Author Archives: PearlS

Beyond depression.

In my last post, I described my own “dark night of the soul”. I wasn’t writing to claim mental unwellness, but remembering a hard time in my life. (One that I hope is being cultured into a pearl.) If you also have a tendency toward depressive or unstable thinking, I hope this encourages you.
Mental illness is a hot topic in today’s culture and deserves a closer look.

To be clear, I think there is a difference in naming our spiritual struggles and dwelling in darkness. I still once in awhile encounter the surface level feelings of worthlessness (red flag warning!), but I cannot linger very long in it. This is a spiritual struggle, and everyone who follows Christ will face their own battles.

This is what draws me out of the pity ditch:

If then you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.

Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, is revealed, then you also will be revealed with Him in glory.

Colossians 3:1-4 (emphasis mine)

You see, at my lowest point I had forgotten the power of God in Jesus that put to death my old self and raised me to new life. I was examining all my failures and sorrows like a nearsighted child, and it was blocking my view of Life. Satan, the deceiver, uses pain and doubt as a handkerchief to blind people to God’s goodness, his redemptive powers.

We who follow Jesus are drawn to Him only after we realize we are sin-sick slaves and need someone to break the chains. Our upbeat lifestyle of “following our heart” and our “just do it!” mentality–it leads only to emptiness if there isn’t a greater purpose in living. We are human and we are completely dependent on our Creator. We are either serve our own self or we serve God.

The truth is this, and it seems a harsh word to the depressed: indeed, we are helpless on our own! (What a blow to the American conscience!)

But to wallow in this, I must let go of Jesus. To believe I am worthless, I must say God is wrong, that He doesn’t really love me at all. That I wasn’t created for a purpose, that I am broken and can’t be fixed.

Brothers and Sisters, fellow Christians! Here is the issue with mental illness: God did not redeem you to live half healed. He didn’t redeem you to live alone in a pit, listing your misfortunes, doubting your existence and yearning for death. He paid for your life so you can live intimately in tune with your Maker.

In the deepest part of you, you know this. You have unlimited access to the Lord. You can hash it out all day or night on your bed in your dark room.

When I was in despair, I begged God to take my failure and turn it into something, anything. Specifically, I said, “Lord, what is wrong with me? Why am I hurting so bad? Help me see it, God. Fix me!”

Tell God all that is in your heart, as one unloads one’s heart its pleasures and its pains to a dear friend.

Tell him your troubles, that he may comfort you.

Tell him your joys, that he may sober them.

Tell him your longings, that he may purify them.

Tell him your dislikes, that he may help you to conquer them.

Talk to him of your temptations, that he may shield you from them.

Show him the wounds of your heart, that he may heal them.

Lay bare your indifference to good, your depraved tastes for evil, your instability.

Tell him how self love makes you unjust to others,

how vanity tempts you to be insincere,

how pride disguises you to yourself as to others.

If you thus pour out all your weaknesses, needs, troubles–there will be no lack of what to say! You’ll never exhaust the subject, it’s continually being renewed.

People who have no secrets from each other never want subjects of conversation.They do not weigh their words. For there is nothing to be held back. Neither do they seek for something to say. They talk out of the abundance of the heart, without consideration just what they think. Blessed are they who attain to such familiar, unreserved intercourse with God.

(Francois Fenelon)

 

I have told you about how I heard a radio program that was the catalyst in my recovery. There were two things I picked up: God’s Word and exercise. I took them at face value, pill form. I opened my Bible and put on some running shorts. But now I know why these things matter. These are things that don’t require my feelings, my input. They required forward motion, simple obedience.

In reading God’s Word, I believe what it says or I deny it entirely. It is able to divide bone and marrow and the thoughts and intentions of man. It tells me who God is and who I am. As with a prescription from a physician, I ingested this truth daily. It sank into the deepest, tenderest parts of me and began to renew my mind.

