a nation under god

authentic christians are anti-racist

My fingers have been tightly wound around the narrative I wrote for my own life, and God has been patiently uncurling my fingers, one by one. Dream bigger, He seems to say. Dream bigger, then bigger, then bigger. Now go.

I go, with sparkles in my eyes, and imagine myself stepping out into the wide world as a Joan of Arc. I want to be unafraid. I want to face those looking down on me, telling me I’m too young or inexperienced, too naive or out-of-touch, then surprise them with my wisdom. I want to stand my ground, confident in who I am and what I’m about, not shaken when the questioning starts or gaslighting makes my knees weak. I want to pick up my sword, my words, my voice, and fight for justice. I want to fight like God is behind me, working to save a nation, even when the sparkles are gone and all I’ve got left is a mess.

That being said, while Joan of Arc might not have had a Facebook account, I certainly do. And lately I’ve found myself doing what I’ve avoided for ages- engaging in the dreaded Facebook debate. Because somebody has to speak up, and sometimes that somebody is me.

In the process, I’ve discovered a handful of things that are starting to- for lack of a better phrase- piss me off. 

Firstly, primarily, mostly, I am sick of people who call themselves Christian spending more time arguing about protecting police than listening to or caring about people who have been marginalized. I’m frustrated, even dumbfounded, that the need to become anti-racist has become less important than the need to maintain neat politically conservative borders. Digging those heels in over whether or not Black people deserve to be heard is NOT the place your feet should be planted. 

I am sure, entirely sure, that Black people are more tired of this bizarre behavior than me. I offer my voice for those too weary to speak. 

Here it is, most clearly: Your ‘blue lives matter’ flag waves proudly in false righteousness- you might think you are innocently supporting the force, but I’m here to tell you that your timing is off. You think it means nothing, the blue stickers and posts, but right now it sends the message that your priority is more for the police than for the people who the police have harmed. That support right now is inherently political and has the capacity to be significantly damaging. Sure, shifting the focus to blue lives might be appropriate on some days, but today is not that day.

Beyond that, if we keep spending our time debating and trying to disprove racism instead of actually demonstrating real, active care for the Black community, it will only serve to further ostracize that community from our Christian spaces. They are going to feel more unwelcome in a church they should comfortably call home because we were too busy fighting to hear their stories.

We don’t listen, and we harm them further. On top of the years wasted where they were unable to join orders, take vows, or attend seminary. 

On top of the years they were, and continue to be, enslaved, taken advantage of, and neglected, while people of the Church look away.

On top of generations of artwork in cathedrals, museums, and homes that fail to depict the beauty of God reflected in dark-skinned faces.

On top of a disproportionately white canon of saints- not because saints of color didn’t exist, but because our Church has been complicit in a world of white supremacy. 

All of this pain should be ringing in our ears, calling us to action, but black voices still cannot be heard because we have hidden in our prayer groups and Bible studies to complain about the “secret liberal agenda” and anti-racist “propaganda.” We’ve wasted time instead of listening and believing, acknowledging our failings and trying to do better. Defensiveness has become the last flag waving- it’s a big one, and it’s red. 

At the very least, I will stand up. You will hear my voice- the voice of a Catholic. A Christian. A woman. White, weak, and flawed, but here. I am here and I will say, then say again, that Black lives matter. If you want to call yourself a Christian, a real one, it’s best you start acting like they do too, and start fighting like God is behind you. 

St. Joan of Arc, pray for us.

unbiased loving

an aspiration

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” Thank you, C.S. Lewis.

I’ve been thinking about these words lately, especially in the quest to untangle the biases woven into my heart and surroundings. There’s a lot that needs to be uprooted; this has become a season for removal and replanting. A season of making space for those who have been pushed aside. They are real people, those voices crying out from the books and podcasts and blogs. They are flesh and blood, with hearts exposed. How brave, to be so open, especially after so much pain.

That vulnerability deserves to be met with something even greater than dismantled bias. That is the minimum, and we must go beyond it- we must actively support and embrace a future where those most marginalized are free to lead beautiful, messy, wonderful lives. 


In the meantime, I’ve noticed that I hold a little bit more bias than I thought, in a lot more places than I thought. It’s at work, with patients who I assume will irritate me before I’ve spoken to them. It’s on dating apps, as I swipe by men with certain careers before I’ve seen their profiles. It’s in social situations, when I wander closer to the girls who look like me. I’ve done it at home, at church, in stores, online. It’s everywhere.

