Grace for the in between spaces

Yesterday morning started off with one of my favorite things to get to do In court, which was to watch two precious little ones get adopted into their forever families. One precious little one who came to us because of drug abuse by his parents and one because of sexual abuse by the person who was supposed to keep her safe. 

These adoptions were able to happen because, within the past few months, I went to court and terminated their parents’ rights. 

There are many things that I like about my job. I love the people that I work with. I am grateful for the opportunity to feel like I am able to make a positive difference in people’s lives. I thrive on being in the courtroom. I am blessed to get to love on babies visiting in my office. I enjoy all the people at the courthouse. 

But I hate terminating people parental rights. I hate it. 

I don’t hate it because it’s the wrong thing because sometimes it is absolutely the right thing and the only choice. 

I hate it because it’s incredibly sad, even heartbreaking. 

I hate it because it requires me to be mean to people on the witness stand. It causes me to tear people down when every pastoral instinct within me sees the brokenness inside them and wants to build them up. 

I hate it because at the end of the day, I have been instrumental in causing the end of a family. And while I’m not the reason that these people are in the situation they are in, I still feel the weight of what I do. 

While the end result may mean a safe new family for a precious child, that new life doesn’t come without a lost past. And although that’s the right thing, it’s a sad thing. 

I spent all day yesterday, all day one day last week, and part of a day the week before, in termination trials. Trials that came about because of issues with substance abuse, mental illness, or family histories of incarceration, and substance abuse that have caused parents to be unable to provide safe and stable homes for their children. 

I have had to be firm, even mean at times, in the process of proving their patterns of poor judgment and disfunction which leave them unable to appropriately parent their children. 

It’s something I’m good at. But although I’m good at it, it’s not one of the talents I most admire about myself. 

And the more I follow this ministry call, the more I recognize the dichotomy between where I have been and where I am going. 

It is a fascinating thing to watch the new person I am becoming, as I transition into who God had called me to be. 

But it is not without growing pains. 

And a sense of sadness at watching the person I’ve known for so many years began to fade away as the new me begins to take her place. 

And gratitude at the grace for the in-between spaces. 

Trauma doesn't come in tidy boxes

I have struggled with this post for a while. It’s one I started to write probably two months ago. I come back to it from time to time and add some things, delete some things, change some words. I know it’s one I need to write. I think it’s probably one somebody needs to read. But unlike most of the things that I write, the words have not leaked from my heart and my brain onto the keyboard and onto the page. Each one has come with hesitation, and question, and discomfort. I have told myself several times that perhaps I am having such difficulty writing this because it’s not something I am supposed to put into words, or share. And yet I find myself drawn back to it, again and again.

And then, today, I read a blog post written by a dear friend about the pain that she has been keeping inside and refusing to look at, and the words resonated so deeply in my heart and in my soul. And I realized that the reason I have had such a difficult time with this writing is because it requires me to talk about things, about concepts, about feelings, that I have been refusing to look at in myself.

And so I sit back down to try again, with the prayer that, through my words, someone will read what they need to read today. That they might be comforted or encouraged by what they read. That they might realize that as alone as they may feel in their pain, they are not alone. They are never alone.

…

I read an article recently with a phrase that has stuck with me since: “Trauma doesn’t come in tidy boxes. People unpack it in different ways.”

Let me say that again.

Trauma doesn’t come in tidy boxes.

People unpack it in different ways.

Sometimes people experience abuse during childhood, adolescence, or adulthood and this abuse changes them and affects them in ways that they may not realize for much of their lives.

Sometimes, despite seeming on the surface like they are fine, there is deep trauma from this abuse that is buried underneath. Trauma that they may begin to experience in ways far more pronounced than they ever have before, and at times completely unexpected. Sometimes that happens when the person really starts to work through the initial trauma. Sometimes it happens when the person begins to realize the abuse, and the resulting behaviors, weren’t their fault and begins to look at the experience through a fresh lens.

