When Finding Joy Requires Being Uncomfortable

Labor of Love – Tennessee Alumnus Magazine

Joy can be an evasive little bugger.

I know, as the children’s song tells us, it’s down in my heart, but I often think it’s near the very bottom, in the impenetrable depths.

I still look for her on a regular basis, though, and I’m not always sure what I’m looking for when it comes to joy. Is joy the same as contentment? Happiness? Excitement? When I find her, do I know right away, or will she slip me by unawares? I know we’ve met and hung out on numerous occasions, but with the nation led by the people in power today, will we meet again? If so, how will I know?

I look for joy in the articles, congressional bills, and books I read everyday. I look for her in time spent laughing with my fiance on the couch, planning our wedding, and snuggling with our kitties. I started this blog to reflect on my encounters with joy while dealing with anxiety and in my geeky hobbies and interests. Ironically enough, I’m worried I don’t write enough about the “freaking and geeking” part of my blog and will have to change the name.

I even asked about joy at my meeting with my spiritual director on Monday.

We sat in her living room, a fire crackling away in the hearth, filling the room with a comforting smokey smell, and talked about my anxiety, wedding planning, and my political activism. We talked about seeds planted by professors and the importance of communication between couples. I told her how I want to go on hikes and reconnect with the world around me, because so much seems disconnected. I told her how standing in the dirt barefoot in my front yard is the closest I’ve felt to the earth in a long time, how I am struggling to look at people as equal in humanity and divinity with me, and how I’m pretty sure this desire and this struggle are connected.

We didn’t reach a conclusion about joy at the end of the session. In fact, I only left with more questions, which I’ve learned are frustrating and necessary results of spiritual direction.

I know I’m not unhappy.

I know I am often content.

I also know I am often frustrated, concerned, and active.

But at the same time, I am engaged with and interested in the world around me in ways I’ve never been before. I am uncomfortable because I’m listening to the worldviews and life stories I have closed my ears from hearing for so long, but in the discomfort, healing and greater insight are growing. I am frustrated because the people with the most power in this country seem incompetent and uncaring, but I am making my voice heard for the first time in my life regarding these issues and am joined by countless others.

I guess you could say I’m finding joy in the pain.

I still don’t really know what this says about me, though. I’m unsure if it’s because I’m a drama queen or a glutton for punishment, a white savior or an ally, someone exploiting a movement for her own gain or someone trying her best to make a better world possible. Maybe I’m a bit of all of these, and I’m learning to make better choices despite my initial intentions.

I know for sure that I am both overwhelmed with the scope of what we as a nation are facing, and I am feeling so alive in meeting it head on instead of avoiding it.

Maybe, for now, this is joy enough for me.

Reception Venues and Representatives

My to-do lists as of late are intense.

They include wedding planning, job hunting, and representative calls, and they all take up big chunks of my day.

My weeks include calls to reception venues, my representative and senators, and at one point even the Department of Homeland Security.

Called a representative for this house (possible reception venue) and my representative in The House on the same day. Guess which one was less stressful?

I send messages to my parents, future-in-laws, maid of honor, and bridesmaids about dresses and decorations, and I share regular political happenings with my online community, encouraging them to stay up to date and accurate concerning their media intake and output.

I had no idea my life would turn out this way.

And here I am, writing, posting, calling, and planning, looking for reception venues, dresses, rings, petitions, and protests, living life in a way I never thought possible.

As I approached graduation, I expected to work with a church or faith community in a prominent role, maybe with youth or young adults, or even the whole congregation. I figured the political climate would stabilize within the year, and I wouldn’t be checking my news feed everyday to find some mind-numbingly awful sound clip from a politician. I knew Bryce and I would be getting engaged and planning a wedding, and I wanted work which would allow said planning to move forward.

So when I asked a professor for some help and advice in choosing a post-graduate career, and he asked if I had considered being an activist, I barely stifled a laugh (although I’m unsure as to whether I completely suppressed my look of fear). I thought to myself “Are you kidding? I’m too much of a nervous wreck as it is. I couldn’t be that involved without having several breakdowns.”