With exercise, there is a similar concentration. After Adam and Eve had to leave the garden, they were sentenced to a life of hard labor. Part of this was a consequence for sinning against God, but I wonder if, in His mercy, this was a method designed for preservation and mental stability. Exhausting our physical energy affects our minds. Our focus narrows to the basics, staying alert, upright, finishing the task. Pity cannot throw a party when a person is at work.

It is fascinating to think on how our minds and bodies are intertwined. It is a mystery. When my feelings tangle their way into my thoughts, or when I stray off the path of intentional Bible reading and meaningful physical exertion–it is only a matter of time before I’m down in the dumps. I know feelings on their own aren’t the source of trouble. But sometimes feelings are liars, and what is true and right must hold court.

Tell God all that is in your heart…

Tell him your troubles, that he may comfort you.

Tell him your joys, that he may sober them.

Tell him your longings, that he may purify them.

Tell him your dislikes, that he may help you to conquer them.

Talk to him of your temptations, that he may shield you from them.

Show him the wounds of your heart, that he may heal them.

 

First, you must go to Him and tell Him everything. Second, you must pick up your work, that which trains your body and mind apart from emotional distraction.
Third, you must believe He can do it.

But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.
Romans 8:11

Friends, the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead can raise you from death, too.

 

About depression.

One summer about fourteen years ago, I stopped eating. This was due to heartache and a creeping doubt regarding the future that manifested itself in my body as depression. I hurt all over, and my throat couldn’t physically swallow food. I had wrecked my car, dropped out of college, gotten engaged, and not in that order. My final attempt to make amends was to enroll in a quick, one year LPN school. I was terrified of needles (maybe some nurses get by without them?) but it turned out my phobia had no warrant. The school wanted a thousand dollars to hold my spot, and I had no money in the bank. Nursing school was out of the question. I had no more cards in my deck. I was a failure.

Life was unsure and hopeless. Eating seemed secondary to living, and finding the will to live was a challenge. My mom, both saint and sage, paid me a visit in my new-to-me basement apartment. She made a batch of cookie dough to “test out my oven”, a sneaky way of spying on me and working her magic to get me to eat. I did not taste a single cookie.

My dad showed up on my doorstep the next morning at 7am. We hiked through the woods, me still in my pajamas and contact lens-less. When we came back to the apartment he sat me down and said, “Mom and I think you need to move back home for awhile.”

I protested halfheartedly. I was too weak to argue–what was the point? I packed my bag and climbed into his car.

My parents, bless them, rescued me from the fire that day. It didn’t completely cure my depression–I marched right into marriage with it. But they saw the hole I was digging, and they took away my shovel for awhile. It forced me to breathe when I thought I couldn’t. I won’t ever forget it.

For several years after, my young husband couldn’t reach into the pit I was living in. It was deep, and no subsequent college degree, job, move, house, or new baby could pull me out. But nobody knew it was depression, not even him.

Emily Dickinson wrote, “I live in possibility,” but she was also a veritable hermit that never left her house or accepted visitors…Most likely she was depressed. She claimed that “hope is the thing with feathers,” but she obviously kept hers locked up in a bird cage. It is easier (and falsely satisfying) to write words on a page than to face the uncertainty of people in a volatile world. Anybody can say anything to your face when you are exposed and unprepared to answer. She knew this; she never left her house.

Hope dwells in possibility, and depression makes one believe nothing is possible. There is no hope, then, in the mind of the depressed. People with depression might wear happy, cool, successful, confident masks and the vibe that puts off waves of everything-is-under control. The mask is made with a sturdy layer of superglue, and it never slips in public. That ancient liar, Satan, whispers nasty things to the mask-wearer, like you can never take it off or everyone will know you are worthless garbage.

People struggling with depression aren’t “struggling with depression”. They are being manhandled by it, twisted and shoved into a dark hole with shovelfuls of the devil’s lies piling on top. This feels like being buried alive. It is no wonder suicide seems like a viable option. It would be the quickest way to lose the mask, to relieve our loved ones of the garbage we believe we are.

