(The following was written and submitted for an Advent devotional collection for Calvary Baptist Church of Denver under the theme, “How Does a Weary World Rejoice?)

“…whenever you face various trials, consider it all joy, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance complete its work, so that you may be complete and whole, lacking in nothing.” –James 1:2-4

Is it just me, or does this scripture rub you the wrong way? How should we ever consider facing trials to be joy?! And doesn’t “testing” feel manipulative? I suppose it does if we think God is doing it. But “testing” isn’t coming from some puppet master kind of god. Simply being human is a test in and of itself, with God by our side, and with joy woven throughout. 

Yet trying to find this joy in difficult times feels arduous. That’s why I love the word “rejoice”. Broken down, “re” means “to do again”. This implies that to rejoice, especially when our personal worlds and the whole world is weary, is to realize that doing so won’t negate the weariness we are experiencing, and that we are practicing something, which requires repetition. It gives us space to breathe, even if immediately afterward we find ourselves right back in the depths of despair. But this is the point- to rejoice is about endurance, as James says. And the joy James is talking about isn’t a fleeting joy we feel in circumstances of our lives that are good. It is a secure and constant joy we can glimpse in the midst of trials. It’s okay if we don’t see it or feel it all of the time, the way toxic positivity shames us to believe otherwise. True joy invites us to purposeful repetition, which is why seasons, cycles, rituals, and other healthy habits of faith are so meaningful and helpful. To re-joice allows us to brush gently, even if just for a brief, but sacred moment with the Divine, knowing each time we do, the permanence of True Joy reveals its ubiquitousness.

Musician and writer, Nick Cave describes grief as follows: “The person who is grieving is the closest they will ever be to the fundamental essence of things.” This is an awe-filled statement to ponder, and it mirrors this scripture. We are experiencing the depths of things in our despair. When we practice joy, when we rejoice, which is to re-joy, again and again, we reposition ourselves in the disorienting weariness, opening ourselves to a Holy Balm, and new awareness. Rejoicing is not some antidote to despair; it adds sweetness to the bitterness, hence the word, bittersweet! So rejoice: a practice of endurance that sustains us toward healing, justice, transformation, and peace. And as James implies, there is wholeness (and wellness) from a Source that reminds us that truly, we lack nothing. It still boggles my mind, but my heart can rejoice even so.

Prayer: Mysterious God, give us courage to seek true joy in ways that do not dismiss pain, but honor our grief and the suffering of the world, allowing such Joy to cultivate hope, every time we practice it. Amen 

A Stream of Consciousness:

