of aspirational characteristics, I can let myself believe that I am already fulfilling God’s requirement. I look at the characteristics like shiny tools in my beautiful toolbox, and they remain untouched while I rest comfortably and things around me fall apart without my notice or repair.

Last, but not least, I think this area where I can fall short involves a “you know where to find me” attitude. I can be great at declaring that I am here if you need me, but is it not better to show up where I know I may be needed? Is that not what Jesus has done for me? If He had waited for me to come to Him first, I would surely miss eternity with Him.

If you are even just a bit like me, then we can both acknowledge that we are imperfect, and may be prone to fall short in these ways. God knows that, and He extends grace for that. He also gives us the capacity to do what He has asked of us, in His power. This verse does not end with His directions, but with His reason for them: just as God also in Christ forgave you.

There are serious implications there. Each time that we exercise our ability to be kind, tenderhearted, and forgiving, we are reflecting God’s character and honoring the ways in which He has selflessly acted to bring us to Him. Likewise, when we reflect these and other characteristics of God in ourselves and in our actions, we have the chance to draw people to Him.

Dear Church

Dear Church,

Yours is the loudest silence
And the one that hurts the most
For I call you brother and sister
And my call returns a ghost
You do not answer
And I am hard-pressed to find you
In this, my dark-skinned hour

“Let us pray” you might say
And “Only the gospel can save”
But surely Our Father asks more
Has he not asked us to speak for the poor?
And stand for the weak?
To care for the widow,
And defend those who cannot speak? 

I have watched you weep for the child with cancer
And speak for her mother who is crying for answers
So why are you silent while I face this violence?
And why won't your heart break when my life is at stake?
Are you so convinced that all we can do is wait?

Wait.
Wait for the right time,
For the end of elections, after voters have made their selections
Lest anyone say that you swayed political predilections

Wait.
Wait for the best time,
When more universal troubles have been resolved
And less puzzling puzzles have been solved
Or by some Kumbaya magic, we organically evolve

Wait.
Wait for the End of Time,
When the Lord returns and He builds new earth,
And my bruises and burns will no longer hurt 

I have waited, Church
I have waited and I have been hurt
I have waited for more than prayers and empty words

I have prayed
And I have prayed
And
I
Have
Prayed

I am convinced that the Lord's answer was more than
“Wait” or even “just pray”
I am sure I heard Him say
Confess
Repent
Learn
Seek
Do good
Correct
Defend
Speak

And yet...
You remain silent

Your silence says to me that you do not care enough to hear my cry
Or weep with me, or stand for me and do something

Your silence says to me that you are either in denial,
Or quite alright with the way things are
That maybe it’s okay if my back and spirit break,
If that means that you can stay in the comfort of your place

Your silence says to me that you are unwilling to love me, your neighbor as yourself
And when this going gets tough and I cry out for your help
Your Bible is no more than a book on your shelf
How else can you ignore these cries and justify yourself

Your silence says to me that if I am here today and gone tomorrow
You will think nothing of it, and waste not your sorrow

Tell me church, is this what you intended?
Is your silence meant to convey this message?
If so, your faith seems disavowed
If not, then I would ask what now?

Not without hope,

Moriah

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.
-Proverbs 31:8-9

Learn to do good, seek justice, correct oppression, bring peace to the fatherless
-Isaiah 1:17

28 Years of Black

As of Monday, I have been alive for 28 years. Not one of those years has been unaffected by the fact that I am black. And every year, I know that a little more - this year most of all. Birthdays are a time of reflection for me, and this year as I consider my life in the last several years and in the years ahead, I cannot avoid the consideration of all that is going on with regard to race and racial injustice in our country. If I am still here on this earth years from now, I will look back on this time, and remember this moment when all around the world, people were crying out for justice on behalf of people like me.

In the last few months, a handful of horrific incidents have brought national and worldwide attention to some ugly parts of our reality. The headlines came as news to some, but not to me. I already knew what Amy Cooper showed everyone - that white privilege combined with a discriminate justice system not only enables but emboldens unjust white civilians to invoke police presence as a threat to innocent black civilians. I already knew that there are several Amy Coopers running wild, armed with the knowledge that police are inclined to take them at their word and to proceed to take disproportionate and even unjustified action against black civilians. Black civilians remain vulnerable to this threat, which is not to be taken lightly.  Not when George Floyds are being nonchalantly murdered in broad daylight, in plain view of civilians objecting and cameras recording. Not when Breonna Taylors have their homes erroneously raided at midnight and are then shot in their homes without having posed any threat, much less committing a crime. I knew this, and most, if not all other black people knew it too.

What has been most surprising to me is the echoing uproar of people who have only just learned about the very real and pervasive racism and racial injustice that still exists in our country. It offers some solace in my ongoing struggle to merely exist as a black person in this society. That sounds dramatic, yet it still does not sufficiently convey the weight of the burden that black people have carried. Every decision I make and every interaction I have has high stakes, and not only because it can easily escalate into a death sentence, but because underlying assumptions about me as a black person as well as unconscious bias renders improper consequences for my actions and sometimes for no reason at all.