I’m beginning to wonder if the ideal, someday, would be for us operate with no bias at all. Is it possible to encounter each new person, each new situation, without considering the experiences behind us? Without letting the negative lessons we’ve learned about one person influence our interaction with the next person? Harder still- is it possible to untangle those predispositions when we meet the same person, but in a new moment? To perpetually offer the benefit of the doubt and maintain a disposition of charity, a complexion of peace?

I’m not suggesting a boundary-less life or existing blind to the behaviors of those who have hurt us. I’m sure it is appropriate to form opinions and act according to whatever information we are presented with. However, this intentional living, perhaps, does not exclude unbiased loving. Whatever we’ve chosen to move towards or away, we can do with a spirit of love. We can act with generosity and hold a heart for goodwill, whether that is from near or from far. We may have chosen to distance ourselves from someone or something in self-preservation or self-love, but we can still find peace, forgiveness, and hope.

I’m sure it’s the way God meets each of us, in each of our moments. It’s the way He meets me- not as the isolated, flawed piece of me that snapped at my sister an hour ago, or yelled at the guy who cut me off- but each moment, fresh, as if it’s the first most lovely moment He’s encountered me for all that I am at my worst and my best, and in that meeting He has still found me good.

He offers a blank slate, over and over and over again; His love always available, always renewable. Maybe it’s better than a blank slate- instead, it’s love like a fire in the winter, shade in the summer, the warmth of friendship in loneliness. As good, and always as good, as the first leap into a pool on a hot day or the first sip of coffee in the morning. It’s the first page of your favorite book, when somehow you’ve forgotten the plot points, so you relive it, in all it’s goodness, over and over and over. 


This love is lovely, in theory. It works for God. In practice, for humans, it’s harder. 

Hard to become anti-racist, in a world that’s pumped it into our veins.

Hard to do at work, to meet the next patient, who acts like the last patient, with fresh, kind eyes. 

Hard to do with new friends, when you’ve been bullied or burned by old ones.

Hard to do with men, when the ones before insulted, disappointed, cheated, or lied.

Hard to do with yourself, when the world has found that you aren’t quite enough.

It’s all hard. And it’s a surefire way to get hurt, this constant vulnerability. Ask C.S. Lewis. Ask Jesus. Ask your teachers, your nurses, your parents. There’s no guarantee that your openness will be matched; do it anyway. Bring your scraped knees and hearts to the source of the most perfect eternal, renewable love, then pull yourself up and offer love again. It’s the least we can do, when we’ve been given so much. 

This life isn’t for hiding or isolating, but for picking up our tired selves and meeting another moment, another person, or our very selves, with love, again. And then again.

It’s not easy. It’s messy. But it must be done, this unbiased loving. It’s the only way we’ll be free.

in service of justice

a disposition towards peace; righting the wrong of racism

When I was small, the most coveted crayon was the one we called “skin color.” We didn’t ask for it by name as we filled in our princesses; there was no mention of peach or tan, but somehow we still understood that the crayon in question wouldn’t be brown. Maybe because we were young and only thought of “skin color” as “our skin color,” or maybe, already, we thought that the default tone for skin should be white. Perhaps it was bias, already poison in our air, sinking into our hearts and lungs as insidiously as cancer. 

Whenever it started, it remains true that biases, untruths and prejudices snuck into our minds and remained a poisonous undercurrent for years. We grew up, learned in school that the civil war was over ages ago, that segregation was gone. We wondered what the problem still was.

Of course, there were many problems, but we were blind. We were handed down privilege and twisted patriotism; a lethal combination when met with willful ignorance, refusal to face discomfort, laziness, and self centeredness. The cost was high. It still is, as evidenced by the continued injustice and wrongful murders of those in the black community. 

Finally, today, we are late, but we are here. We are coming to terms with the reality that the problems we thought were gone never left- they only changed shape.

To the black community, I am sorry. I have failed you in my willful ignorance. I am sorry for the ways I’ve hurt you by my actions and inaction, the words I’ve spoken and the words I’ve failed to say. I am sorry for my bias. I’m sorry for not showing up sooner. You’ve deserved better. 

To the white community, don’t start in my words. With all humility and all respect, turn to the black community first. Listen to their words. Read their books. See their films. Hear their stories. I’m here, not as a leader, but as a small voice in the background using the tools I’ve been given to point towards truth. Members of the black community know those truths better than anyone; they live it. Open your heart. Believe them. And, seriously, please stop getting lost in debates over whatever conspiracy you think has infected the media, the country, the church. Do not turn this movement into a platform to rail against. This is more than an agenda. This is about human lives. 