Less than a year later, 45 is in office, most of our representatives are throwing out everything instead of actually making anything new, and people (myself included) are taking to the streets and the phone lines to voice their discontent.

And in the midst of it all, I am planning a wedding.

I am planning for one golden day of love, hope, and peace in the midst of division, anger, and fear, a day for me, my husband-to-be, our families and friends to celebrate and remember.

This isn’t the climate in which I expected to plan such an event, but maybe it’s necessary. I hope it reminds me and those helping me that love, not frilly and sugar-sweet but tough and enduring, has the final say in who we are and what we will be.

I hope everyone has something, a wedding or otherwise, to remind them of this important lesson in these trying times.

Kettle Bells, Books, and Cuddles (Or, How I’m Coping in Healthy-ish Ways)

I keep seeing wonderful posts about “How to Stay Sane and Healthy in the Midst of Intense Political Trials.”

When I read them, I think, “Oh, how helpful! Thank you for reminding me not to sprint this marathon! I will do the things you say to do to stay well.”

And then I read another political post, get upset, and fret over calling my representatives (and the representatives of other states).

I still have some work to do with this whole self-care thing.

Other days, I do alright, though.

Some things I do to lighten the mental, emotional, and physical stress include the following:

Kettle bell swings. These are excellent because I get to toss a large, metal bell (with either a chimp or orangutan face, because my husband-to-be loves Onnit and monkey faces), which requires a lot of force, which means I get to hurl out a lot of pent up anger, frustration, and stress.

Tight Lightning

Watching political-but-funny TV. My favorites are Parks and Rec and The Daily Show with Trevor Noah. Parks and Rec is government so light and happy it might as well be run by golden retrievers (Knope for 2020!), and Trevor Noah rehashes current events with a sarcastic and prophetic edge (Noah for VP 2020!).

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TheWrap.com

Reading. Lots and lots of empowering reading, like Maya Angelou, Glennon Doyle Melton, and J.K. Rowling. Reading and re-reading their stories has been beyond healing and inspiring.

Maya Angelou

Huffington Post, Momastery, and Wikipedia

Letting my fiance hold me. A nice rush from pheromones and the knowledge that the love of my life is by my side, even as the world is going to hell, is quite helpful.

Yes, we often hold each other like this. And yes, it is comforting. We’re odd people like that.

Wedding planning. It’s oddly therapeutic, and especially exciting now that I have a wedding dress! Although I’m sad said dress is at my mom’s house because I can’t just sit in a closet and stare at it whenever I want.

Singing in the church choir. Focusing on a lot of ranges as a musically-inept person is in and of itself a welcome distraction, and, as my choir director says, “Those who sing pray twice.” (Pretty sure she stole that quote from someone, but that’s OK.)

Teaching youth Sunday School. My students are some of the most passionate and woke teenagers I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, so getting some Lectio Divina in together after talking about national affairs is extra inspiring!

Writing. Whether it’s political, spiritual, nerdy, entirely personal, or a mix of all, writing is fantastic therapy, and it’s free! I get my thoughts out, see through their jumble and tangles, and feel my burdens fall to the page and leave a bit lighter than before.

And therapy itself. This kind costs money, but it’s money VERY well spent, since I can bemoan my political situation to a like-minded spirit while also receiving self-help tips to manage my anxiety in the midst of crisis.

These are ways I’m coping with political and personal stress. What are some of your methods? Please share in the comments below! We’re all in this together, so let’s help each other through!

A Place at the Table

A throwback to encourage y’all to be who you are and find tables that welcome you AND those no one else wants. It’s hard work, but it’s blessed work.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately, specifically my place in it.

I’ve been to church on-and-off throughout my life, and I’ve been drawn back to it so many times that I don’t just work with one; I’m now planning to pursue a seminary degree so I can one day lead one.

It’s exciting. And nerve-wracking. And I honestly don’t know if I’ll get the money to do it.

But the thing I’m most worried about is…where is my place?

Where is my place in the Church? And in this crazy journey called life?

Where is the place for the girl who:

Watches The Simpsons and Family Guy over Veggie Tails and CTN?