Today’s uproars over egregious acts of injustice, brutality, and murder have sparked important discussions about changes that need to be made. However, the framework of these conversations is often incomplete. While it is imperative and foremost that we talk about how to stop the unjust deaths of black Americans, it is not enough. “Black lives matter” means more than “we don't want to die”; regard for black lives has just as much to do with the beginning and the middle of our lives as it does with the end.

Black parents should not have to spend the formative (and following) years of their children’s lives determining how to shield them from and equip them for racism. My parents should not have had to clear hair picks and banana peels from our front lawn because white neighbors were opposed to having a black family move into the neighborhood. They should not have had to petition our district to let us attend our local school and been subjected to all kinds of inappropriate questions about what they do for a living to qualify their children’s entry. They should not have had to sit their children down and teach them how to respond if they should have the misfortune of being pulled over by a cop - speak as little as possible, remain calm, keep your hands where they can see them, respond with “yes sirs” and “yes ma’ams”, even when they call you out of your name *refer to you by derogatory names or words* etc, etc, etc - in short, give them no excuse to harm you.

“Give them no excuse” - that seems to be the unspoken motto of black existence. If you want to stand a chance of competing in a world where white is preferred, you will need to do twice as well in school - give them no excuse not to choose you. If you are being provoked or wronged, respond with quiet calm or not at all - give them no excuse to call you “unprofessional”, “threatening”, “sassy”,  or “loud”. If you are overlooked or wrongly accused because of your race, don’t you dare say so - give them no excuse to dismiss you because you’re “using the race card.”  You live a chin-up, eyes-down life and make it look normal. You keep your face smiling and your tone upbeat while your mind races a hundred miles a minute to keep up with each consideration you have to make.

Of course, my experience is not a universal black experience - every one of us has a unique experience. My parents granted me all the advantages that they could. That meant researching the best schools and neighborhoods and working hard to position us there. The best schools and neighborhoods were always predominately white, and so my siblings and I grew up in white American culture. Some black Americans learn to assimilate into that culture, but it was a sort of default for us. This meant that even though our classmates, teachers, church members, co-workers, and other people around us might still look at us differently, it was easier for them to warm up to us because in some way, we were already like them. I could see a distinction in how other black Americans in those settings who shared a less whitewashed upbringing were perceived and treated differently than I was. I still do.

However much each black American experience varies, there is a shared racial hardship. It undoubtedly plays a part in shaping our personalities and our lives. In addition to living under the weight of systemic racism (perhaps another topic for another day), imagine being perceived as a threat for no reason at all. Can you? It looks like women holding their purses a little tighter when my excessively upstanding moral father walks by. It looks like a mother pulling her child nearer to her when my sister who is a gifted teacher, beloved by children, walks by. It looks like a cop pulling my high school-aged brother over while he is riding his bike in his own neighborhood. These are not hypothetical situations or imagined racism, but real experiences.

The perceived-threat dilemma is only one facet of racial hardship that black Americans experience. It is one that plays a significant part in the racial injustice that we see so plainly today. The perceptions (conscious or unconscious) of black people as other, less than, or disposable have certainly brought us where we are today, but the perception of black people as threats has largely been the unmentioned justification for their murders at the hands of white perpetrators.

I have had several conversations lately that have helped me to be more introspective than I have been previously about how my race has impacted who I am. I have come to realize how much I allow for the issue of racism to persist by normalizing it in my own life and by virtue of my silence. I’ve grown so accustomed to racism that I think of it simply as “how things are”.

A lack of comfort, and a desire to always have the right words, sometimes hinder me from saying all that I want to say. As a general rule, and a part of my personality, strength and composure are important to me. However, I dare say there is a time to share my burden rather than shoulder all the weight, and even to lose my composure and allow people to see how utterly wrecked I am about these things. I could get so fired up, but I'm afraid to look like "the angry black woman". In this situation as in ordinary little situations in my life, I sometimes think to myself, if I were white I could yell about this. But I am black, and because of stereotypes and fear, I am extra careful about every detail of my speech, including the volume. Sometimes I'm a little afraid to show the full brunt of my opinions and experiences or call people to action because I don't want to make them uncomfortable or feel as though I am imposing.

I cannot continue in this way. We cannot continue in this way.