Sometimes a person finds that even after many years of thinking that wounds have healed, there are still residual effects of the trauma that make life difficult at times. Call it a trauma reaction if you want, a traumatic stress response, PTSD. Whatever it’s called, the reaction is very real. The feelings that it invokes are very, very real.

It doesn’t matter if it’s been 4 months or 40 years.

It is possible to bury trauma for a long time. To build walls and bark around it. To bury it deep underground, and cover it with tons and tons of dirt and grass and trees. But eventually, that trauma will come to the surface. Maybe it’s when the person is exposed to someone else’s trauma and that triggers their own trauma memories. Maybe it’s when the person is doing a lot of self-work in making themselves vulnerable, and they discover that the walls they have torn down or the bark they have stripped off to allow access to their heart and their soul were the same walls and bark that were holding those trauma feelings in check. 

Maybe the survival techniques they have always used to deal with the trauma just don’t work anymore and they have to find some new way of coping, but before they can do that, they have to figure out what they are coping with. 

Maybe as they peel back and work through layers of feelings, they discover layers underneath they didn't even know existed.

Maybe there have always been trauma effects, but the person was just really good at hiding those effects and carrying the effects of that trauma themselves, instead of being comfortable saying no to the things that make them feel the effects. 

The thing with looking at feelings and experiences in a new way, of discovering feelings and discovering new ways of coping when your old ways of coping aren’t working anymore, is that you can’t always go back to who you were. You don’t always want to go back to who you were. Because the who you were of before is sometimes not the full version of who you are able to be. But sometimes when you become somebody new, the people who have known the old you get scared. Because they don’t know this new you. And just as you wonder sometimes if you still fit into the old life you used to live, they wonder if they fit in the new life that you are beginning to grow into.

The process of working through trauma, growing out of trauma, and growing through trauma isn’t easy. It requires a lot of shining light on places that have been dark for a really long time. And when you are used to hiding in the dark, the light can be awfully scary. When you are used to hiding in the dark, and suddenly the light comes in, it’s tempting to want to cower in the shadows. Because the light can be awfully bright. It can make you feel awfully exposed. People can see you more clearly in the light. Being seen doesn’t always make you feel very safe.

And shining light on abuse and trauma also causes light to shine on decisions that have been made because of abuse and trauma. Decisions that may bring their own set of shame. Decisions that may bring their own kind of guilt. The realization that decisions that have always seemed to be independent of the abuse are actually integrally related to that abuse is disconcerting. And seeing the motivation behind those decisions in the light of that abuse or trauma sometimes makes you realize that things you thought were your burden and guilt to carry, are instead your wounds to heal. When you have spent years trying to forgive yourself for things you have done, learning instead to forgive others can be hard. When you realize that you can forgive yourself for things not because the decisions you made were hurtful and wrong but because you were doing the best you could do at the time to take care of yourself, isn’t as easy at it may sound. Reframing yourself as a victim is sometimes necessary to understand the reality of who you are. But it’s not fun. It’s not comfortable. And it’s not pretty.

I had coffee a couple of months ago with someone who works in hospital chaplaincy, and when I asked her how she ended up feeling called to this area, what she said was this, “When I was going through my divorce, the most helpful thing was people just sitting with me in my pain. Not telling me how I was supposed to act or how I was supposed to feel. Just sitting with me. I wanted to be able to share that gift with others.”

For all of you who sit with people in their pain, without telling them how to act or how to feel, thank you, and keep it up. Your gift is greater than you may realize.

If you are sitting in your own pain, give yourself some grace. Forgive yourself for the things that need to be forgiven… the right things, not the things you’ve possibly been feeling guilt about for far too long.

If you love someone who is going through their own kind of growth and reconstruction, and sitting in their pain, be patient and give them some grace. You may not understand what they went through. You may not understand what they are going through now. But trust that they are doing the best they can with the tools that they have, and whether you understand the things they need to help them heal, trust that they know what they need, and let them have it.

Because trauma doesn’t come in tidy boxes.

People unpack it in different ways.