Black persons deserve to live and do so abundantly; historically, they have not been afforded that freedom. They have been told, implicitly and explicitly, that they are not good, they are less-than, and they are not safe because of the color of their skin. They have been told this by governments, social structures, workplaces, judicial systems, healthcare providers, neighborhoods and friends. Centuries of these injustices have been inflicted on the black community with no promise of escape; the current system has had held the power to effectively traumatize an entire population, and to do so for generations. It must stop. 

It is time for black individuals to live in the safety that has eluded them for generations. They must be secure in their right to breathe, followed by their right to live abundantly and joyfully. They deserve to become who they were made to be, authentically alive, beautifully whole, untangled from the lies and traumas that have been inflicted upon them. They deserve to be set free, truly free, in every sense of the word.


If you have begun your journey of learning and hoping for this freedom, as I have and continue to do, I’d like to offer my thesis for moving forward in the work for justice for our black sisters and brothers:

We must remain people of peace.

To be clear- peace is not the absence of discomfort or a return to a quiet status quo. Peace, in this context, is a sense of being and operating that is moved by the Spirit and acts with eyes trained towards the hope in a well ordered world. In this world, the kingdom of God come to earth, ills are healed, injustice rectified and people are seen, loved and well. I cannot call myself a Christian, a feminist, or even a person of goodwill if I am not working for a world established in loving harmony. 

In pursuit of this harmony we must first be open to learning, then always open to learning more. In the learning, this spirit listens. It creates a space for taking in and then a time for pondering. Nothing of quality can come from what we see or hear if we don’t personally encounter and internalize what is being shared; peace will weave it together. 

This peace will allow us to incorporate new thought and root out wrong. Where the spirit burrows into our hearts, we will be ready to follow it towards introspection and humility. 

This peace will, at times, fuel anger; it will spark a heart that grows justly enraged at evil. This spark then follows through to movement- it doesn’t sulk, it doesn’t sit. It acts.

This spirit that moves to action is anchored, always, in goodness. It does not allow us to be self centered, working only to soothe our trouble consciences. It won’t allow us to walk away when the burdens are many. It does not tire. 

This spirit of peace is thoughtful. It allows critical reflection and thorough engagement with injustice from a deeply rooted place. It is intentional, as well, with both skills and time. 

This peace allows rest. If we are to prevent burn out, if we are to remain present and able to serve those who have been overloaded and overlooked for centuries, we must continue to restfully connect with the eternal source of our peace in prayer. Then, refreshed, we can show back up for more.

This peace will breed authenticity; when we do show up, we do so as integrated, whole humans, not half-selves participating for performance. It allows space to for mental, physical, spiritual and familial care, so that we may then serve thoroughly with our best selves and efforts. Our closest friends receive that effort, and it is time for our alienated black brothers and sisters to receive the same care.

Let this peace first form your own heart, then breathe life into your home, your workplace, and your world. Let this peace move you to service of God, especially in service of His black children. 

It’s time we were people of His Kingdom. Passed time. 

Let peace sustain the fight. 

i’m uncomfortable

step back; dating is not a transaction

I matched with a guy who checked all the boxes. He was older than 30. Not a frat boy. Had a job. Benefits. Wanted a God-centered family, had friends, and was pleasant to look at.

Even better, he was intentional. He texted me, called me, followed up, and I responded. 

And then I turned him down. 

At first I felt guilty – how dare I turn away a perfectly nice guy who was interested? How dare I look down my nose at someone who’s crossed my path and actually paid attention to me and wasn’t a certifiable creep?

Something felt weird, though, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I spent a couple days torn between my head (He’s nice! Smart! Interested! Socially acceptable! Not looking to just get laid!) and my gut (This just feels wrong. Why did I wake up to four texts and a Bible quote when we’ve only spoken once?). 

My gut was saying get away! My head was screaming get over it!

But then- then!- my finger landed on the point my gut had been trying to make.

I felt like I owed him.

I don’t think that was his intention, but I still felt I had to keep up with the level of interest he was showing me. It started to feel pushy, not to mention ever-so-slightly delusional (why are you already so into me it’s only been four days you don’t know me). In the end, I just felt weird and I said goodbye. 

Sounds lame and felt lame, because what kind of excuse is that? I felt weird. Boo hoo. But then, my gut – that wise, mysterious organ of intuition – brought me to another point.

I don’t owe anyone anything. 

My discomfort is reason enough to step back. That needs to be okay.

Allowing the spirit of paying debts and fulfilling obligations to weigh me down is a social norm that might be harmless now but has the potential to spiral out of control. It is the mild-mannered gremlin with the capacity to evolve into something much more threatening. 