As a believer, I know that I cannot expect a perfect world on this side of heaven, and so I pray for the world and hope for heaven. However, that does not exempt me from making an effort to make things better. As believers unified by Christ, we are called to mourn with those who mourn, speak up for those whose voices remain unheard, and defend the rights of those whose rights are disregarded. Moreover, Jesus commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow. -Isaiah 1:17 (NIV)

I won’t claim to have all of the answers - I have very few answers indeed, but I know that I can use my voice, my time,  and my experience at the very least. I am choosing to reject the status quo and break my silence. I am deciding to take a clear and public stand against racism and racial injustice. I am learning, alongside people of many backgrounds about what can be done at a local, state, and federal level to make appropriate changes in government and law enforcement. I am seeking and creating opportunities to have open, honest, and safe dialogue with people who may not share my experience, but have a desire to understand it and to help make important changes in the ways that we perceive and interact with each other in our communities. I am committing to be intentional about finding opportunities to meaningfully interact with people who do not look like me or sound like me or share the parts of my background that have quite possibly kept me from knowing them.

These are the things that I know to do, and I believe that they will make a difference. At the core of racism and racial injustice is a people problem that has a whole lot to do with perception. And that problem starts in our homes, in our churches, in our schools, and all the other ordinary areas in our lives where we spend our time. We cannot change the problem from the inside of our comfort zones, so I invite you to venture out with me. Let us leave our comfort zones and be brave enough to get a little uncomfortable for the sake of making this world a better place.

I want to end by expressing my deep gratitude to the tens of thousands of people from other races and white folks who have joined the demands for justice from police, Americans, and all institutions in America (and the world), by peacefully protesting all over the U.S., England, South Africa, Germany, Paris, and so many places throughout the world. These and other deliberate and passionate actions both seen and unseen are going to push the needle forward as we continue in our drive towards a more peaceful and equitable society.

Running Shoes

It’s been three months since Ahmaud Arbery was shot in the street while running near his own neighborhood. I can’t help but think of it when I grab my own running shoes and ask myself where I can safely engage in such a harmless and wholesome activity. Am I safe in my own neighborhood?

Since then, even in these quieter streets, cleared by COVID-19, a colorless enemy that should have reminded us all of how much more unites us than divides us, more men and women of color have continued to suffer hurt and injustice fueled by racism. My heart grieves for all the stories I know about, and I hate to imagine all of the stories that I am not aware of - the little stories that people like me live through silently. The assumptions, the microaggressions, and the larger incidents of racism that no one wants to talk about. Racism is real and not just a phantom of our history in this country - it is an issue that remains a part of our society and culture, even if the shape it takes or the names we give it are different today. In addition to the problem of racism itself, there is an issue of refusal to acknowledge, discuss, or change it.

I know people I love who would rather dismiss such matters than discuss them. There are people who grow weary of hearing about it, and want everyone to “move on” and “stop making everything about race”. These kinds of mindsets are a privilege that not everyone can afford. If you are not impacted by the problem, I can imagine how easy it might be to live in the comfortable privilege you’ve been afforded without realizing it. Some folks hold on to that comfort so tightly - some deliberately, and others without even noticing. Some people think they’ve been exempted from their privilege because they have faced their own challenges, or had to work for success. (White) Privilege is not the same as a silver spoon at birth; it is the luxury of not having to give thought to how the color of your skin will impact your day to day living.

To live without this privilege is to exist in a reality where the color of your skin adversely affects your day to day living. Sometimes that manifests in small ways. For instance, a black student admitted to Harvard will face the assumption that his race was the reason for his admittance, when in fact, his performance alone was sufficient to gain his entrance. Somewhere in the world, a white girl coveting his spot will assume the spot should have been hers and it will never occur to her that her academic performance and civic responsibility were simply not as outstanding as his.

Then, of course, these issues can play out on a larger scale. A young man will be gunned down near his own neighborhood, a consequence of the color of his skin and some unfounded assumptions.

Racism and racial injustice are messy, ugly parts of our world, and particularly our country, that can be difficult to face and easy to ignore. Whatever your race or your privilege, the courageous thing to do is to face the matter, to consider it, and to act to change it. Let yourself be held accountable for how you respond to racial issues. Hold others accountable. And treat everyone well, especially those who suffer because of these issues. As a believer, I would go a step further and say that we are called to love everyone well.

I write this today not from a place of sadness or anger, and not for the sake of preaching. I write this today so that I might encourage you as I have been encouraged. I started this post a couple of weeks ago, after reading an encouraging Facebook post from a friend and was prompted to finish it today after receiving an encouraging text from another friend.

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I thought about what it took to choose to watch that video for the sake of understanding the plight of the victim and countless people like him. I thought about her choice to share about it rather than stay silent about it. I thought about her heartfelt desire to learn how to be supportive of her friends, neighbors, and community members who were being impacted by the same kind of pervasive threats and injustice. And as I thought about all this, in spite of the horrible reality that Ahmaud’s situation exemplified, I was encouraged by my friend’s choice to try to understand the hurt and to respond to it with loving intent.

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How nice it was to be thought of in such a time. If a hurricane swept through a friend’s hometown, you might reach out to see how they were doing. If a friend’s relative was in the hospital, you might reach out to see how they were doing. My lovely friend saw some devastating news that might be impacting me as a person of color and thought to reach out and see how I was doing. This was more than a text - it was a meaningful gesture, and it was sincere. It came from a place of love and understanding of the fact that racial issues around me inevitably affect me. Again, in spite of an unpleasant delineation of an ugly reality, I was encouraged by a friend’s response.