Today I woke up with two tears, one in each eye, slowly slipping from the outside corners, down each of my cheeks as if in a race with one another. They are left-over tears from the night before, rare tears, because crying is harder than it used to be. It’s strange how that happens- you never believed your partner when he said he couldn’t cry anymore because he cried out all his tears as a child, all the tears he was supposed to have spread out over his lifespan were already gone by the time he was 12. But now you understand in your own way, sort of, how it can become harder to cry. A drying out occurs when you are being imprinted by repeated crises in your life, so much so that you almost, but not quite, feel like you won’t know who you are anymore if there isn’t something like that again, looming on the horizon, ready to stack itself in the order of here-comes-the-next-disturbance-jolt of the past years. And it’s a little scary, this distorted normalcy, yet you’re oddly afraid to be the person before or after it all. But the two tears, leftover from the night before, suspended there while you dreamt of weird, disturbing manifestations of things you’re not supposed to go through mixed with mundane every day snapshots, then squeeze out as you awaken, and you think of what they’re leftover from: Last night after you spoke to your son over a video screen, the background purposely-security-blurred around him, while he showed you the two pieces of paper. One with a sketch of a truck, with all the details of time to spend on it, also reminiscent of the little boy who couldn’t wait to show you the quick 2 minute truck drawing, and a fat, sticky crayon still in hand, while he lifts it to show you, because the excitement is too urgent to even leave a crayon on the table. So he lifts the crayon and paper in his fist, on his favorite “Trash-Truck-Tuesdays” Tuesday, waiting for your wonted response, and then you snap back into the present, and wonder what happened to that little boy, who is right there, doing the same thing with years spanning between fresh innocence and life altering nows. And the other piece of paper has squished, penciled lines of bible study verses, lacking his usual misspellings because he can copy them, and they’re written with precision in a way that resourcefully uses one piece of paper like its got the value of a $100 bill, line after line, using every space of white possible, yet the written lines lean a little on the page as if they might fall off- if it’s held in a precarious way. He holds them up in front of the screen, and sometimes they blur, but come back into focus, and he was so proud to show me, he barely said hello first. And the deep-red mama heart breaks, and loves, in these moments of helpless hope, so much so that you forget for a brief moment the weight of the chained pain, and the reality you hate. The both/and, and more emotions of it all, the images on repeat, haunting your everyday days, since that first, awful call in a hot summer June. And you look at his mullet, smiling at who can indeed, pull one off so well, so handsome- this flesh of a boy-man who’s mine and not mine, and glimpses of his life’s forced reckoning. You wonder about intentions, perhaps only there because of the dreaded “what happened” you want to slap back into some blackhole of how-can-this-be, hindered by the accountability shadow yet to be met, swirling blame. And you search for deep, strange hope about intentions, and possibilities. And you try to rid yourself of the imbedded images of him with his mouthed words to you in the formal, wood-panel place, at the mercy of the robed one, and the fettered jangle of his movement now. Escorted away, his head turning toward you, the restrained lift of his waving hand, and reading his lipped, “Bye, Mom.” Forever immured as if the healthy red of your heart changes to a spot of bruised black-purple. The chains ring in your ears in nightmares that you wake up to live instead of that fading relief to wake up from. And then suddenly, you hear the soft plop-landing of one tear on the pillow that pulls you away from last night’s memory, and the other tear, a little slower to fall, whooshes by your ear in all of its nearby loudness, but it doesn’t drop to the pillow, instead it rolls down your neck, like it’s being guided by the peach fuzz on your skin, one hair passing it on to another, and then it absorbs itself into the pillow on the other side, adding to pillow-tear-history. And you still can’t believe this is his life, or yours. And you think of Wounded Ones. Survivors. Her. You. And for a moment, you remember the grief you were supposed to carry- about your dad’s death in its “the second year is the hardest” warning, which never came to be because of the trauma that interrupted it, and maybe that’s a good thing, but you’d rather have that than this, and people think that’s why you’re still grieving, which is just living, and you ponder the essence of the dad-ghost, its clingy memory, and how palpable but ethereal it is in synchronicity, and you go about your day, knowing each one of those welcomed hauntings will have a little less of its essence each time, as time goes by. And you never thought you’d say it, but you’re glad he isn’t here to know this new pain. And so, I clocked into the hospital app for my on-call shift at 7am, and later while in-house, I taught nursing students about the role of a hospital chaplain. I’ve been a co-director fill-in with another colleague while the boss lady is out, and I spoke with a 44 year old mother about how to talk to her two young children concerning her malignant brain tumor she’s still processing the shock of, which was surgically removed from her head just hours ago. And I wonder about her pillow tears. A chaplain’s day. I listened to the Ezra Klein podcast on the way home from work about what the fuck Israel is supposed to do, except that’s not what it’s titled. How it challenged me, and catered to my love-of-learning-brain, or perhaps my I-must-know-more-about-this brain which feels so wrong in the global pain of what’s real. And you hate war some more, and you hate guns some more, and you hate injustice. And you hate that things take time. And you hate those guns again. And you hate that born ones can do terribles, here and there, mine and theirs. And you hate that you are living an exception to the rule, an existence you feel too few can fathom. And you think about your two born ones, how they are their own, and you’re “not that powerful” said the therapist, and it’s not anything like the childhood you had that you sometimes go to in reminiscence, because its comfortable there, almost not even possible that it was what it was, because it’s so distinctly peculiar and protected. And dad-ghost recollections are there again. And you realize that some things shift in ways that define before and afters, and never-to-go-backs. And then you run under the 5:45 afternoon-hanging-on-early-November sun that won’t be there in a week, because of obsolete clock changing ridiculousness, and you sigh at the too-absurdly-early darkness inviting the seasonal depression you dread to come this weekend. But while you do, you hear the rhythm of your trail runners crunch the graveled path and smooth-slap the set pavement, each a type of grounding, not including the cement you try to avoid, on your usual 5K route, and you see the never-to-be-anywhere-copied, swirling-cloud-orange sunsets that exclusively materialize here, and it’s unusually warm, but becoming usual, and the magpie is there to the side, your favorite of birds. He turn-bounces on the ground, watching you run by. And when you’re home and your heart rate returns to normal, you walk by your home office desk with piles of mail even though you’ve signed up for every paperless notification, and you wonder about such puzzlements, how piles that aren’t supposed to be, are. And you hold bewilderment about how one born’s hand can be cuffed in steel- the same hand that held a colorful crayon. And guarded hope surrounds you. And you smile at your other-born’s brilliance, and the profoundness of their existence, grateful for their closeness. And you recognize the tenderness in each of them, despite a vast contrariety, and hope to squeeze out more tears because of what mamas go through. You send that one “Born” song to him in your heart…And then you feel the feeling you love of putting on clean, dry, cotton socks, just to experience an ounce of simple-good, and you shove aside the imposing desk paper piles, and write about this odd life, and ponder the existential-dread-why’s, this bizarre hope, mixed with daily numb-doings, preposterousness, even small joys, the grief upon grief, in all of its gut-wrenching, heart-aching, cracked-open humanness, all there, all real, or apparently so; a wonder in these hard-to-cry years, under the magpie’s sky… 