For instance: When he takes the time to call do I owe him one tomorrow? When he puts in the effort to set up dinner, am I obligated to attend a second one? When he pays for drinks must I stay for dessert? A kiss? A hand job? Sex? 

No.

Dating cannot be transactional.

Dating must be respectful.

He may have called, and I may have answered. We may have talked, and I may have been interested. He may have complimented me, and I may have been grateful. But then I was done, and I should not let these deeply ingrained, transactional, cultural standards pressure me any further.

It is time for me to practice ‘no means no’ in a much lower-stakes scenario. I’m now free to learn what I want to say no to and adopt my standards well before I’m faced with a situation where I feel like I want to say no but I feel like I can’t say no because the sense that I owe someone something has overpowered it. 

It’s time I practice making my own decisions and becoming obedient to my own intuition before the “you’re such a flirt” or “why’d you turn me on” or “but I want you” beckons the guilt back home. Before “don’t you want to make your man happy” feels less like a request and more like a demand to perform sexual services that no, I don’t want to provide if that’s what it takes to make you happy, especially at the expense of my security, safety, or preferences.

I must reserve the right to step back. We all must. Being uncomfortable should be an acceptable enough reason to do so.

I need to let it mean enough to me first. Men next.


In that same spirit, I’m going to bring up some things again that’ve gotten lost somewhere in my Instagram feed so they can get lost somewhere in my blog feed.

I repeat- again, I repeat: ‘No means yes and yes means anal’ is NOT a funny joke. 

This is a PSA for the creepos that’ve said it and a validation for the rest of us who’ve looked on confused. 

When we’ve agreed to become involved with one another, be that for a casual evening, a relationship, a marriage, or otherwise, we are agreeing to take on a small sliver of responsibility for that person. That person should be handled with care. With respect.

This means we are listening to the requests of that person and then ACTUALLY TAKING THEM SERIOUSLY. 

Behaving in a way that falls short of this, actually being douche-y enough to ignore someone’s NO, or joking about such inappropriate behavior is ridiculous. Ignoring consent is not funny, it never should have been, and it never will be to people who actually have fully formed brains.

Let’s also agree that ‘no means no’ is one of the weaker mantras we stand behind. At this point, evolved as we are, we shouldn’t be pushing each other so far that we’ve had to turn boundaries into a catchy marketing platform. As if they’re new.

Best practice: Ask for permission, not forgiveness. Don’t put people you date and love and care for in a place where they are on the defensive, awkwardly defending their decision to take your hands off their chest because choosing to kiss you did not also mean she wanted hands in her bra. 

So. To be perfectly clear. Me agreeing to step one did not automatically mean I wanted step two. You greedily taking what you assumed was yours is rude- you wouldn’t help yourself to my pantry without asking, my underwear drawer, my makeup box, the pages of my journal- and in the world of intimacy, behavior like that is barbaric and is also actually considered assault. 

This is especially true when I’ve been clear about what I did or did not want, you knew that, but then you tried it anyway.

Of course, there’s also those scenarios where no isn’t clearly communicated. Where it’s happened too quickly, where there’s a power imbalance, or where there’s simply confusion. Does that mean we assume all is fair in love and sex and take whatever the heck we want? Or does that mean we assume people have more boundaries than they’ve yet had the chance to describe? In practice it’s  the former. Best to assume the latter.

Also worth considering, what do we say about the situations where seduction has played a part? Where person A pushed the line so subtly and slowly that person B hardly noticed what was happening until it was too late and their no got lost in hormones and habits and appetite and then, even if mentioned, feels a little less meaningful because it’s a little more breathless and maybe the body now wants something that the heart and the head didn’t plan on. 

If we consider drunk college girls as incapable of providing complete consent, should we also consider consent incomplete when the body has been coerced, seduced, and is now practically drunk in a haze of endorphins? If nothing else, at the very least, it is altered. 

This becomes dangerous, especially when those seductions and coercions aren’t anchored in love or respect. Especially when those seductions are based in self-focused hunger. Especially when she’d made it clear days and weeks and months ago that she’d really feel most respected when you did/did not do X but you kept at it anyway because she looked hot or you were horny or she wasn’t complaining so that probably meant it was fine. 

FYI that does not mean it was fine.

Don’t take what does not belong to you.

Don’t push for a no. Listen for a yes. 

Then let ‘I’m uncomfortable’ be reason enough. 

We’ll practice that together.

cleaning in spring

restore the peace, remove the rest

I’ve been doing some purging. 