These are the responses of people who are unafraid and more than willing to face racial issues, consider them, and act to change them. And it is the sum of people like these who will make the situation better.

So the next time that I grab my running shoes, I may run with caution, but I will know that I do not run alone.

Dear Friend

Dear Friend,

I know that we haven’t spoken in a long while. It’s been even longer since we last saw each other. I can’t imagine the last time that I crossed your mind, but I want you to know that you have been on mine.

Every now and then something trivial and seemingly random will remind me of you. Sometimes it’s a song we sang or danced to together. Sometimes it’s a book or a movie that we used to quote all the time. Sometimes it’s a weird snack that we introduced one another to. Whatever it might be, it makes me smile, because it makes me think of you.

Facebook tells me I have 1,345 friends (today at least). You can imagine how challenging it is to keep up with that many people. I can’t tell how many of them are nearly strangers - friend requests I didn’t want to say no to, but I can honestly say that I do care about so many of those friends. I have crossed many paths with many people, and while I share varying levels of friendship with a great many of them, I am sincerely grateful for them all.

Thank you for every time you made me laugh - you know how I love to laugh. Thank you for the things you taught me that I never would have sought to learn on my own. Thank you for adventures in the sunlight and after sunset, or long past midnight. Thank you for the songs I still sing because you showed them to me. Thank you for songs I wrote that you somehow still remember. Thank you for game nights that didn’t seem to end and accepting my crazy competitive streak. Thank you for every delightful meal that we ever shared - you know that food is a love language of mine. Thank you for all the ways that you made me better - smarter, faster, kinder, wiser. Thank you for every time that you indulged my request for a photograph - I love to look back on those now that time has passed and we are apart.

Friend, I hope that you know what you mean to me. Whatever moments we shared that became fond memories, are like jewels I will treasure forever. Most people are not in our lives forever, and that’s okay. I just want you to know that I am so glad you were in mine for a time and that wherever you are now, I wish the best for you. I hope you’re healthy and happy and thriving. And if you’re not, I hope you’ve found lovely new friends to lean on.

Wishing you the best forever,

Moriah

Art by Christie Walker. Click the image to download and color this verse.

Be Still, and Know...

2020 was the talk of the town - a new roaring 20s and a millennial daydream. I imagined I would make a fresh start of a new decade and I hoped that I would find cause for celebration often. I have seen some happy occasions already. I’ve seen sweet friends get married, visited with brand new adorable babies, and watched dear ones conquer milestones they have been working toward for some time. Heck, I’ve even seen Lauren Daigle and Johnnyswim live! I feel lucky to be a part of it all, and still, I feel like my time has yet to come this year.

I had been thinking about that for a while - thinking about how this year is nearly 25% through and I do not seem to be 25% closer to my goals for the year. Am I studying early enough, fast enough, well enough? How much progress am I making towards a promotion at work? How should I measure growth in my relationships? Is there enough of it? My calendar hung before me like a looming ghost with its neck bent out of shape - haunting. I wondered are all of my plans merely ghosts? I tried to make my plans come alive, in the familiar rhythm of CPR. Despite my desperate compressions of time and intimate rescue breadths of hard work, they seemed to be flatlining. Meanwhile, the world spun madly on, until suddenly, one morning, everything everywhere seemed to be still.

It seems that COVID-19 has changed the trajectory of everyone’s plans everywhere. While we certainly could have done without the virus, perhaps we needed the change. At least I did. It took this moment of relative stillness to remember that my plans were never alive, and I was the ghost haunting me - clinging to things that simply could not bring me life. The calendar was just a calendar. And we already know what they say about plans and God and laughter and all that - If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans. I spend so much time believing that plans are the seeds I sow to make dreams come true, that I forget to remember how much more I need to make anything grow, and how very little I can control. I presume to know the right soil, but I cannot make the rain fall or the sun shine. And if everything in this garden called life seemed to be just right, who's to say that I am holding the right seeds?

Perhaps I am clinging to the expectation of what academic success will bring when God is showing me that His provision is more reliable than any degree or career. Perhaps I’m investing in relationships that God is giving me distance from and missing out on others that He wants to grow. Perhaps I’m working so hard at a promotion that I am missing the fact that God is ready to see me in a new job. What if the plans that I have for myself are not the ones He has for me.

In this moment of stillness, I am no more certain of my plans than I was a month ago, but I am confident in this: God is in control. His plans probably do not look like mine. They may not look like yours, but He is sovereign over all and He will work out every moment of this time for His glory. We may not recognize it for what it is as we experience it in realtime, but surely someday we will, whether on this or the other side of heaven. Maybe someday years and years from now, when this moment is reduced to pages in a textbook, I will consider how the bitter brokenness of this world was magnified suddenly and we became like blind men given sight to see our outstanding need for God’s grace and mercy. I will remember how He used the darkest days of this unusual time to turn our eyes upon Jesus. I will look back on it and see how God used this time of hardship to draw people closer to Himself and one another.