Why I Stay

I spent more than 2 hours this evening in a Methodist Church in Dallas with more than 400 other Methodist LGBTQ+ allies and parents and community members, listening to each other speak of the hurt and reaction to the results of the general conference in February, and of the changes within their church as a result. I listened to the Bishop for the North Texas Conference speak about the effects of the conference votes, and the way forward out of the hurt, and the movement within the Methodist Church unlike any he has ever seen. And my heart broke at the feelings of hopelessness that I heard from some of the people. At the heartbreak, once again, of being told that who they are is wrong. At the pain of one more time being told that they are an abomination in the view of God and of the church. And yet I also heard middle age white cisgender men speak of their privilege and of their realization that it was no longer acceptable for them to remain silent in the face of injustice and inequality.

I sat with my pastor and with other members of our Open Heart ministry, and I was so very grateful to be a part of a congregation and a people who are meeting people where they are, loving them as they are, and affirming them just as God made them to be.

I spent the first 48 years of my life in a traditional fundamental denomination. In the last 5-10 years there, I had begun to question some of the things that I had always been taught. One of those things I began to question was homosexuality and whether it was a choice. Whether it was a sin. I had come to the conclusion through searching my own heart and soul that it was neither. That transformation of my thinking was a gift when my youngest son at age 13 came to us questioning his sexual orientation. It was his questioning, and the knowledge that he would not be supported in the church we had been in all of his life, that was one of the reasons we left the church we had been an active part of for more than 18 years. Not because of the people, but because of the theology. 

Two years after he first began questioning his sexuality, Clayton came out as gay. What we learned later was that he had spent much of those two years praying for God to change him. Praying that God would make him straight. Wondering why he was being punished and why God wasn’t answering his prayers. It took two years and the love of the other youth and the pastor of the new church we had been attending for him to realize that he was gay because that’s how God had made him. That God made him that way. And God loved him that way.

We ended up at the Methodist church not because of anything we knew about the view of the church on homosexuality, but because we saw the involvement of the church and the pastor in the community. We saw that they truly lived out Jesus' commands to Love God and Love One Another. I didn’t learn of the incompatibility language within the book of discipline until long after I knew the heart of my pastor and the heart of my church. If I had known that, I don’t know that I would have brought my gay child there.  That would have been a bit like jumping from the frying pan into the fire, if you will.

When I did learn of the language, and of all that would be going on with general conference, I began to learn all I could. I was both hopeful and apprehensive. I was disappointed to find that the Methodist Church as a whole wasn't as affirming as my own church was, but I was grateful that at least conversations about inclusivity and equality were being had. I supported the one church plan because it was a step in the right direction but I felt in my heart it wasn’t enough. But I was willing to stick it out with the faith that God would use the human cracking open of a door that had been shut and would slam that door open completely.

I had faith that would happen because that’s what I had seen God do within our church within our own LGBTQ+ support ministry. What started as a very modest hope of providing support to our LGBTQ+ families and allies has grown into a ministry that has had impact more far-reaching than we could have ever imagined. What started as a hope of meeting an unmet need in our church and in our community has spread far beyond what we would have ever dreamed. Part of the reason that it has spread the way that it has is in reaction to the results of general conference.

I know that, but for the work that we were doing in this area, many LGBTQ+ families would have left the Methodist Church because of the heartbreaking decisions made at general conference. Mine would have been one of them. 

I’ve been asked more than once why I stay in a denomination that says how my child was made is incompatible with Christian teaching.

I have had to defend on more than one occasion, both to others, and to myself, why I choose to stay.

I stay because while judicial counsels have been meeting and determining doctrinal legalities, while political maneuverings have been taking place to elect delegates for what is likely to be another contentious and hurtful general conference in 2020, while some people are gloating, and others are grieving, we at our church are working. We are following Jesus’ command to love God and to love others. All others. And we will continue this work regardless of whether we end up calling ourselves United Methodists or something totally different. We will continue this work because it is the right thing to do.

That is why I stay.  Because of this work.

Because of this work that we are doing to support our LGBTQ+ adults, our allies, and our LGBTQ+ youth, there have been people who previously have been unable or unwilling to step foot into a church in years who are now back in those seats, praising God, being loved by a church family, and using their gifts and talents to bless others. 