Depression thrives in the dark. Satan will do whatever he can to keep the lid on his jar of lies. He will convince you that

-you’ve made too many mistakes

-your value is in what you do

-there is no purpose in life

-you are all alone

-no one can know

-there is no way out

-the world would be better off without you

Some of these are half truths, but even a half truth is a lie. It seems counterintuitive, I know. The message of Christ is that we have indeed messed up, cursed God, and need someone to redeem our mistakes. But the message is also

-our worst sins are forgiven

-we are made a new creation, we have a clean slate

-in living, we bring glory to God

-we are called to community, not isolation

-we are known by the Father, He sees our struggle

-we are free

-our pain is not wasted

-We are loved. We are worthy. The mask is powerless, and we can chuck it in the trash.

I remember driving home one night from work (after we were married but before kids) with tears streaming down my face, the ever-present, too-large-to-swallow, aching lump in my throat. I turned on the radio and heard a conversation on the Christian radio station. I wish I could remember the channel or the names of the people talking. The woman was talking about depression and recovery. She mentioned two things a depressed person could do to begin climbing out of the pit: physical exercise and reading (memorizing) Scripture. It sound prescriptive now to say it, but I was in such a low place. I grabbed the Rx and stamped my name on it.

Right there in the car I asked God to help dig me out. I asked Jesus to forgive my unbelief. I asked the Wonderful Counselor to minister to me. I began jogging to clear my mind from negative thinking, and I began reading my Bible to fill it back up with words of life. I memorized Psalm 119 (well, the first eighty-six verses). Preserve my life according to your word…

Still, it has taken years, and every once in awhile I trip and almost fall back into depression. But I’ve armed myself with tools that, over time, have filled the pit. And Satan doesn’t hang out nearby with his shovel, taunting me. I have bulldozed the place. The landscape is different.

Depression is listening to Satan’s lies instead of believing God’s truth. Let’s not tiptoe around it. It isn’t a sacred, hush-hush, mind your own business disease of the soul. It deserves to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the light. We counter Satan’s shovelfuls of lies by speaking truth and preaching God’s Word, his power, into the lives around us. We fight depression with great beating blows when we grab someone’s hand and pull them out of loneliness and into our home. We make people felt known. We leave our masks at home, encouraging others to drop theirs, too. We toss hope out like a lifeline. We reel them back on board with the truth of the Gospel, the promise that they are loved and that they belong, that they are not alone.

We bake cookies in their apartment to “test out the oven”. We help them pack their bags and move back home.

Title I Poverty

Today is cold, rainy, and dark. Maybe it is one of the few sixty-five days of the year that Colorado claims (with embarrassment) isn’t sunny. The pumpkins lined up at the front door don’t seem to mind. Neither do I, since there is a hot apple pie resting on the top of my stove.

I love autumn like every good Midwester girl does–for the change of pace, pumpkin spice lattes (JUST KIDDING! I draw the line at pumpkin spice), the cool after the scalding heat of the summer we think might never end. But it does. It always ends. Then we blink-adjust our eyes, surveying the leaves falling and crisp in the air. What a reminder! We are never in control of the movement of time. The laws that rule nature, the seasons that divide years into neat compartments–they are reliable, something a human can depend on. Fall is a relief, even if the days are dark.

 

There are other things we can depend on, and I’m faced with the blunt reality every day as I walk the kids to school, the one labeled Title I.

Title I schools exist to “improve the academic achievement of the disadvantaged.” Title I waves the red flag at poverty. This is where you belong. Poverty, that trashy, no-good stain on our American soil. Poverty, that curse that our society can’t seem to shake off. Even Jesus promised, “You will always have the poor among you…”

Poverty. You can count on it.

 

It’s interesting, learning about Title I. I don’t immediately associate my kids with the words describing Title I school kids,

“low-achieving children in our Nation’s highest-poverty schools, limited English proficient children, migratory children, children with disabilities, Indian children, neglected or delinquent children, and young children in need of reading assistance…” (US Department of Education)

 

Since we moved here midsummer, I had no choice but to enroll them in the neighborhood school. I had walked out the back door on homeschool, of course. We were jumping back in on faith, banking on the big Guy to catch us if the water was too deep. I didn’t know the demographics of the population around me. I knew that if we’d moved earlier, perhaps mid-spring, we could have opted into a non-Title I school, but I had been confused about that, too. Why would anyone opt out of a neighborhood school and into a different school that was further away? I was a country girl, out of the city and out of touch. It suited me to plead ignorance to the system.