The easy stuff was first. The closet! The nightstand! The dresser! The cleaning buzz even took me through the wilds of the file boxes. And then the bathroom! The bottoms of purses and the pockets of backpacks! Then the car! The work bag! Nothing felt better than the hours of sorting and tossing and donating. What inspired the frenzy I’m not quite sure, but something in me wanted to be more portable. Unattached. Ready to move and flow without the bog of sticky old cough drops and forgotten bits of mail weighing me down. 

The most thorough part of the purge was the clothes. I’m usually pretty good at pulling out the older things, but this time around I went a step further. Not only did I get rid of the clothes that obviously didn’t fit, I got rid of the clothes I wished would fit. The tops and skirts that were ever-so-slightly too snug, that 5 or 10 pounds would fix, those pieces I begged to stretch just a bit so we could be happy together- all removed. Goodbye to them, goodbye to wishful thinking. Up next, the clothes I thought I liked but never actually wore. Time to stop lying to myself; I’m never going to wear that sweat-dress and I don’t actually like mini skirts. Farewell. 

Today I’m happy to report I’ve been able to get dressed quickly, both in clothes I like and items I don’t have to change because I’m being choked by collars or buttons. Magical. 

Next was the scale. I held it lovingly, looked into it’s cold, dead eyes, then promptly shoved it into the trash. Goodbye little black machine that kindly ruined so many of my days. We are no longer friends. I’ve had my physical and, yes, though I’m heavier than last year, the rest was A-okay. I’m not a diabetic, don’t have anemia, am free of vitamin deficiencies and my blood pressure was fine. The scale-free experiment of the last several months proved successful- my body knew what it needed without your direction. It asked for the right amount of exercise and the right amount of nutrients, I obliged and, shockingly, did not turn into an amorphous blob of cholesterol. I am now firmly convinced that weight can’t be the only marker for health and I’m pretty done letting it run the show. My mind was made to obsess over more important things than calorie counts. 

Happily curled up in pants (that fit) I finally came to the next great purge: The Application for Annulment. At the end of it all the thing turned out to be a thesis paper better off titled: Reasons Why I Should Have Known Better. A small book of lessons learned and shame packed into 70 pages of double-spaced type, neatly mailed away for examination by a crowd of church-goers I’ve never met. At worst, they’ll be scandalized, at best, they’ll be impressed by our profoundly poor decision making skills. I could be wrong- maybe they’ll all just be nice. Either way, I’m trying not to think about it and I’m mostly just glad it’s done. If anything, hopefully at least they’ll be pleased with my A+ work; all my years of training went into this project. The finished product was a binder complete with slip-covers, tabs, tables, headers, footers and 1-inch-wide margins. Now it is off in the universe waiting to be graded like my life’s most terrifying SATs. At least it’s out of my hands.

My name got chopped up next. Goodbye to the married, exotic, Sicilian experience I used to be a part of. Welcome back to the name I learned to spell in kindergarten and had printed on diplomas. Driver’s license, social security, credit cards, nursing board all changed, changed, changed. A long but satisfying list to check off, with every completion another snip at the dangling threads of my old life. I’m still working on my signature- it’s a confused mess of letters that don’t belong to each other, so don’t look too closely if you find my notes at work. In the meantime, I’ll try not to make you feel weird when you congratulate me on the change because you think I’ve gotten married. 

In other news, Lent is here now. A season practically devoted to purging. What else is left to trim? I am portable, satisfied, free. I am unmarried. Back to the name I was born with. 

After some thought, I found the next victim- now on the chopping block are those pesky apps threatening to upset the peace. Those harmless looking squares make me question my worth, my value, my beauty, and, worst, distract me from the present. So, once again, I bid adieu to you, Dating Apps. We had a nice little time together, but you were disturbing the state of the union. Maybe I’ll see you on Sundays, but the days between you’ll find me reading good books, practicing Italian, and remaining blissfully unavailable to the men who say they’ll call but then swipe, swipe, swipe their way through Nashville’s brightest. Adios. 

Or rather, arrivederci. 

to my person, someday

a letter to the future

To you, 

If I ever get to meet you,

Just so you know, I like to laugh.

I’m writing this to you, floating on the buzz of Malbec and gin (weird mix, I know), just to let you know about the laughing. It feels important right now. Don’t worry, though, I’m easy to please. I laugh easy, smile easy; life’s better that way.

I make lists, too, just so you know. I wrote this one months ago, on a little pad proudly titled “Eggcellent Notetaker.” I’ve got four sunny-side up themed pages on who I hope you’ll be. Eggcellent, obviously.

Besides that: You will be kind.

The human in me also hopes that you’re cute. Let’s be honest, I’ll have to look at you, and I tend to like guys with sweet smiles and kind eyes. Usually tall too, but that’s not a dealbreaker. Just please don’t be so gym-y that you’re douche-y. Maybe you exercise a little but also eat pizza? We’ll get along better that way, probably. Or maybe that’s just my insecurity talking. I’ll work on it.