Because of this work, there are people who are healing from wounds that were inflicted on them by people wielding theological knives in the name of what they term as Christianity.

Because of this work, there are queer youth who are finding their voices, and speaking their truth, and absorbing their worth into the core of their very beings.

Because of this work, there are adults who have struggled all their lives with the idea of being both gay and being Christian, who are learning that they are loved by God, absolutely, and unconditionally, not DESPITE of who they are but BECAUSE of who they are.

Because of this work, there have been countless people who have learned to claim their belovedness as children of a loving God, made with a purpose, and for a purpose. Fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of a God who loves them just as they are.

I pray that the Methodist Church finds a way to live out the call for social justice and love of people that I have seen it live out in every other area of injustice within our society. But whatever the church decides, my church will continue the work that we are called to.  As for me and my church, we will serve the God who created us.  Each of us.

Making the world a little less cruel and heartless

Clayton’s end of year banquet for UIL/Theatre/Debate was last night. There were lots of different tables set up throughout the room, with adults and kids spread throughout the space. When we first arrived, Clayton sat at one table with a good friend, but after a while moved to another table with a group of other kids, after they motioned for he and his friend to join them. I noticed after he moved, that there was one kid who was sitting at the end of that second  table all by himself.

I recognized pretty quickly that the boy who was sitting by himself was the same boy who told Clayton a few months ago that gay people were going to hell because they refused to repent of their sinful ways.

I must admit that mama bear mode kicked in for a fast minute, and I had to restrain myself from going over and telling the kid off. But I didn’t. But I did sit there a moment and gloat about the fact that he was sitting by himself, whereas Clayton was surrounded by a group of friends, laughing and talking.

And then I began to be bothered by the fact that he was sitting there by himself. And because I have a soft heart, even for those whom I feel may not deserve it, I felt bad for the boy. So I sent Clayton a text and said, hey, maybe you should invite the kid at the end of the table by himself to come join y’all.

I saw Clayton look up, see who it was, and send a response text to me of sure. And then he did, without hesitation. He called out and asked the boy to come join his group. The boy told him that he was waiting on someone and Clayton said okay and went back to his conversation.

When it was time to go get food, many of the kids moved from where they had been and Clayton ended up joining a different table with a different group of kids. Because my boy doesn’t meet a stranger.

Eventually the kids this other boy were waiting on came, and he wasn’t sitting alone anymore. And I was glad.

I spent the rest of the evening wondering if this boy had been taught unconditional love for all instead of judgment for those considered unworthy, if he would have spouted the hatred to Clayton that he did.

If he had been taught unconditional love instead of judgment, might he have instead extended grace, as did Clayton, to someone with whom you may not agree, but to whom you choose to show love and acceptance, despite your differences.

Clayton did not hesitate to open his circle to someone new, even someone with whom he has major theological and philosophical differences of opinion. Perhaps we should all learn to practice that same gift of grace and love for others.

Held with bands of human kindness and cords of love

On this day, I think of and am grateful for all the wonderful women who have loved me, mothered me and enriched my life in so many countless ways. My mother, mother-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins and wonderful and amazing friends, both old and new. 

But today I have a special sense of sadness and depth of love for those for whom this day is especially difficult. 

For those mothers who have lost a child. 

For those children who have lost their mother. 

For those women who want to be mothers. 

For those mothers estranged from their children and those children estranged from their mothers. 

To you, sitting in the church pew this morning, missing your mom who you have lost, I see you. 

To you who couldn’t come to church because you couldn’t take one more person telling you Happy Mothers Day and opening up painful wounds, I see you. 

To you who are so busy making sure today is a great day for your mother, and mother-in-law, and wondering if this day will ever get to be about you, I see you. 

To you who have never known the unconditional love of an earthly mother, I see you. 

To you whose arms ache for a child lost through death or broken relationship, or a child dreamed of but never experienced, I see you. 

To everyone who just wants this day to be over, I see you.   