 

It turns out discrimination and privilege toe a very thin line.

 

Several weeks ago I went to a district meeting for parents of GT kids, the goal being to inform families of the opportunities to enroll in GT “center” schools. Center schools are the answer for clustering these advanced learners within a large district. On a school night there were four sessions going on at the same time in different areas of the district area. Schools are spread out over some 750 square miles, so the folks in charge tried to situate the meetings accordingly. It was a twenty minute drive from my house to the venue. When I walked in, I was surprised. Nearly every parent was white and well-dressed.

 

Why was I surprised? If I look at the county’s demographics, 91% are white. Of course they would make a good show. But in my Title I school, it’s virtually the opposite. Only about 10% are white.

 

The wheels started turning in my head. Our neighborhood school has a label, and it screams poverty! What Title I parents were able to read an informational email in English regarding an upcoming GT meeting? How could a low-income, one-car (or no car) family ever hope to attend a GT meeting twenty minutes away? What if they happen to work on Thursday evenings at six?

How could an underprivileged child qualify for GT services if the testing is only in English? Should they qualify, who can take their GT qualified kids to a center school in a different neighborhood, being that there is no school bus to take them there?

This had the markings of unfair all over it.

 

Without a doubt most folks don’t want their their communities to be marked by low achievement and poverty. No one wants their life to tell a story of rags unless it ends with to riches. The rags can stay in someone else’s laundry, not mine. We want to start out and end up well off. And this, I assume, is why many people opt their kids out of one “bad” school and open enroll into a “good” one. We can iron it into some smooth reasoning, ”Oh, it’s just a better fit for my kid,” but deep down there it is planted in our hearts, this idea that we deserve better than the next person. The low achievers. Disabled. Neglected. Delinquent.

Title I will take care of those kids, I’ll take care of mine.

 

And this is where I am wondering where the Christians are, the ones who claim to believe in an upside down Kingdom, the first being last and the last being first. The Savior who, “being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing…and became obedient to death, even death on a cross,”–would he have opted into a better school?

 

I cannot turn my eyes and unsee it, and it is hypocrisy at its peak when I pretend it isn’t my problem.

 

In his book, The God Who Is There (1968), Francis Schaeffer says this:

 

The Christian is to resist the spirit of the world. But when we say this we must understand that the world-spirit does not always take the same form. So the Christian must resist the spirit of the world in the form it takes in his own generation. If he does not do this he is not resisting the spirit of the world at all. This is especially so for our generation, as the forces at work against us are of such a total nature. It is our generation of Christians more than any other who need to heed these words which are attributed to Martin Luther:

“If I profess with the loudest voice and clearest exposition every portion of the truth of God except precisely that little point which the world and the devil are at that moment attacking, I am not confessing Christ, however boldly I may be professing Christ. Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved, and to be steady in all the battlefield besides, is mere flight and disgrace if he flinches at that point.” (pg.18)

 

This is the battle in my Christian American soul, because it is so easy for the rich man–me!–to snake my way out of something that I could pass off as “not my problem”. We want our liberty, man, but give us our freedom from those needy people! I’ve got my own kids, my own problems.

 

If the spirit of the world in our generation is “me first, everything else second,” it is easy to pretend we are all on a level playing field. Your kids happen to go to a good school while mine go to a bad one. Some kids grow up literate, some don’t.

 

Schaeffer goes on to say:

 

…When the Apostle warned us to ‘keep ourselves–unspotted from the world’, he was not talking of some abstraction. If the Christian is to apply this injunction to himself he must understand what confronts him antagonistically in his own moment of history. Otherwise he simply becomes a useless museum piece and not a living warrior for Jesus Christ.