Anyway, the back to the list.

I wrote down normal things:

  • Intelligent
  • Genuine
  • Driven
  • Responsible

And some more particular things:

  • Balanced
  • Attentive to the present moment
  • Self-reflective
  • Growth-oriented

And some more fun things:

  • Will dance
  • Will drink
  • Will play games
  • Will have friends

And the dealbreaker NOPEs:

  • Creepy
  • Mean
  • Uses women
  • Doesn’t want kids
  • Lack of faith
  • Disrespectful of boundaries
  • Selfish
  • Lazy
  • Poor priorities

AKA a decent human (according to my sister. Also probably me too, now that I look again).

If you aren’t a nope, congrats. 

If you’re the match for me, we go further.

I think you’ll be faithful, but not a weirdo. I’m Catholic, and it’d be lovely if you were too, but if you were centered on Love and oriented towards Good and understood (as much as any of us can understand) Jesus I think we’d be cool. He’s my friend, and I’d like it if you knew Him too. 

I hope we can go on dates and we can get appetizers and bottles of wine and dessert. I hope you have a budget, but sometimes know that beautiful living means there’s a little bit of wiggle room. Good food requires the wiggle. So does art. And music. And travel. I hope you like those things as much as I do.

I hope over the wine and apps and pasta we talk, and talk, and laugh, and talk some more. I hope you’re a good conversationalist, which implies that you’re also a good listener. And also probably funny.

It’s a pipe dream, but I also hope you are loyal to the Patriots. If not them, at least football. It’s not a dealbreaker, but it’s how I spend Sundays after church. If you’ll be there it’ll be easier if we can just hang and share the nachos.

I hope you love your family. I hope you want one with me. I want one with you.

I hope you are compassionate. 

And here’s what I know, before I’ve met you: 

You have a strong character. You know what you’re about. You’re a leader. A leader who I’ll let lead me because you’re so damn respectful. And you appreciate women. You support them. 

You support me. 

You see me.

And you’re gentle. Strong, and brave, but soft.

Maybe we can read together, some time? With coffee? I like both those things. Then, maybe, a bit of wine and pasta later, we’ll fall in love. And go to church and eat nachos and yell at the TV and talk about philosophy in our sweats then go to game night with the neighbors. Or maybe we’ll cancel on the neighbors because we decided to make a baby or two and finish the nachos in bed.

Anyway. Hope you’re doing well, wherever you are in the world.

Looking forward to knowing you.

Love,

Me.

a woman in the world

independent women who like men

How am I supposed to pass the Bechdel test?

There should be two women (this woman) in a room (on a blog) talking about something other than men. Preferably they have names.

I tried to pass. Put in my very best effort. I went to Ireland last month a very happy me, full and satisfied and single and thoroughly enjoyed all things green.

I started to worry, though, because I had nothing to write about. Nothing new to say. I was just living, and living well. There’s not much to tell when I’m wasting hours in the back corner of a pub with my Baileys coffee and book. No drama to investigate. Just me, feeling alive, riding bikes on an island, content with sweaters and soups, just as impressed with latte art as real art. No story hidden in the simplicity. No secrets.

Who wants to read about girls who are, well… fine?

Am I interesting anymore, without a man? Without a story to tell? With the story I have that’s just featuring me?

But then again, it’s not just about me, is it? I don’t want it to be, anyway- I still would like to find a man, right? (*cue feminist cringes*)

Should we be cringing, though? What’s wrong with men? What’s wrong with wanting to be with a good one?

There were some Irish nights, instead of soaking in my singleness, that I found myself putzing around on newly downloaded dating apps. I wasn’t really interested in the guys looking for someone who’s “a freak for her man” (whatever that means), and not really interested in guys who think Vegas bachelor parties are considered world traveling. Even still, I was there, and a little interested. 

Why couldn’t I just be the lovely, independent, strong woman that Lizzo wants me to be?

Why was I on the other side of the ocean with two sisters, adventuring away, and still hoping for the attention of heavily accented red-headed bartenders? Go back to your Guinness, girl! 


No Irish bartenders for me, but I did get home and try to go on a date. Shocking, I know.

We met on an app (weird), he asked me on said date (weirder), then hours before meeting flaked on date (weirdest). No explanation, no follow up, hardly even an apology. Maybe the actual weirdest part was that I was surprised. 

Anyway, it was a strange, disappointing entrance into the so-called dating scene. 

