PearlS | The Average Pearl

Strangers and Freedom: Post 3

We have a hard time living in the freedom God has given us, because His freedom is so radically unlike anything we’ve ever known. Christ himself was homeless (Matthew 8:20) and physically not attractive in his human form (Isaiah 53:2). How could He be our example of freedom?

We don’t like to think about the fact that he had a few close buddies but even most of his disciples were unable to understand what he was saying, let alone connect with him on a deep level. They bickered and asked questions like petulant children: who do you like best, Jesus?

He was a bit of a loner, and he did not glory in the attention he received for performing miracles. When he healed people, he told them to keep it hush hush.

Christ came not to bring down Rome and its oppression, and this was counter to everything the Jews were hoping for in a redeemer. Frankly, it was disappointing. He knew he was disappointing the majority.

Jesus noticed blind men yelling on the side of the road. He touched people with diseases. He played with little children instead of ignoring them. He was kind to women and Samaritans. He made detours often, because he cared about humans that were suffering. He visited Zacchaeus’s house, a true oddball, very short and very hated.

Many people didn’t want to hear those beautiful Beattitudes–blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek. It didn’t carry the thunder, the burning, scathing revenge they wanted for their earthly enemies.

Aren’t we the same? We let the huge problems of the world scream into our ears via news programs and we begin to think it’s our Christian duty to get riled up and open our mouths. Yes, politicians are good scapegoats, with their wide mouths and boastful Twitter accounts. But have we forgotten how we each have our own tongue? We each have a rudder in our mouth, capable of steering the ship or sinking the boat. The prophet Isaiah was facedown repentant when he saw the Lord–”I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips!”

On the whole we are proud people, unaware of our two-facedness.

We actually think we are (for the most part) pretty fair and upright, so we remain unaffected by Jesus.

We are being deceived.

No, freedom in Jesus is not equal to freedom of speech. It isn’t the same as our right to smoke pot or march in the local gay rights parade. It isn’t freedom to wear whatever we want or to post well-posed photos of our stylish home on social media.
Real freedom is tearing off things that prevent us from drawing near to God who is holy, just, fair, loving.

It is accessible to every human being, not just the average American. We are all capable of bending our souls in repentance and humility. That’s where the freedom is, in letting go of our pride, our ego, our words. In Christ we have the freedom to close our mouths, drop the self-made image of success, and pursue love in action.

It begins with emptying myself so he can fill me back up with his goodness. This supernatural gift allows me to notice and be drawn to the disadvantaged, sick, elderly, the oddballs, the strangers.

We pursue social justice and equality by serving the one or two people God puts in our field of vision each day. We don’t justify ourselves by pitching a fit–the world is falling to pieces! Nor do we do it by wearing trendy clothes and passing it off as our spiritual talent offering to the Lord. We don’t market a form of godliness–throwing out Bible verse nuggets–but deny its power to flip our lives inside out (2 Timothy 3:5).

There is a serious business to living in freedom, and it is brick-and-mortar, feet-to-the-ground, outward-facing, people-oriented.

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Galatians 5:13-14

This is what blew Paul away, this freedom. He changed from a know-it-all Jew to a notice-it-all believer. From a persecutor to participant in the Gospel.

He counted it as Life.

For me, to live is Christ…

Phil. 1:21

Strangers and Freedom: Post 1

My eight year old came home from school one day with a surprise in his backpack. The first words out of his mouth were, “Mom! Hey! I saved you some sushi!”

Immediately I began brainstorming excuses for not eating sushi out of his backpack. He had brought home leftover school lunch hamburgers in the past and they were always in terrible shape upon recovery. Even his best intentions (“school burgers are soo good, Mom. But I ran out of time to eat, so I had to wrap it up and save it for later.”) couldn’t swallow a cold, flattened hamburger.

I assumed this sushi was from lunch and Jubal was thinking this is terrible! Followed by but my mom likes weird food. Concluded with I’ll take it home to her! She’ll be so jazzed!