Swears, thinks, worries, doubt, and talks a little too much?

Fawned over Lion King and Peter Ban instead of Belle and Cinderella?

Obsessively read Harry Potter when told it was bad?

Gets excited over the Banned Books list?

Comes from a very non-traditional family?

Pursued a degree in Philosophy and Religion over…anything practical?

Struggled with God, mercy, justice, love, equality throughout the years of being surrounded by those who seemed so certain?

Played in the marching band instead of sports?

Wants to lead boldly instead of submit quietly?

I’ve made my places at tables before. At church the spots seemed readily available, even in leadership. In band, I made my place by performing better (or worse) than others in my section.

But when it comes to Church, to ministry, to making my place in this world and giving life back after being given so much, there seems to simultaneously be too much space available and not enough.

I have so many dreams and ideas but am not sure which ones to pursue. I have so many fears and insecurities that I feel limited. I feel pressure from myself and “society” to make a decision now, and my feet are frozen in doubt.

I know a bit of what my place is not. I know I cannot work in an office, or simply be a scholar, or only be deemed worthy as someone’s wife and mother.

I also know the craziness and chaos of life in ministry. I worry that the constant pouring into others will drain me to unforgivable exhaustion, and I fear the harsh words from those who question whether or not I’m fit for my vocation, for every reason from my sex to my story.

But if I say with so many others that Jesus makes room for everyone at His Table, and if everyone truly means everyone, from the sinners and saints, the rich and poor, the gay and straight, the USA and the world, Christians and Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists and Jews, I’ve got to accept that I’m part of that glorious Everyone, too.

But where will I sit at such an elaborate table?

Salvation is…Here?

As we prepare to remember the birth of Jesus and the gift of salvation, I want to share this reflection I shared 4 years ago about “being saved.” Enjoy!

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I used to think I had salvation figured out.

I used to think it was as easy as saying a prayer, or as powerful as experiencing an altar call. I used to think it happened in a moment, and a big one at that. I used to think tears and singing and lifted hands and quitting major addictions were a necessity.

I used to think it was a once in a lifetime thing. Once it happened, you were good to go.

But I also used to think you had to work for it, that it could be lost when you slipped up, when you didn’t do everything right, or when you weren’t perfect. For a time I worried that no matter what I did, I had to be part of a “chosen elect” to be in the safe zone.

I used to think salvation was all about being safe from God. I used to think I had to say the prayers and do the things so that God would like me enough to let his bouncer St. John take down the velvet rope and let me into His club.

And to be entirely honest, a part of me still believes all of this. In the perfection, in the glamour, in the earth-shattering, charismatic revival and even the elitist version of salvation.

But now, it’s becoming something different. It’s becoming something more than this.

Maybe it’s because after having so many “big” experiences, I still felt trapped by so much. Anxiety. Insecurity. Self-doubt. Fear of abandonment. And if I was to believe that salvation was a one-time thing, I was led to wonder if I had ever truly experienced it in the first place.

To me, salvation was being immediately transformed by God so I could be close with Him. In my youth, salvation was simply an affirming feeling, a warm, fuzzy, God-loves-me-all-the-time feeling. But it wasn’t immediate. And I didn’t always feel so close to God. And I was left fearing that I was still so very distant from the God I wanted to love me for who I was.

These questions always lay at the back of my mind, but it wasn’t until my senior year of college that I actually started to sit with them.

Suddenly, salvation wasn’t as cut-and-dry as I’d always imagined it to be. Suddenly, salvation became bigger and more beautiful than I could have imagined. And suddenly, it wasn’t as easy or simple as I’d hoped it would be.

Suddenly, salvation wasn’t something that just happened, suddenly or not. Instead, I began to see it as a process.

A process of being set free from all the things I allow to hold me back from becoming who I’m meant to be.

A process learning, day by day, that fear, death, pain and hate do not have the last word in this world.

A  process of living into the truth that God loves me, that I am a gift, because I am me.

A process of learning to accept myself for who I am, with all my strengths, weaknesses, and quirks, and to fully embrace myself so I can fully give of myself.