In an effort to redirect this post away from the feminist rant it could be and towards the peaceful, lovely, self-secure place it should be, I’m going to tell you the truth now. 

I was annoyed, yes. However, primarily, I was relieved. Despite my wishy-washy I-want-a-man meanderings, I don’t think I actually wanted to meet the man. 

Probably in part because it’s much safer and easier to be single. No one can hurt you when you take yourself to the movies, right? Also, I really don’t know if I have the energy right now to form a meaningful connection with a stranger male, or the real desire to take responsibility for a that same male and incorporate him into this life of mine. I’m still busy stretching and wiggling and allowing myself to toy with the idea of learning Italian and taking writing classes and doing whatever the hell I want because I’m relearning what it is I want. 

Of course, I’m also relieved to learn of flake-boy’s flakiness before I’ve started to care. He’s been kind enough to reject me before he’s actually met me, which is much gentler on the ego. 

Anyway. 

I’m failing Bechdel again.

I would like to have something to say that doesn’t have anything to do with relationships, whether that’s getting into them or out of them. 

Or maybe Bechdel was a little bit wrong. Maybe I just need to make peace with relationships and having things to say about them. Really, the whole point of life is relationship, isn’t it? It’s an endless back-and-forth between us and ourselves, with God, with others. It just so happens that a significant portion of those others are male. And, ultimately, I’d like to be with one of them. 

In the long run, it’s not going to be the most interesting thing about me, but it might still be worth my attention.

Yes, I’m already on an adventure- insert strong independent woman cliché- but I’m thinking that maybe strong independent women can also coexist with men who respect them. Maybe she’s even encouraged by them. 


In the meantime, I’ve gone to Ireland and bought my own Claddagh ring. I’ll not die pining after anyone like the sad little man who made the first one. I’ll buy my own jewelry and I’ll turn the heart towards me, not because mine is taken by a man, but because I’m already cared for. I’m quite securely held by God, my friends, my sisters, my parents and myself. 

I think I’ll try to operate out of that place and let go of the rest.

Bechdel approved or no, I’d like to anchor into myself just enough that I can still move through the world with love. After all, isn’t that the most wild adventure of all?

Ever so slowly, these doors I’ve closed are opening. Fresh rain-clean breezes are blowing in freedom, untamed by rules or tests or time. This new, free, self will be the best self.

All will be well, no matter who’s talking in what room. Just love. Live well. Drink Guinness. Move on.

the words that dwell among us

good gifts for the new year

This Christmas I was given the gift of words.

Between a New York Times subscription, Kindle Unlimited and a handful of paperbacks I have enough to keep me going happily for all of 2020.

Even the mass readings were a gift: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Very explicit, courtesy of John, followed up with, “What came to be through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:1, 4-5).”

That last bit I had carried in my heart through this year; light was the word of the season as the darker parts of my heart were illuminated and the dusty corners of my soul cleaned out. A year of open windows, fresh air, therapy, journals, night skies, starlight and the first pinks of dawn. A year of refusing to be overcome, and then, beyond simply defying defeat, a year of resilience that overflowed into life.

What word, of all the words, will speak to the season ahead?


I was out last week with my cousins and we walked by a bar, all cheerfully buzzed on G&Ts and the cold December air. A bouncer stopped us, begged us to come into the hazy-blue bar with it’s empty dance floor. I’m sure we were an impressive bunch; a gaggle of tall, red-lipped, long-haired twenty-somethings. We walked past, intent on our destination (pizza), and continued to ignore the calls of the boy behind us. I trailed behind and heard him plead, one last time, “Come on, come in! You’re pretty too!”

I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and marched on to more important things (pizza). A couple slices and an uber ride later we were safely in our beds, bouncers all but forgotten.

The next morning, though, I found traces of annoyance lingering.

Was this boy used to having girls do his bidding just by calling them pretty?

Why had I even turned around at all?

And, by the way, aren’t I more than just pretty?

Such a small word, but enough to throw intelligent women off their axis at the mercy of smaller boys.


Which is the word I want? If I got to pick something better than pretty, what would be enough to catch my attention and hold it?

Which is the one that I am?

Which is the one God says I am?

Another Christmas Scripture nudges my heart and settles in like the last puzzle piece: “No more shall people call you ‘forsaken,’ or your land ‘desolate’ but you shall be called ‘my delight’ and your land ‘espoused’ (Isaiah 62:4).”

I wouldn’t mind being a delight. I’d definitely like to move away from those old characters Forsaken and Desolate.