And most importantly, God sees you. And in her mothering care, she loves you. In your loss and in your pain, she sees you. And she cherishes you. 

Know that you are held close. You are loved. And you are never forgotten. 

You are held with bands of human kindness and cords of love. 

Always. 

Stand where there is no place to stand

When Aaron was in 8^th grade, some other theatre moms and I decided that the time was right to advocate for a choir program at the high school. We met with the band director, and the theatre teacher, and the high school principal and vice principal. All of whom basically told us they would love to have a choir program but there wasn’t money for it. So we asked, how do we get money for the program? And we were told, go talk to the school board, expecting, I’m sure, that we would be shut down there. 

But, because we believed so strongly in the need, and we believed so strongly in our kids, we did research, we did advance work, we involved the kids because we wanted them to be as invested in what we were asking for on their behalf as we were. And so, as we were taking our request to the school board, armed with the numbers and the statistics, which backed up the need for the program, and the benefits of the program, the kids worked together each week to prepare to use their own voices. And at the end of our quest, on the third time to go to the school board, this group of kids joined their voices together in beautiful harmony, to show this group of adults what it sounded like when a group of great kids, and a group of supportive moms, came together for a great cause that would benefit not only them, but all those students who came behind them. And it worked. Because it was the right thing to do. Because the need was there. Because people were brave enough to speak up and to speak out.

I stood in a room last night with a group of youth, both queer and allies, and a group of adults, queer and allies, who support these youth, and listened to these youth speak of the needs for support that are not being met in their schools, the effective ways that they can work together to help meet those needs, and the ways that might do more harm than good. 

They spoke of the fear and the risk of taking this action, and their belief that the risk of taking action was much less than the risk of not taking action. I listened to these kids, ages 12-17, speak in ways more mature than most adults I know, of the strength and benefit of working with the administration instead of against them, of creating a safe place for other queer youth and the allies who support them, of creating a system which allows those youth to seek out the support they need without feeling they are crossing lines to do so, or without having to be dragged across the line into the area of safety. 

And as these kids spoke, and planned, and dreamed, with great conviction, and great commitment, and great maturity, they were encouraged, and advised, and loved, by a group of adults, both queer and allies, who support these kids and support this cause, but know the danger and the risks these youth face in advocating for a cause that many in our conservative community might not support. 

And every adult in that room, while supporting these kids unconditionally, was afraid. 

And yet every adult in that room knew without a doubt that these kids without question needed to take this action. For themselves, and for those who come behind them. 

And because that fear was real, and because those adults wanted to protect these brave youth as much as they possibly could, they told them the areas they needed to focus on, the things they should do, and the things they should not, and most important of all, the adults told the youth very deliberately, and very specifically, that when they spoke up and spoke out, and needed someone in their corner, to call them, because they would drop whatever they had going on, and be there. 

And because these adults have invested in these youth over the past few months, and have shown themselves to be worthy of trust, these youth knew without doubt that when these adults promised to be there, they could depend on that. 

As I listened to the planning and the passion and the work together of the youth and adults, for something bigger than themselves, I was reminded of that season 5 years ago when a passionate group of youth, and the adults dedicated to them, worked together in a common cause. I asked Clayton if he remembered that time, and how we got that program started, and he said “you and the moms started it,” and he was right. 

As I heard him say that, I knew that as much as I wanted to start this thing, like I had helped start the choir program, that this wasn’t mine to do. That this belonged to them: these brave youth sitting in that room who knew far better than I ever will, what this support could mean to a queer youth who needs it. It belongs to those queer adults in that room who walked this road before these youth, and who know that truth as well. 

I knew that as afraid as I was at the hurt and judgment that Clayton might experience on this journey, that it is a journey he has to take. Later in the evening, one of the adults told me, you know you have an amazing kid. And my response was, “yeah, I know. And this scares me. But how do I tell him that he shouldn’t stand up for others who can’t stand up for themselves when he has watched me do that very thing his entire life?” And that adult told me “You can’t, because this is his calling.” And I know that he is likely correct. 