Someday seems far from today, until it doesn’t, but in the meantime, I believe we can see glory in the midst of all this quiet chaos even now. I believe that God is glorified in the sitting of families around their tables for nights in a row like they haven’t been in years, now that the plans on their calendars are not a hindrance. I believe that God is glorified in the kindness of one neighbor to another as it dawns on them to check in on each other after years of only distant next-door-hellos. I believe that God is glorified in the generosity of strangers sharing what they can to bless those in need and support those workers on the frontline - the blessed healthcare professionals and grocers and mailmen and workers who are building ventilators. I believe that God is glorified in the acknowledgment of a Walmart grocery store worker, who people are beginning to understand is no less valuable than a Wallstreet broker. I believe that God is glorified in the newfound gratitude that our nation has found for teachers after homeschooling their children for less than a week. I believe that God is glorified in the unwavering intention of his people, across their numerous congregations to continue meeting and worshiping in all the creative ways that He has made possible via technology. I believe that God is glorified in the newly increased time that people have found to spend in His Word. I believe that God is glorified in the prayers and songs raised to Him from the lips of His children and from the children who have yet to know Him. Whether intentionally or unwittingly, we are all seeking Him as we reach for peace in this time that feels so uncertain.

I am certainly praying for the end of COVID-19. I hope that soon we’ll be able to gather together again. I hope that we can find our balance quickly as we reenter our workplaces and rebuild our finances after taking a hit along with the economy. I hope that those afflicted by this illness will recover from it. Just as ardently as I hope for all of these things, I hope that we will not return from this season the same way we entered it. I hope that we will not lose sight of what we have been reminded is truly important - our immeasurably deep need for God and His grace, our families, friends, and neighbors, the fact that God designed us to rely upon Him and to live in community with others, and all the ways that we are learning to love each other better during this trial.

Let me not forget to rely on God instead of myself and my plans. Let me continue to work hard and exercise wisdom in preparing for the things that I hope for. More so, let me continue learning to count on the Living God who can make those plans come to fruition or lead me to the better plans He has for me.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29:11

If my mantra coming into 2020 was Plan for it, Work for it, it is surely changing.
In the remainder of this year, let me speak to myself over and over: Be still and know.

God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.

Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”

The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Psalm 46: 1-3, 6, 10-11.
Read the full passage here.

Image via Scripture Type. Color the verse here.

A Little Spanish Goes a Long Way

On an ordinary day, in a dreary hospital room, I experienced the great extent to which music and/or a small gesture can make a meaningful impact. The experience actually spanned across a number of rooms and showed me many things.

A year ago I joined Musicians on Call. Musicians on Call is an organization that sets up volunteer musicians and guides to offer bedside performances to hospital patients. I had learned a few things during my first session that I hoped would improve my next one. I realized that it would be good for me to have more songs prepared. Although I typically played a single song for each patient, it was nice to be able to offer more than a couple of options. My guide (who goes with me from room to room and does pretty much all the talking - a brave task really) might also benefit from some variety since she was with me for every iteration of the same couple of songs. I realized that I would need a bit more boldness to be heard by patients who might be hard of hearing and to really connect with patients by maintaining eye contact, even when it grew to be a little more intense than I imagined. Performing for an audience of one is uniquely intimate. I realized that I would need an extra measure of discernment to know how to handle patients’ tears - sometimes the emotion was too great to bear, and I would stop, and wish them well, and leave the song unfinished. Other times, they would insist that I keep going - that it was okay that they were crying. I felt like I was growing up a little in those moments of understanding. One of the most simple things I noticed and felt as though I had relative power to act upon was the fact that many patients were not native English speakers. A number of cultures were represented among the patients, and many appeared to be Spanish speakers. I decided then that the next time I came, I would have a Spanish song.

The next time came quickly, almost out of nowhere. For a period of time, I had been consistently practicing a few songs that I really liked for my little ukulele: “Vincent”, “The Wonder of You”, “Oh My Darling”, “Daisy”, “Love is Endless” (these are all real songs). I had not forgotten my Spanish song vow, but I had not encountered anything that felt quite manageable for someone who lacked a gift for language. One day as I listened to my Discovery playlist on Spotify (I am constantly amazed at how those magical algorithms conjure up a collection of songs I love every week), I heard a song that I immediately fell in love with. I clicked the little heart near the song and added it to my library, then proceeded to listen to it endlessly for the next couple of days. The song was called “A Letter to My Younger Self”, by Ambar Lucid. It carried out the strumming of a few sweet chords and a lovely voice that sang in a tone of almost forlorn wistfulness, even as it conveyed a message of hope. The lines of the song were mostly in English, but a few Spanish verses rang out with the most heartfelt plea, and although I did not understand the words, I could feel the weight of that plea. I felt compelled to understand the words and to learn the song. After a while, I let my practice fall on the back burner and the time came suddenly for me to play my session. Because my Spanish song had the simplest chords, I leaned on it quickly that night. I felt a bit ashamed of that, but throughout the night I found that the song connected with many patients on a base level - regardless of age or language.