I think back to a few weeks ago when I felt Jesus whisper “let me take you to France.” A small, almost silly, thing, but a thing that meant something to me. I went home that day and booked a trip to visit the land of my dearest Saint friends. That day felt like the beginning of this- a journey where I am no longer espoused to the little earthly man who hated travel, but rather to the man who died for me.

Another whisper takes shape: This year is the year I am beloved.


Beloved:

adjective

be•loved /bəˈləvəd/

dearly loved


Thank God the open windows of last year let in the holy breezes of this one.

I am seen. I am known. I will learn to live out of a place where I am anchored, deeply set in who I am and who I belong to. Beyond pretty, but beautiful.

A lot of words packed into one little word.

I’ll take it.

an incoherent stream of consciousness ft. ts eliot

finalized for christmas

It’s done.

I cried.

It’s like the race you never wanted to run in the first place and you’re so damn tired but somehow your legs carried you over the end

Or the divorce you never wanted and you didn’t know you needed and now you’re grieving but relieved and finally things aren’t entirely out of your control but shit, you loved him, you had a wedding, and the way it ends is a letter in the mail


This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but with a whimper


The pocket in my heart where the last bit of love lived leaks

Are you thinking of me too?

I’m sorry.

We never should have been together.

But, damn, I loved you. I really, really did.

I’ll see you on the other side.

I hope.


How does all of this sit together in the same room?

Its like the circus has met for a funeral.

A champagne toast for Scrooge and his ghosts.

Death meets magic meets hope meets tears meets me


I’ve been mourning motherhood lately, so at least we’ve come full circle. The first reason I left finds my first day as a divorcée. Long lost friends.

It’s not the kind of thing that has support groups or Facebook pages or even a name. It’s not the ache of infertility or the piercing loss of a child.

It’s quieter.

It’s the hushed undertone of something lost before it was had. A no, after no, after no. Months and months over. A man who sees you, but never quite sees you. Who knows you, but not well enough. Who refuses to make you a mother. He does not want to raise children who look like you. Who act like you or love like you or live like you. You are not enough. 

I see friends with babies. Beautiful ones. More than one. 

They don’t panic or hide pregnancy tests at the bottom of trash cans or the bathroom at Kroger. Their husbands look forward to fatherhood. They don’t have to stare as the moments tick by on their phone- has it been three minutes or two?- but watch the colors bleed -is that one line or two?- with someone who loves them. 

I see men who actually care. Who actively try. Who love their children and wives and want a life built with and for them. 

I used to be jealous. Now I’m just sad. 

I think there’s a hole in my heart, next to the pocket where the love leaks out. A little one, but big enough to need stitching- torn by the hurt that grows when you’re told, implicitly and explicitly, that you, specifically you, are not worthy of repeating. You are not good enough to parent children. Your terrible qualities tip the scales too heavily. You’re better off having none at all. 

Nothing stings quite so sharply as allowing yourself to be present- you open your heart and mind and home and body and forgive and forget, love and cry and love again- but you are still rejected, among all the other ways, in this last way.


And now it’s done.

I fall at the manger, a heavy head on the edge of the crib. She looks at me, would I like to hold him? His solid little weight rests on my chest, heavy over the place the anxiety sits; it melts for a moment. I can’t hold my own, but I can hold him. 

I suppose something new is beginning.

after the flood

step in

She’s alert at the bow, gripping the ledge, bright eyes squinting through sheets of wild rain. Wails lost in the wind, the spray, the haze of salt and mist; she rolls in a wave. 

Again and again, merciless, until, exhale, it ends. The waves slow. She tucks low, surrenders to the sea, heavy eyes under a heavier sky. 

Hours pass, she rolls to her back, sore from the stillness. Black has poured over the sky; she floats, an island in oceans of darkness. The stars glitter, diamonds spilled from a jar, there is so much of the sky; she can breathe. She rocks with the boat, onward, onward; she sleeps.

A bird flutters to perch, to herald a golden glow, it melts over the sky, the sea, her skin – she blinks silent greeting and thanks. 

They pass the day together, blues and grays roll by. She tilts to the sky, eyelashes eskimo kissing the breeze. Breathing. Basking.

And then land.

She leaps overboard, splashes into the sea. A welcome sound.

She is everything and nothing in the pull of the ocean; she is lost in the power of what was long before her and what moves after. She is salt and water and life, she is death and birth and baptism and eternity. She swims and soaks and delights. 

She wades ashore, guiding the boat by hand. Two-handed now, through the thickest surf, moving steadily towards the final grind of wood on sand. 

She turns, hands on hips, faces what’s before her. Lush and green, every shade of green- the hint of honeydew and the depth of pine, the radiance of emerald, the richest of moss- it is here. It is life.

She steps in.