I remember when a little book called Love Wins came out a few years ago. I remember it generated a lot of controversy because it dealt with heaven, hell, and salvation. I remember people accusing Rob Bell of being a heretic, a universalist, a “lukewarm” and “lying” Christian who was leading others astray with his words.

And then I read the book after a long season of doubts and questions (which still continues on and off to this day), and I was surprised to find that I identified with the words of this “heretic.” And I don’t believe I enjoyed his words because they made the Gospel look “easy” or “not important.”

In fact, his ideas made the Gospel bigger and all the more challenging to me. And that was because in his book, he dared to ask this big, controversial, and all-together beautiful question:

What if heaven isn’t just a place we try to get to when we die? What if it is here, on earth, in the ever day lives we live?

I can understand why this question alone is controversial. We like to keep things that are “sacred” away from things that are “secular,” or “profane,” or “worldly.”

And I get that. I understand that whenever I hear of murders, sex trafficking, senseless violence, disasters, and other tragedies, it’s hard to imagine heaven in some other dimension, let alone here on earth. I understand that when I look at the way people treat others and how they interact in relationships. it’s hard to imagine God creating us to be “good” and a lot easier to see humanity as “deprived” and evil. More often than not, it’s a lot easier to see Hell on earth than it is to see any glimpse of heaven in it.

But I see so many little glimpses of heaven on earth, of salvation being and happening among us, that I cannot help but believe that heaven is more than a distant kingdom. I see these glimpses when I play Wii baseball with my Little Sister, in the girls I mentor, in the Farmer’s Market vendors who give their extra produce to local pantries, in the arms of those who love me, who tell me that I am perfect as I am and listen to my stories.

And tonight, I saw a heaven shining brightly when two cars stopped in the middle of Route 11 to make sure a mama duck and her babies made it across the road safely.

Seriously. I almost cried when I saw this.

Because now, this is salvation. This is heaven on earth. This is God restoring His Creation, making it new day by day, setting us free from all that prevents us from loving God, ourselves, and others. This is God saving me from myself, saving you from yourself.

Because when one of us hurts, many of us hurt.

And when one of us is healed, many of us are healed.

We are all connected, and we are all bound to and weighed down by so much. All of us need set free, from our own fears, our own pressures, our own anxieties, our own addictions, and our own pasts.

So this salvation has turned out to be a lot more difficult than saying a prayer once in your life. This salvation involves a lot of grace, a lot of dedication, and a lot of work. It involves owning our pains and struggles, owning our faults and sins, and knowing that we are so deeply loved regardless. And it involves hearing the pains, struggles, faults, and sins of others, and telling them that just as we are loved and matter, so do they love and matter.

Because if the Truth shall set us free, and the most beautiful Truth of all is Love, then Love shall set us all free in the end.

In the end, Love is Salvation. And while it’s not always easy, it’s always worth it.

Fangirl Theology: Apocalypse Survival Guide, According to Buffy

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After the election, I began re-watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Because the world around me felt so apocalyptic, and she seemed to be the best one to handle such a situation.

I mean “apocalyptic” in every sense of the word. I mean it in that it feels like the world around me is about to change significantly, or even end as I know it. But mostly, I say “apocalyptic” because of what this election season has uncovered and revealed.

That’s the real meaning of apocalypse in Greek: “to uncover/to reveal.” If you think about it for a moment, it makes complete sense that this is the word we would also use to describe world-altering/ending events.

Look at what is uncovered when the world starts shifting and the dust is shaken off. We see the cracks in our systems and how they are closer to toppling over than we expected. We notice the people upon whose backs those systems were built, the ones who have always known the truth about how the world works, but we have been too preoccupied and privileged to notice. We see the darkness which permeates it all, and it is frightening.

Apocalypse is not a new cultural phenomenon. We see it in everything from The Hunger Games and The Maze Runner to The Walking Dead. It’s as if something in our collective psyche has sensed this cosmic shift just waiting to happen, and our imaginations ran with it.

Here we are, on the cusp, perhaps already falling over, and I am looking for everything to hold onto.