“Ya no quiero que llores (I don’t want you to cry anymore)
The universe is gonna give you muchas flores (lots of flowers)
Quítate ese miedo (take off that fear)
You'll be a lot more trust me, yo te entiendo (I understand you)”

The words were simple enough, but they resonated so deeply. The song also spoke of regrets, expectations, love, parents, hopes, and dreams. One woman cried at a verse about a daughter not becoming what her mother thought she would be. The patient shared that she had not spoken to her daughter for many years. I imagined how difficult that must be under ordinary circumstances, and how much more so as she laid in her hospital bed. Another woman told me that I had come on the right day, her heart had been so heavy with sadness and discouragement at the state in which she found her health. With tears falling down her cheeks, she beckoned me to come near, took my hand and kissed it, and told me that God would bless me for what I had done. I stood there with her frail hand in mine and wondered what I had done indeed. I was unprepared for such immense gratitude. It was a moment unlike any other that I had experienced. The night went on much like that. One man asked me to come back again when his wife came by because he wanted her to hear it too. (She didn’t get there in time, so he had me sing it for the nurse instead). Likewise, another man had asked that we wait for his wife to hear the song, and another for his daughters to hear it. I marveled at how patients who had heard the song or even had yet to hear it had a desire to share it with others. The music seemed to be like gospel - good news that could not be kept to oneself, and I had the great privilege to be a messenger. Wasn’t that something?

On one occasion, I had a younger patient with such an immediate bright disposition, I thought that he might sing along. So I chose a song I thought he might know, Vance Joy’s “Riptide”. I encouraged him to sing along, and he told me that he wasn’t much of a singer, but soon after the song began I could hear him humming along, and it lifted my spirit. I thought - this is what music is - an antidote to lift the spirit, and in so doing ease one’s pain.

That night I played for just a few patients, but I learned and experienced so much. The evening reminded me that music transcends differences like language or age. It showed me that the simplest song is by no means the lesser one. It showed me that even though I am a no one with hardly any talent at all, maybe I could help to heal someone’s pain just a little bit by the grace of God. It showed me that a little Spanish goes a long way.

First Impression: The Farewell

Please be advised that the following post contains spoilers, including Q&A with the film’s writer and director, Lulu Wang. These spoilers address more ideas than specific content - and I have tried to limit them.

Last night I had the opportunity to see The Farewell, a film that has been on my radar for several months now. The opportunity was provided by the Asian Film Festival of Dallas, during a screening event featuring an appearance from writer and director Lulu Wang, herself. The experience came about fortuitously, in such a way that exemplifies one of the reasons that I so love film - it brings together all kinds of people, and has the great potential to tell the unifying stories of humanity. I had mentioned the film to a co-worker (who happens to be Chinese) some time ago and so she became aware of it and interested in it. She came across the title amongst a list of events in an email from an organization she had recently subscribed to, the AFFD. She had become aware of the AFFD by way of a friendly and observant employee (who happens to be white) at her library, where she frequently rents Asian films. The timing of these varied interactions between varied people lined up perfectly so that my co-worker and I were able to secure tickets. When we arrived at the theater, we saw several races and ages represented in the audience. We wondered how each of those folks had come to be aware of the event.

In the opening credits, Chinese characters (“letters”) precede English words, a little detail that seems to pay homage to Wang’s Chinese heritage. My Chinese co-worker translated the Chinese title for me: “Don’t Tell Her” - an interesting difference from the English title. I wonder if the notion of a farewell is more western than eastern.

The film begins with a series of little lies exchanged between Billi (Awkwafina) and Nai Nai in a phone conversation. During the conversation, we move from Billi’s New York surroundings to Nai Nai’s surroundings in China. This is the first of several such juxtapositions and parallels that occur visually in the film, each of which is done beautifully and with subtle intention. Many elements of the film are this way - subtle and beautiful: the long, closeup shots of character’s faces and profiles, the shapes and symmetry within the frames, the slow panning shots, the muted tones, and colored lights. Every detail of the cinematography works together to show and tell a simple story that zeros in on incredible tension and emotion.

One such element is the choice to cut from one scene to the next abruptly at times. The element is still subtle, but it is also jarring. Maybe this is how grief looks - you move from one thought or emotion to the next without warning. You don’t get to finish processing one emotion before being hit by the next. Of course, I may be reading way too much into that.