I’ve always known that, through his gift for art, Clayton was able to make beautiful things. I think his gift for that will go far beyond his ability to draw and paint. I saw a glimpse last night of the man that this amazing young person will one day become. Of the beautiful things that he will create in this life. And despite my fear, I was so incredibly proud.

I asked my pastor today if she thought these kids realized how empowering last night was. Not just for them but for the adults able to give back to them in the way they would have wanted someone to give to them when they were young. Her response was no, not fully. But someday they will speak to the impact all of this had on who they are and who they will become. I was discussing this later with another pastor who was there last night as well, and I said that I hope that the youth realize that God built this. That they are loved by their parents, and by all the other wonderful adults there last night, but that God built this. She said that they will. If not today, someday. And that she had told a friend just yesterday that she felt like we are all getting a front row seat to seeing God at work. 

I think she is right. I think God is teaching this group of adults and youth so many life lessons. How to love. How to be brave. How to speak up and stand up in a way that is powerful but also kind. How to advocate for themselves and for others. How to act in faith and in love rather than in ignorance or fear. How to live out God’s call to love others despite the cost.

How to stand where there is no place to stand.

I am so grateful to have a front row seat to seeing God at work. 

And I am so grateful for the amazing adults and youth walking alongside on this journey.

Every other day we will live

I read today, with sadness, of the death of Rachel Held Evans. If you have not heard of her, Rachel Held Evans was a progressive Christian writer and speaker who has touched so many people who have been rejected by the traditional fundamental church. She said things many did not want to hear, without fear, without hesitation, and with great confidence and love. She earned the ire of many traditional and fundamental Christians, who disagreed with her theology, but in her illness and subsequent death, even those with whom she had disagreed vehemently, came forward asking for prayers for her and her family.

She touched so many, in her passion and in her love for the least of these.

I have seen so many beautiful Rachel Held Evans quotes posted today by different people on different forms of social media, and I thought what sadness it is that such a beautiful voice was silenced all too soon.

I thought of Hamilton, the amazing musical that Aaron and I had the opportunity to see the other night. I thought of the words that were sung, on more than one occasion through the musical, “You write like you are running out of time.”

Rachel Held Evans touched so many in her life, and will continue that kindom work after her death, through her beautiful words. For she too wrote as if she was running out of time. And she was. She ran out of time, far sooner than anyone, especially her husband and her two young children, would have wished.

But during her short life, she lived. Oh, how she lived. And she died, surrounded by those who loved her, both family, and her tribe of strong and loving female Christian writers, and speakers, and pastors. People who loved her as she had loved them, laying hands on her, and praying, and singing, and walking her home to the Jesus she loved so much. And whose love she succeeded in showing to so many.

We should all strive to live as did Rachel Held Evans. Speaking out for love despite what people believe or think or say. Because all of us will someday die. Some of us long before we or those we love are ready. But until then, we should live.  Each day, we should live.

Writing in Color

I am an Enneagram 9 with a really strong 8 wing. For those of you familiar with the Enneagram personality typing system, the sentence you just read has you thinking, “oh you poor confused and conflicted soul.” For those of you not familiar with the Enneagram, you are probably saying “?”

The Reader’s Digest version is that an Enneagram 9 personality is known as the peacemaker. 9’s hate conflict and will do almost anything to avoid it. An 8 personality, on the other hand, is known as the challenger. Very different personality types, certainly. But a 9 with an 8 wing, while normally averse to conflict, is absolutely a challenger when it comes to issues of justice. And that powerful need for justice can launch a peacemaker straight out of their peacemaker tendencies and into full out challenger mode. Which is way, way out of a 9’s comfort zone and not only doesn’t feel comfortable, but feels very unnatural most of the time. And yet, they can’t help themselves.

The way that manifests in me is that most of the time, I am a peacemaker. I don’t like conflict. I avoid conflict. I just want everyone to be at peace and get along. But on issues that are really important to me and to my family, what I see as justice issues, I care much less about making peace than taking a stand. This results in a struggle at times to know when to keep my mouth shut and keep the peace and when to speak up and say my piece.