Enter Buffy, the Queen of Apocalypses. (The plural is necessary)

In season one, Buffy resists the Master, an ancient vampire who seeks to rule the human world, and after dying briefly at his hands, Buffy destroys him. In season two, Buffy’s beau Angel loses his soul, tries to destroy her life AND the world, and she has to avert the damage by killing him (after he becomes good again). In season three, the town mayor turns into an all-powerful, giant demon snake on graduation day to usher in a new world order before Buffy’s gang and the senior class blow him up. Season four sees the gang taking down a corrupt government organization whose creation tries to create monster-human hybrids, season five sees the gang battling a chaos-seeking god, season six tackles the apocalyptic desires of regular humans and Buffy’s own friend, and season seven concludes the series with a final confrontation with the First Evil.

And those are just the season finales.

So when things feel apocalyptic, I turn to Buffy, because she knows how to handle these situations. Apocalypses don’t break her but push her into leadership. They turn some of her enemies into reluctant heroes and make heroes out of her “ordinary” friends. In Buffy, as in life, apocalypses have the capacity to unbalance power. They can enable people in power to grab more of it, or give the underprivileged and marginalized a chance to finally have a taste of it. Buffy and her gang work hard to make sure the power stays out of the hands of those who would do great harm with it and instead put it in the hands of those deemed less worthy.

This is part of God’s story, too. In the Revelation from John, apocalyptic imagination runs wild. There’s fantastic imagery and symbols, which represent the corruption of empire, the oppression of others, and the love of God finally putting this evil to rest. There is an ushering out of the old ways of power to give cataclysmic birth to a new way of life. This final “uncovering” reveals the powers of the world as they are, in all of their atrocities and corruption, and the revealing of the world as it was meant to be, ruled by God through Jesus, with restored communion and relationship, and tears wiped away. This is the day when heaven comes to earth, and evil is forever banished from it.

So what do we do when it seems like the Hellmouth has opened, and demons are spewing out?

What do we do with a promise for all weeping to cease when we can’t stop the tears from flowing night and day?

That’s what we’re grappling with now. For those of us who have had the blind removed from our eyes and the carpet pulled out from under, the initial revelation is shocking and horrifying. When we see, as Richard Rohr describes it, that “[our] leaders…mirror what we have become as a nation. They are our shadow self for all to see,” the sight is not a pretty one. It is a terror, perhaps the kind which God described to Jeremiah when foretelling Jerusalem’s destruction, a terror repulsive to the world but to which a majority of the citizens remained blind.

Apocalypses render the world bare. They wipe the collective slate clean. Things can begin anew. These are times for pain, despair, trial, resistance, upheaval, and change, all to make way for a new way of life, closer to the way it was meant to be.

So now, with the Hellmouth open and an apocalypse underway, we continue to do Buffy’s work.

We live as Slayers and Scoobies in this apocalyptic age. We resist, uncover, and unmask evil and corrupt systems to reveal what they are to the world. We resist by protesting, creating art, being with people on the margins and offering them our encouragement, listening ears, and assistance in their movements. We start bringing about the final revelation every day.

Apocalypses happen, more often than we realize and more often than we may want. But they give us opportunities: to upset structures, to usher in a new and more just era, to take power from the powerful and give it to the disenfranchised.

Let’s do this.

legionofleia.com

My Faith is Solid…and This Worries Me

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My senior year of college threw me into a major faith crisis. It was the year I took my most challenging classes, heard the most upsetting insights, and asked my hardest questions.

During that time, I began to question everything from my conservative Pentecostal upbringing. And in this case, “everything” is not much of an exaggeration.

I poked holes and made cracks in all aspects of my theology to see what would stay in tact and what would crumble. Unfortunately for me, most of it crumbled. I found out very fast that what I had thought was my rock solid foundation consisted of sand, and I began to sink into its mire.

I pondered predestination and free will, religion and science, the “debates” about same-sex marriage and LGBTQ equality, and the culture wars. I wondered about the legitimacy of doctrinal “facts” like the Trinity, the inerrant word of God, salvation through Christ alone, and whether or not women should pursue leadership roles (I actually wrote my thesis about this topic).