The orthodox Christian has paid a very heavy price, both in the defense and communication of the Gospel, for his failure to think and act as an educated man at grips with the uniformity of our modern culture. (The God Who Is There, pg. 19)

 

We are so blinded by our privilege. It causes us to forget the one huge equalizer among us–that Jesus died for sinful men. That not one of us is above poverty level when it comes to needing a Savior.

What are we thinking when we look at people and label them Title I?

What makes us think we are doing right by opting out?

 

Staying off the road.

October marks three months in our new digs. The shock of big city is wearing off–the sunsets and sunrises are the same no matter your street address. There are open spaces and parks and green grass and weeds growing out of sidewalk cracks–we haven’t jumped into a concrete jungle with bars over the windows (which I had sort of imagined would be the case). Over the past two years we have moved off of a mountain into a small town cul de sac, and now to a through street in a bustling urban neighborhood. We certainly never thought we would have a backyard that backed up to someone else’s backyard. It’s as if we’ve been weaned off the wild mountain and we are standing on the flat ground, tentatively feeling out our first steps. We are still fake-smiling and hugging that weird question of where do we fit in?

 

But I’ve spent 34 years trying to get God to answer that one for me and all I ever get is a hazy “trust Me”. It’s nearly imperceptible, especially if I drown it out by busying myself with a thousand must do’s and should do’s. Then there are voices shouting above the noise, the news and opinions of the world around us. It’s hard to not get caught up in the commotion and think that doing it all–consuming it all–is what life is all about.

 

Right now the headlines in the news are screaming injustice. The media is begging for a fight, blood that can be splattered in the name of scandal. The world wants us to feel outrage, as if exploding our feelings all over the place will solve anything. It’s tempting to add our voice. It feels good to blow off steam in the direction of someone who we think deserves a little lashing.

 

I don’t want to fit into this culture, if this is what it requires.

 

I turned on an episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood this afternoon for my four year old. This turned into a Mr. Rogers marathon, because Fred Rogers is mesmerizing. He cares about the child behind the screen, and his love for them trumps their feelings and insecurities. Mr. Rogers paints a world where grownups are responsible helpers that want the best for kids.

 

America right now is fascinated with the idea of Mr. Rogers yet is standing on a pile of rocks, ready to stone Brett Kavanaugh, Donald Trump, or anyone who seems disagreeable. I yearn for justice, unless you happen to step on my toe (which is wearing a flip-flop, because I can wear whatever the hell I want and how dare you suggest sensible shoes!) and offend me. Celebrities (those with the loudest voices) show up to lead rallies to stoke a fire, preparing to be arrested, when they could be looking into a camera–I like you just the way you are.

 

So this is the world, and we are living on a through street. It’s up to us to keep our eyes open when nearing the roadway, because traffic doesn’t stop. The hate won’t ease, words flung like venom, but we can choose to be pedestrians instead of revving up and pulling our vehicle out into the madness. We aren’t going to walk into the left-right insanity holding a hashtag stop sign, thinking it covers or explains anything, and heaven forbid we use it as a defensive shield. No one out there is following the speed limit, and all the drivers swerve in and out of their lanes. We will stay on the sidewalk and tread our steady path to school and work, eyes alert, even with horns honking right at us.

Hallway Reader

Today I walk into the school, sign in at the front office and attach my volunteer sticker to my orange sweater. The ladies sitting at the desks know me well and ask me about my weekend. I grin, say it was fine, then we make small talk about the weather for a few minutes. I’m eager to start down the hallway. The people in charge had me sign a volunteer agreement form when I registered the kids for school. I am allowed to slip in and out of the library and the third grade class, to shelve books, sort papers. Library isn’t ever bad, but my favorite place is third grade, Ms. P’s class.

If I am being honest, I can say I didn’t volunteer to benefit anyone other than myself. My own third grader has such a poor track record of passing on important dates and bringing home essential homework that I found it necessary to have a physical window into his world. I wanted there to be clear communication between myself and the other grownups in his life, and volunteering was my ticket. I hired a college girl to watch my littlest kids during naptime, and now I walk the eight minutes over to the school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

The kids are a rainbow of colors, a jumble of busyness. Their eyes light up when I enter the room. I am just as excited as they are–we get to read together. Disappointment is immediate if their name doesn’t appear on my list, the one given to me by their teacher. I don’t know why they like me so well, but maybe it is the magic that happens in the hallway.