I experienced this struggle last night. A friend shared an article on her Facebook page about the Methodist youth at a church in Nebraska who, at the end of their confirmation classes, declined to become members of the church at this time. The youth said that while they loved and supported their congregation, they disagreed with the recent general conference votes on the ban against LGBTQ+ ordination and marriage, and were concerned that their joining the church would be affirming that decision.

After I read the article, I read the comments from some of her Facebook friends. Comments that would break my heart for my gay child to read. But comments that quite honestly would not surprise him to read because he has heard the same or worse.

I wanted so badly to comment on that post. Not in response to their comments but in response to the article. I wanted to say this: “I am so grateful to these young people and others like them for standing up in love for each other in the way that Jesus intended for all of us to do. And I am so grateful for all the kids like this who love and support my son in who God made him to be. Perfect in every way and a precious and beloved child of God.”

But I didn’t post that comment because while I told myself it wasn’t in response to the hurtful comments that I read, I knew that it actually was, and I knew that I was inviting a response back that would likely result in an exchange that would not be God honoring.
 
While trying to talk myself out making the comment, I went back and read the quote I posted Monday night. The one that read like this: “Peacemaking doesn’t mean passivity. It is the act of interrupting injustice without mirroring injustice, the act of disarming evil without destroying the evildoer, the act of finding a third way that is neither fight nor flight but the careful arduous pursuit of reconciliation and justice. It is about a revolution of love that is big enough to set both the oppressed and the oppressors free.”

I read that quote and then I read my comment through that lens and asked if it fit in that description of interrupting injustice without mirroring injustice, of disarming evil without destroying the evildoer.  And I felt like it probably did. But I still didn’t post the comment because while I told myself it wasn’t in response to the hurtful comments that I read, I knew that it actually was. I knew that by making the comment I was doing so as a way of inviting a response, and that my response to that response would likely result in an exchange that would not be God honoring.

So I said nothing. I said nothing because one of the best pieces of advice I have been given, and one of the hardest lessons I am learning right now, is that it isn’t always helpful to speak into ignorance. That in doing so you can sometimes do more harm than good. I know this advice is good. I know this lesson is one I need to learn. But I hate it all the same.

While deciding I wasn’t going to post the comment was the right decision, it didn’t make me feel good, so I was venting about it to a trusted friend. I told her that the hardest thing for me was understanding how people don’t see the damage that they do through their intolerance, and her response was that while she didn’t have the answer to that, she thinks the reason that I am so bothered by it is because “once you see color, you just can’t see black and white anymore.”  I told her how much I liked that and told her, only partially teasing, that I was going to use that as a title for a blog post. That I had already felt like I was going to have to write about this experience, and her comment had just made me realize that I definitely was and that I was going to use what she had said. 

Then she said the one thing that she could have said that would make me feel completely better about not posting the comment I wanted to post. She said, “That’s because that’s your gift! You have to write about it because that’s how you affect people without engaging and telling them they are idiots… you write in color so that it hits some people in a different way.”
 
And I realized how right she was. It’s not about engaging with people who have different opinions and thoughts than you. It’s not about speaking up every time you have the chance, regardless of the consequences. It’s about speaking up in the best way that you can, however you can, whenever you can, in the way that you can that will make a positive difference, and will hit people in a different way. That’s what it is to be faithful. That’s how a revolution of love is started.
 
There are still people who will not hear what you have to say. But maybe you plant a seed. A seed that God waters, and shines sun on, and sometimes dumps a whole lot of fertilizer on, until it grows something beautiful.

And for those of you who disagree with me on this issue, I see you. And I thank you for respecting me enough to not say anything that would hurt me or hurt our friendship, or more importantly, hurt my child. And if you are praying for me because you think I’m wrong, I say thank you because I can use the prayers whatever the motivation for praying them. But I would ask this. Don’t pray that God changes my mind. Pray that God helps me see the truth, and I will pray the same for you. I think that’s a much more faithful prayer. Maybe in the process we can find that third way that we can walk together in peace, toward a revolution of love.