These questions of crisis kept me fearful and skeptical of the Church for many years. Engaging with my home community was too much for me. There was no room for questions, doubts, or even different opinions. Instead of trying to make some change from within, I ran away from the community which had once been my home, and I still have yet to return.

Fortunately, my journey led me to many brothers and sisters of the Christian faith who gave me space to ponder, wonder about, and tinker with my faith. They heard my questions, and when necessary, they offered new insights to consider. They told me I didn’t have to look at things through the black and white, right and wrong lens of my upbringing. They taught me new, life-giving, colorful ways to interpret the Scriptures, live as the Church, and follow Jesus. They taught me about the harsh realities of racism, sexism, and elitism I had been taught were long dead, and they taught me how prayer and protest go hand in hand. They let me create and lead. They swore, did theater, loved books and comics, and prayed. They seemed like authentic human beings, not the carbon-copy perfect Christians to whom I had been accustomed.

I met these people in school and church, in the theater and in the classroom, on the streets, in student apartments, and in cushy homes. They guided me through seminary and the faith communities I joined. They helped me find God and faith anew.

Now, I’m out of the faith crisis and living into a more solid, steady, and real faith. I still have questions, but now I feel more comfortable with some things being unresolved and have a firmer understanding in what I do and don’t believe. I continue to be irreverent while revering the sacred Presence around and within us. My prayers are more consistent, and they are full of joy, lament, and honesty. I feel closer to God and the Church than I have for the better part of 5 years.

And this worries me.

While in faith crisis mode, things were new and uncertain. Everything from whether or not I would remain in the Church to which authors I would revere was under question every day. Now that the ground beneath my feet is firmer, I’m not sure what to do. What do I do when the next step I take meets firm ground instead of sinking sand? What do I do when I’m swimming steadily instead of struggling to stay afloat?

This isn’t foreign territory. I remember when my beliefs were steady, before I knew the true essence of my former foundation. I remember what I was like when I was “right,” in every definition of the word. I distanced myself from those with whom I disagreed and felt the need to correct them when I was around them. I look back at who I was then with some disgust and horror, hoping I will never again be like this.

I don’t want to shut myself off from others, especially those who still struggle to feel welcomed by the Church. I worry that my more solid faith will be appalling to those still struggling and full of doubt. I worry that instead of listening to and hearing them, I will revert back to my old tendencies to correct and give clear-cut answers for chaotic and hurtful circumstances. I worry I will lose my sense to be understanding and be sympathetic to where my brothers and sisters are in their journeys.

I fear I will forget what it felt like to be on the outside looking in. I fear my present comfort will cause me to forget this difficult, wonderful, and necessary part of my journey, a part of my life which I treasure more than my any of my times of certainty.

So to alleviate these concerns, I will need reminders from my community.

There will be times I need to be reminded to do the hard work of listening to others, with whom I agree and disagree, who comfort me and challenge me. I will have to work hard to resist the temptation to either rest in tepidness or continue pursuing fleeing fancies. I will need regular, gentle reminders to hold my ideas with open palms instead of clenched fists.

I will need those younger and older than me to keep me in check, and the wisdom and stories of people of all ages and walks of life. I will need to be reminded I am not the be all and end all of the Church or good theology, and that steadiness in faith does not equate with unyielding certainty. I will need my blind spots pointed out and my slip-ups called out (but graciously, please!). I will need as much help as I can to keep moving forward in this journey.

So as I live into this time of steady faith, please continue to challenge and share with me. Keep telling your stories. Be honest about your beliefs and the joys and struggles of your lives. Continue to ask questions and remind me to keep asking them, too.

Let us remember that faith is never meant to be stagnant and still but ever-moving and ever-changing. Let us journey on together, wherever and as we are.

Fangirl Theology: What Harry Potter Taught Me About Social Justice

I’ve been thinking a lot about social justice.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about Harry Potter.

NPR

After election season, so many people found solace in these stories, a peace they first experienced in their youth.