I only have two or three kids in a group with me. We sit cross legged on the floor right outside the door and I introduce myself. Then I invite them to sit close next to me and I whisper-ask all my questions.

What’s your name? What do you love to do? Tell me about your family, where you live. What do you want to be when you grow up? What languages do you speak?

Then we get down to business. “Are you ready to read? I love reading. I want you to love it, too.”

They are obviously the struggling readers. The first time–no, second, third and every time–I am shocked at the low level of reading. My four year old at home can sound out words as well as many of these third graders.

I consider the soil where they are growing. I have no deep knowledge of what their home life is like, if they’ve ever been read to in English outside of school. My initial guess is no, and most kids confirm to me that they only speak a language other than English at home.

How have they been moved up to third grade without becoming fluent in basic vowel sounds or sight words like it, as, the?

They are eager to please me, but I wonder why there isn’t an afterschool resource working with these kids to nail phonics?

Or am I judging this all wrong? These kids have a whole extra set of rules: to learn, in English. I cannot separate out kids who happen to be bilingual from underperforming readers without becoming too nosy. The former are our future translators, negotiators, doctors, nurses–unlimited potential. They could race to the finish and a second language is just an extra badge on their chest. But the latter, their future hangs in the balance. And all are on the cusp of becoming literate. It is crucial. We have got to get these kids reading. Third grade reading proficiency is the top predictor of graduating from high school. High school graduation predicts success as an adult.

Kids grow up into adults. Adults run the world.

Therefore (if for no other reason at all, but there are a billion reasons), kids matter. Every single one.

Reading is a lifeline.

In How Schools Work (2018), former secretary of education, Arne Duncan, describes how his mother began an after school tutoring program in Chicago:

Her center started in 1961 after she volunteered to teach a Bible study class at Kenwood-Ellis Church. She gathered the kids around at her first class, a little nervous. She was a young white teacher and these were all nine-year-old black girls from the neighborhood. Each child took up a Bible, and Sue instructed them to open it to a certain book and page. She read the first couple verses and then went around the room. What she found was that none of these children could read. They were all in fourth grade, and they were all functionally illiterate.

From there, she decided that it wasn’t Bible instruction that was needed but instruction, period. She began an after-school program with virtually no money, getting the church to donate space.

(How Schools Work, pg. 160)

This is incredible to me, completely simple, fundamental, obvious. Yet most of us haven’t a clue. Maybe we are just too consumed by our own problems, but if you are reading this right now, literacy isn’t one of them.

Kids need to have their basic needs met. All kids.

Arne describes how everyday his mom would bring in twenty-five pounds of apples and three pounds of cheese for the kids to eat. Her motto was with love, support, and high expectations, any kid could succeed.

But first, love in action.  

What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such a faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, “Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.

James 2:14-17

This is where we begin, friends. What door will you take to helping others? Feeding those who don’t have food? Reading? Pulling children close to you and whispering words that say I care about you?

Christians who are concerned about planting churches in needy areas, seeking to convert lost souls and proclaim the Gospel–do you realize the kids in your neighborhood are hungry and illiterate?

Your feet are on the floor. Walk out of your door and see who you can find.

{September}

I wrote the book and have wrapped it all up on this blog, but the story hasn’t ended. We have now been in the big city for two and a half months. The roots are in the ground. I have met every neighbor within a block; the teens across the street, the stern grandpa next door, the darling retired couple with the barky dog, the couple with the chickens, the artist who lost her husband two years ago. There was a mystery episode of a huge nasty lizard in my backyard (escaped from the newlyweds’ doggy door). We picked and canned the peaches from our elderly neighbors’ tree. We have shared birthday parties, pies,beans and cornbread, bar-b-que.