The film tells a very personal story about filmmaker, Lulu Wang’s family, yet more than manages to resonate with a universal audience. I can see myself in Billi in so many ways. I see it as I glimpse the painful experience of navigating her identity as an American with foreign roots. I see it as she struggles between perusing her lofty career goals and attempting to maintain her independence under the microscope of her parents’ opinions and concern. I see it her heart for her tightly-woven family. I see it in the weight of all the unspoken hurt she carries.

A lot of the impact of this film lies in the things that are unsaid. Moments of uncomfortable silence, as well as conversations that reveal previously unspoken thoughts and feelings drive the almost tangible tension and emotion. Even the film’s plot rests on what the family is not telling Nai Nai. That secret creates suspense which is only intensified by the quiet moments, the haunting and truly beautiful music from the soundtrack, and every element that prompts you to wonder about its symbolism. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the moment when someone would reveal the secret to Nai Nai. Would it be a slip-up fueled by drunken sadness or an intentional reveal from a character motivated by their own convictions about the lie? Would Nai Nai be the one to reveal that she knew the whole time? What did all the birds and windows mean? How much should I read into the phrase “benign shadows”? I felt as though I was sharing in Billi’s distress, and still, I welcomed all the confusing feelings - I was all the more drawn to the story.

The members of the cast are more than believable - they come across very much like ordinary people, and like a real family. Each raw display of emotion, however grand or subtle is felt deeply by the audience. At times I simply did not know how to process the emotion. In one scene, Hao Hao, the groom in the marriage scheme that provides cover for the family to see Nai Nai, begins crying gently, and then uncontrollably during an operatic performance at his wedding reception. This moment is preceded by a drinking game, which Hao Hao, who says very little throughout the movie, is losing badly. After watching him take several shots during the festive game, it is not readily apparent that his tears are more than a response to the sad-sounding song. The moment goes on for some time and the conflicting urges to laugh and cry wrecked me inside.

In as much as the audience is made to wrestle our emotions, and our wrecked insides, the film does offer some comic relief as well. Some of the humor is like a more favorable version of deadpan humor - it is matter-of-fact humor, used to address serious concerns. At one point, a joke that I laughed at earlier in the film surfaced in an argument between Billi and her parents. “What were we supposed to tell you, that your grandmother is on the roof?”, her mother says, when Billi questions why her parents had not told her about her grandmother’s health yet. I felt personally attacked. Of course, other humorous elements are the subtleties of Awkwafina’s performance.

In fact, Awkwafina really shines in the film. Her ability to make us a laugh offers welcome comic relief, but the gravity that she brings to her performance in a very serious role is commendable, and representative of what the writer accomplishes in this film. Both the writing and the acting handle heavy themes like grief and death with a certain levity, and without diminishing the significance of these themes.

The film brings up a number of matters within the family which remain unresolved in the end. As a crying Nai Nai, is led away by her sister after a tearful goodbye, the audience is left to wonder whether she knows the truth about her health. When the screen faded to black after Billi’s return to New York shortly after, I felt a little betrayed. Would none of my questions be answered? Where was the resolution? What the hey, Lulu?!

In her Q&A after the film, Lulu Wang states that the catharsis and the resolution that we might seek is perhaps an American idea, and she had to resist that. “For me, the drama in this movie is the lack of drama, and so what [I’ve] come to realize is that the drama’s internal. [You’re] screaming on the inside, and on the outside . . . life goes on.” I suppose that is the story in a nutshell - the conflict between a family’s internal screams and their external attempts to go on with life, in light of the emotional burden they are carrying for Nai Nai.

For more about the film and the writer, listen to the brief Q&A session below.

First Encounter with Old Spice

Do you recall where you were the first time that you smelled Old Spice? You might be wondering how or why this is important. It is not. Every now and then I recall something that makes me laugh or smile, and I like to share.

The first time I encountered Old Spice, I had no idea what it was. It was back when I worked in a restaurant. The manager there was not too far from me in age, and he was the dreamboat of the establishment. I don’t think there was a single girl who worked with him and didn't have a crush on him at some point. For the sake of everyone’s dignity, I won’t use his name. Let us refer to him as McDreamy.

McDreamy was a handsome fellow. He had rugged good looks, without looking like a lumberjack. He had a well-built physique without looking like an uncomfortable statue. He had seriously beautiful eyes - the kind you want to look into for hours at a time. He had just the right amount of southern charm, and a deep-voiced accent to match. Last but not least, he smelled amazing.

I consider myself to be a level-headed person, but I was not immune to McDreamy’s brand of magnetism, and the fragrance that followed him made me feel as close as I have ever felt to intoxication - I felt not quite drunk, but maybe just a little buzzed. He moved with the stride of a cowboy, and he was constantly offering to lend a hand. He would spare me a trip to the back for a step stool by taking boxes down for me. Every time he would lift his strong arm, the motion seemed to activate that incredible fragrance that he wore like a natural essence. He would lift heavy things for me, hold doors, deal with terrible customers on my behalf, all the while smelling like heaven.