I’m also caught up in this phenomenon. I want to go home and dig my books out again and lose myself in them like I once did. I want to go Hogwarts and have adventures with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I want to learn spells and play Quidditch. I want to devour those pages for hours and not realize any time has gone by.

I want to feel the excitement and wonder I always encounter when I return to those pages. I miss sympathizing with these layered characters in their struggles, from teenage angst and stress to losing loved ones and resisting evil.

But now, more than ever, I feel like I need these stories again. Actually, I think we all do.

I believe the reason so many people are returning to these stories and are quoting, tweeting, and even shouting them, online and at protests, is because they know how necessary Harry’s story is for us now.

Why?

Because this story taught us about seeking justice and loving mercy.

It’s a message we heard loud and clear when we were young. It is a message we remember. It is one we see the need to proclaim now, to our nation and our world.

This story taught us to care for the orphans, like Harry himself and his godson, Teddy Lupin. It taught us to protect and stand up for the marginalized, for Muggleborns like Hermione and Colin Creevey, for house elves and centaurs, and for outsiders like Hagrid and Neville. It taught us that when the Voldemorts and Umbridges of the world begin to rise, we join Dumbledore’s Army and resist supremacy, censorship, and corrupt power. With Harry, we learned how good education teaches us to love and empower others instead of hoard all the good information for ourselves.

We learned that there are forces which, like dementors, threaten to consume our joy and peace, but we also learned we have the strength within ourselves to cast them out. We learned that we all have evil within us. Some, like Voldemort and Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, keep their hearts closed off from love and change, and it is their downfall. But there are some very imperfect people, like Draco Malfoy, Snape, Dudley, and even Dumbledore himself, who realize the errors of their ways and find redemption.

These stories are part of the reason why so many millenials are passionate about social justice. When we find ourselves face to face with white, male, heterosexual, cis-gender supremacy, we do not remain silent, because J.K. Rowling’s characters were anything but that. When we seem to be dominated by those who would harm the marginalized, we counter those systems, because her stories gave us the means to notice and challenge them.

We saw Harry fight Voldemort’s killing curses with disarming spells. We saw Hermione, a “Mudblood,” perform magic and spout wisdom beyond the skills of her “pureblood” peers. We saw Ron confront his demons when destroying a Horcrux and Dumbledore confront his past failures while teaching Harry the importance of love and compassion. We saw Hagrid’s unconditional love for and acceptance of all manner of creatures and Snape’s imperfect loyalty to Dumbledore.

We come by this passion honestly. We don’t run after these stories for the sole purpose of their fantasy and inspiration. We love Harry Potter, because these stories speak to what’s already within us. These are stories which call to the desire for justice which is in our DNA. It is the DNA we carry as image-bearers of the One who loves and judges out of mercy, who cares for the orphan, the widow, and the foreigner among us, and whose heart breaks when we do not do the same. These stories resonate so well with us, because they draws on God’s story, written throughout history and evident in all those tales which teach us to do justice and love mercy.

When we return to the Harry Potter stories, we are not returning to a childhood nostalgia or an escapist fantasy.

We are returning to a story of God’s love and redemption in and through God’s people, a story in which the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

It is a story we need this Advent, maybe this year more than ever.

“Dark and difficult times lie ahead. Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.” – Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

How will we be the light in this darkness? What will keep us burning? How will we resist the evil before us? What “Dumbledore’s Army” movements call to you?

The Lesson of the Jazzy Flute Solo: An Advent Story

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I didn’t grow up in a liturgical church. I grew up Pentecostal, which avoided anything resembling “high church.” I never had an Advent calendar or devotional. I didn’t even know what Advent was until I was a sophomore in college. I told my Episcopal professor this sad fact, and she gave me a look of shock, mixed with a tiny bit of judgment.

Since then, I’ve participated in Advent. I’ve done the devotions, attended the services, and even eaten the tasteless chocolate. Now, I get as excited to celebrate Advent as I do Christmas. This season holds so much, the expectancy of Christ, his presence now, and his reign to come. It’s tension and time-travel. It’s amazing.

My fiance Bryce, our friend Scott, and I are starting a new Advent tradition this year. I made an Advent wreath (and a bit of a poor excuse for one) at my Episcopal Church.