Just today we entered new territory when our kitty climbed a tree in the backyard. We were away from the house at the time and when we returned home, a full-on watch party was happening in the backyard. People were genuinely concerned about the safety of our cat, an animal that the good Lord has graced with supernatural reflexes. They were taking videos and sipping drinks and pondering solutions. This is worlds away from the universe I grew up in.

When we moved, we landed scared, intimidated, and slightly prejudiced. This is the honest truth. We didn’t remember homeless or prostitutes on the corners. We’d forgotten how many denominations and opinions and languages there were. We’d been cornered away from most color and class for nearly a decade. As we had risen the ranks from poor, starving college students to debt-free, middle to upperclass parents, we carried our privilege with us. It didn’t feel heavy, as we had acquired it quite naturally and mostly everyone else around us had the same swanky luggage.

If I were to glance over my shoulder, I could see the path that brought me here. And if I peer way back in the distance I can see the first house I grew up in with plywood, rebar, and gravel floors. My dad filling the bathtub with warm water by the five gallon bucketful. The ladder that leaned up against the landing to the second floor. The walls with the horse hair plaster that crumbled off in chunks. There were years complicated by living with a very sick dad. The shame of wearing my brothers’ hand-me-downs and pretending I didn’t care.

I don’t like looking back. I prefer a steaming hot shower and shiny wood floors. I like early morning runs in the mountains and not laying in the buggy heat of an unairconditioned house, willing myself to fall asleep. I like RX bars and toilets that flush.
As a grownup there was no one in my circle telling me this kind of life wasn’t a God given right.

But it was time to peek back and remember that character wasn’t built in a spotless speck house situated in paradise. And we were fooling ourselves if that little seed of struggle early on in our life wouldn’t grow into a tree that bore fruit. It necessitated a move from comfort to dependence, or else we would become the world who demands social justice but offers nothing of ourselves.

We wanted to integrate. To de-class, desegregate. We were concerned for our kids. It was too easy to picture them growing up in a nice house with this fundamental view of privilege.

This took guts and a lot of uncertainty. Because no matter how poor I grew up, I am still white. I can only backtrack so far before it looks like I’m trying too hard.

It wasn’t comfortable to enroll my kids in the neighborhood school when just last year I walked around quite believably as a confident I-can-manage-life-without-any-help homeschooler. (Have you read the book? The joke is on me!) I was preaching to the choir when I should have been sitting in the service.

The big moment of truth came when we walked into Meet the Teacher night and we were in the minority. We were the ones being eyeballed. We were the ones speaking English as our home language. What was this new life going to be like? Would we find something in common with our neighbors?

In Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland the Queen quips, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed in as many as six impossible things before breakfast!”

Of course she is speaking of the intangible, the dreamlike, the preposterous. She is fiction, after all. But I’ve asked myself for a long time now if I’m brave enough to actually do the six impossible things, whatever they are, and beginning with small impossibles.

Meeting the neighbors.

Looking someone with an addiction in the eye.

Listening to a stranger’s story and crying with them. Or crying in the presence of a stranger as they listen to your story.

Maybe it is putting supper on someone’s front porch. Or hiring a babysitter to watch kids at naptime so you can volunteer at your kids’ school. Maybe it is answering the phone every time it rings instead of checking caller ID first.

Being brave isn’t limited to what one can do on one’s own strength. It is just what happens when I loosen my grip on what I can control to catch hold of God’s greater beauty.

It is a fantastic thing to aspire to when you think about it. It isn’t flashy, but it is thrilling. Six impossible things…and then six more. Repeat.

We have now been in school for one month.

We no longer feel quite the amount of tension as when we moved here. It has taken some confessing on our part to weed out our misjudgment and seek a better understanding of the cultures around us. It demands quiet introspection and tuning out what the world is screaming is important. I walk kids to and from school each day, my eyes open for the people in our path. Twice a week I go into classrooms to assist with reading groups and other tasks. I am falling in love with kids and teachers I would have never known.

It seems holy even if we’re taking teensy little steps. They are steps nonetheless.