Fortunately I was wrong.

He unzipped his backpack and removed two origami tops and a small, rice-filled dumpling wrapped in a paper towel.

“It’s not from lunch,” he explained. “Ethan’s grandma is heading back to Japan tomorrow, so she came to our class to teach us some origami and share treats.”

We sat on the floor and began spinning the intricate paper tops.

“Wow, you made this one?!” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he said, “she gave each of us one and then taught us how to make our own.”

“Did she speak any English?”

“No, but Ethan does, so he translated. And Ms. P–she speaks a little, too. You know, she’s from there, too–Japan.” he said.

“That’s amazing! How cool! I wish I could’ve been there for it,” I said, wistful, and I meant it.

———————————————————————————————————————

Growing up and living in the white, rural midwest, my folks took the initiative to introduce me and my brothers to all sorts of people. There were Chinese students at the local university that butchered my name, Pearl. As a six year old, I indeed took offense. I feel I still owe an apology to all Mandarin speakers–L’s and R’s are no easy feat (and my name has both letters back to back).

My mom babysat for a Japanese couple when I was very young. They were precious and kind, and tried so very hard to assimilate to the American culture. I still remember visiting them at their apartment and feeling rather opposed to them putting ice cube in my glass of milk.

(Was I hard to get along with as a child? Jury is out.)

On Sundays, we rode in the station wagon to the independent living home for church. All of the residents had one disability or another, but the living situation seemed to be a step above nursing home, since they had their own rooms with locks. I watched my parents knock on doors, collect people and gather them into the general meeting room, the one with a piano and a couch.

I remember it smelling horrible. I remember not understanding a word Tom, a man with palsy, said. Was he mentally impaired, or was it just physically impossible for him to communicate? My parents seemed to understand him completely, adjusting the straws in his cup, asking him about his week. It didn’t phase them, and it didn’t matter his intellectual capacity. I saw, even as a child, that this man was important to them. Serving him, visiting him, and having church a wheelchair’s roll away from his apartment was holy.

My parents were oddballs, and contented ones at that. They’ve never lived in excess, and in fact regularly condemn worldly pleasures, save for bluegrass music and warm pie out of the oven. Our humble home was always under construction (due to a quirky, distractible carpenter dad) and cluttered with books, instruments, projects, kids. My sensible, quiet mother spent hours in the kitchen (still does!) perfecting the art of a home cooked meal. She won our adoration and loyalty from infancy. Food and time–it was love because there wasn’t much more.

Beyond the homefront they lived unashamed of their homeliness. They were interested in people that were unique and different, both socially and culturally. They didn’t seek out like-minded friends who helped them feel better about themselves. They cared about the marginalized. They were intrigued by differences. They didn’t give two cents about social norms or standards.

I’ve always been fascinated by this, even as a kid. My parents treated people with respect, but they were especially warm and kind to strangers, outsiders, the elderly and disabled. This made comfortable onlookers uncomfortable in the best way.

Now I recognize it. My folks didn’t buy the American dream tale about ladders and success. They rejected it, it was garbage.

People. The poor, the disadvantaged, the ignored, the foreigner. My folks weren’t climbing a ladder, they were lowering a rope. They knew the value of a soul to its Creator. People are priceless.

Plain and simple, it’s the love of Jesus. It’s the fruit that hangs off branches of a life hidden in Christ. It is serving others while seeing Jesus as the recipient. As a child, it pulled me in, curious and hungry. I saw early on the futility of social status. It seemed small and petty. My parents were imperfect; they stumbled–they will tell you this. But they regularly confessed that God can straighten out even the biggest mess we can find ourselves in, and it became their life song.

They sang it to the tune of Jesus’s example as He washed his disciples feet. “As I have loved you, you ought to love one another.”

I bore witness to this inexplicable beauty in service, the holiness in pouring out.

But mostly I developed an eye for the stranger.

As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.

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.