(When you have cats, your Christmas greenery options are limited.)

Instead of only lighting candles on Sundays, though, we light the appropriate ones every night throughout Advent. We have our own short service with music, Scripture, and prayers. I light the candle, play a song appropriate to that week of Advent, lead Bryce and Scott in prayers, and have one of them read the Scripture of the day. It’s a great practice for our little family.

This first week is about hope. Since Advent is about waiting for a hope that is both here and yet to come, I found the Taize song “Wait for the Lord” very appropriate. Before I rounded my boys upstairs to hold our makeshift service around the wobbly dining room table, I checked YouTube for a good version of the song. I settled on one with no instruments. It sounded solemn and somber, something that would evoke feelings of waiting in desperation for a light to shine in the darkness.

We gathered around the table. I lit the candle and hit play on my phone. The song started.

It was a great start. The somber chanting filled the room lit only by our purple candle. We breathed deep and settled into the atmosphere.

And then, just over halfway through the song, a flute solo began.

Not a classical flute solo either. It was a jazzy solo, one which brought thoughts of Kenny G. and elevators to mind.

Nor was it a short solo. It continued for the remaining two minutes of the chant and only became more jazzy and animated as the song progressed.

Needless to say, the once somber atmosphere crumbled a bit, and this irritated Lindsay the Perfectionist.

The song finally concluded, and we continued our service without anyone saying anything about the musical choice.

I went to my room afterwards to do some writing, and Bryce came in before heading out for the evening. “That was really nice,” he told me. He knew I’d been worried about doing a “good job” leading our tradition, and I appreciated his affirmation.

But I had to correct him.

“You mean it was nice until the jazzy flute solo broke in,” I retorted.

Bryce shrugged. “Actually, I thought the solo was very appropriate.”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow at him (or at least I tried, since I’m bad at raising one eyebrow at a time). “You think so?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “It began solemn, which you wanted. But the flute built it up into a cheer.”

Huh. How about that.

That’s Advent, y’all.

It’s our waiting building up into a cheer. It’s journeying through the somberness with a stubborn joy at the heart of it. It’s frustrating to wait, because we know both how the story ends yet understand how the world still is. But we keep waiting. We keep chanting. And we keep playing solos.

Advent begins with waiting and ends with cheering.

It begins with restless expectation, and it ends with the beginning of God’s upside down kingdom.

The somber tune ends with a jazzy flute solo.

Thank God for that.

I’m Doing Well

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About two months ago, I started taking Lexapro after several rough months full of transitions and a TON of anxious thoughts.

The changes I’ve experienced since then have been fantastic.

I’m not miserable. In fact, I’m anything but.

I’m still stressed, and I still worry about things.

I worry about normal things like my job performance and paying bills on time. I worry about less normal things like whether or not my fiance and I rough-house too much or if I am a disappointment to everyone because I cannot afford my own car yet.

But I’m not overwhelmed anymore.

I have my moments and my breaking points, where things become just a little too much and I just snap. This can be because of a few out-of-line comments, too much mental or physical stimulation, or simply because it’s one of those days.

But they are so much less frequent, and so much less intense.

Now, I can breathe in the midst of the chaos. I can talk about my thoughts in a logical manner without them overwhelming me. I can see them for what they are: thoughts that enter my mind but do not control me or my reality. My mind is a more inhabitable place and finds rest for itself. It is no longer a place of pure chaos.

Now, I look forward to the day ahead instead of dreading it. I whistle, hum, and sing. I laugh loud and enjoy people’s company. My muscles have relaxed and my face has softened. I savor the moments in my days and find enjoyment in my tasks instead of feeling rushed to check off to-do lists, including the ones my anxious thoughts make.

In short, I’m doing well.

I’m doing very, very well.

I’m taking my medicine, exercising, eating better, praying, reading, writing, and reflecting. In their own ways, they assist me in my daily life as a person with anxiety. They keep my body fit, my mind at rest, and my spirit assured.

I am doing well, friends. I am doing very well indeed. And I am beyond thankful for that.