His fragrance remained a mystery to me for the longest time, until one day I smelled it in my own home. Why did my brother smell exactly like my crush? (Cue whistle) Alas, it was Old Spice. Now I had a look behind the curtain. I also understood all the fuss in the commercials. The smell of Old Spice was unequivocally the smell of a man.

I’m older now - a little wiser. I have come to learn that Old Spice is not for everyone, although I still stand by that intoxicating fragrance that McDreamy wore. In fact, speaking from a more or less scientific point of view, I have a lot of respect for the product. I recently ran out of my deodorant and borrowed my brother’s. It was a little unsettling to smell so manly. With every move I made I could smell it more - like the product is actually motion-activated. What is this magic? I don’t know, but I like it.

I am not being paid to endorse this product. Yet.

Baptism

This past Sunday I got baptized for the first time.

During a Bible study series several months ago, I came across a reminder that baptism was a step of obedience. I had buried this fact very far back in my mind when I had started to accept that I would never be worthy. I had been waiting for the day that my desire to live righteously was greater than my proclivity to sin, and tried as I might to overcome my sin nature, I never could seem to measure up. I think of Paul describing his struggle with his own sin nature:

For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want. But if I am doing the very thing I do not want, I am no longer the one doing it, but sin which dwells in me. I find then the principle that evil is present in me, the one who wants to do good. For I joyfully concur with the law of God in the inner man, but I see a different law in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin which is in my members. -Romans 7: 18-23

How might I approach God in such a grand state of imperfection? Looking back on the past several years, I think I almost looked at baptism backwards - as though I had to die to myself before being baptized, when in fact, baptism was the very moment to declare that death to self.

Death to self - what a concept. It was another reason why I was hesitant to approach baptism. A part of me was ready to do that and another part of me wondered what that meant giving up. I gave that some thought and considered what it was that I seemed to want to hold on to. Those things were sand in my hand, slipping through my fingers, and not worth holding onto. I was starting to believe that I wanted this, but there was still the worthiness problem.

I never did solve the worthiness problem, and yet, yesterday at the age of 27, I was baptized. Alas, the worthiness problem does not exist. In the last couple of years, and especially in the last several months, God revealed to me that He was not waiting for my perfection, just my heart and my obedience. Time and time again, God uses and rewards imperfect people who demonstrate a heart for God and the choice to obey Him.

Just as you might observe an image without comprehending it at first, I did not register this revelation for sometime. When it finally occurred to me, I knew that I was ready to be baptized.

As I sat through service anxiously awaiting my baptism, the teaching pastor spoke as if directly to me. “This is just the beginning,” he said. Baptism was not the mark of a completed journey in Christian faith - the end game. Baptism was not the magic step of obedience that would perfect me. I would come up out of the water much like I had gone in, having made my desire to follow Jesus known. Life would go on with much of the same struggles, perhaps intensified by this public declaration. This was just the beginning of a walk in a newness of life.

I listened intently, and when my time came, I stepped into the water ready for all that it meant. I was glad to be baptized by my pastor and friend, Kevin. The timing was particularly special since it lined up with Father’s Day. I knew that both my heavenly father and my earthly father were pleased.

Undeniably Yours, An Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

God made us part of each other lives 27 years ago and I cannot thank Him enough for that gift. We are not the overly-affectionate kind, but you have taught me that we are very much the grateful kind, and many other good kinds of kind to be. I know that I have not become all that you wanted yet, and in some ways I may never be, but I want you to know that for everything I am not, there’s Mastercard. I kid. For all that I am not, there are all the ways that I am undeniably yours, and I am so grateful for those.

In every little part of who I am I can see you. We love to see things done well, and that often seems like seeing things done our way - a very particular way. We share food as a love language - with all the same tastes like fresh french bread crackling as we tear off the first piece. We share an affinity for good films that depict the most genuine, tragic, and hopeful aspects of humanity. We are equally stirred by good music, which transcends every difference there is between every man. We can talk so much about the things that matter to us. We love to hear and love to tell a good story.

We do not care for duplicity. We are not fond of those who would abuse or otherwise misuse their power. We cannot stand injustice. We also don’t like onions, or understand cornflake casseroles.

We share so many likes and dislikes, but more than that, there are parts of my character that I have inherited from you.

I have your relentless work ethic that persists in the face of adversity and drives you to succeed in every arena. I have your critical eye and analytical mind that cannot avoid seeing room for improvement everywhere that I look. I have your heart that breaks for people in need of things they know of and things that they do not. I have your passion for seeing students grow not only in knowledge, but in personal development as well. I have your penchant for hospitality and hold your view of that as an opportunity for ministry. I have your resolution that compels me to stand my ground on any and every thing that I believe to be worth fighting for. Most importantly, I have inherited your faith foundation.

In all these ways and more, I am undeniably yours, and I hope you know that I am exceedingly proud of that.
I hope that you are too.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Moriah