“There is a way that seems right to a person, but its end is the way to death.” Proverbs 14:12

Death was such an incredible thing to witness, because it was the closest thing I saw to truth.” Ocean Voung

On June 4th, 2022, we celebrated my dad’s life at his memorial. But now, I write about his death. Please know that this blog entry contains difficult details of suffering and death. I encourage you to read it as a means to normalize facing death, and how it is not always good and peaceful. It doesn’t have to be. But I also understand that we are all at different stages in life, and some may need to simply pass on reading this right now. After all, it has taken me months to come back to this blog, and finally choose to write in detail about my dad’s death which occurred 8 months ago. Take care of yourselves. Read on if you like, but it’s okay if you don’t.

I was reminded during the Message of Hope beautifully offered by my pastor during Dad’s memorial, that death does not define a person, and she also reassured me one on one, just after he died when I was so pained by the way he died, that sometimes death is just hard, it doesn’t have to be good. It is indeed, a bit of wisdom: Sometimes, death is just hard. And it has nothing to do with the value of the person’s life who died. Let it be so with grace.

For weeks I was haunted by images of my dad’s suffering, pain, confusion, and difficult death, and even as those memories have softened, I recognize what a privilege it was to tend to and care for Dad in those fragile and tender moments. I witnessed it all, mostly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am working through those haunting images, the unfairness, and frustration of it all with the intent to live my life in a way that honors Dad’s legacy. And while his life is indeed what defined him, not his horrible death, it is a topic we need to talk about more. We are mortal beings. Our bodies will acquiesce to an eventual death. All of us will cross the death threshold in one way or another, and we place shame on ways and reasons death occurs, we shy away from its part of our lives, and we embrace fantasies in order to avoid the messy, hard reality of death. Perhaps nothing really, is more truer than death. And as we frequently hear, “The truth will set you free.”

While there are some who bravely talk about this topic, especially when it’s not a “good” death, it’s not talked about enough. We need to normalize it. Humanize it. Dispel fantasies about it, and more. Sacred stories include dying. As Madeline L’Engle said, “We tell stories because we can’t help it. We tell stories because they fill the silence death imposes. We tell stories because they save us.” I love the idea of filling “the silence death imposes.” This blog entry does just that, but I also appreciate the silence death imposes. As you will read later here, that imposed silence was a needed moment and the beginning of my grief-healing. That silence was like an exchange of breath: my dad’s gone, and mine deep, filling my lungs with relief and peace.

My dad died on April 25, 2022. He had spent about 5 weeks in the hospital, then rehab, then back in the hospital. He’d had a stroke from a thrown blood clot, even though he was on a blood thinner to prevent that. He’d developed blood clots in both his leg and lungs, a common occurrence for cancer patients. He had just completed his radiation treatment, which was working, to reduce the metastases- multiple bean sized tumors that had developed in his brain after his lung cancer diagnosis which was detected from regular scans after having beat bladder cancer the year before. The lung cancer was really small, only cellular. There was a 1 in 10 chance it could spread to the brain. “Lucky” Dad got to be that 1 in 10… Still, I was so proud of the way my dad just lived into what he couldn’t control about his new cancer diagnosis and realities. This was very hard for him in life- the lack of control, and yet in these difficult realities, he felt a sense of peace he had struggled a lot of his life to find.

I had to put Dad’s arm around my shoulder and walk him to my car when we went to his scheduled oncologist follow up appointment on March 22. (As I drove to my parents’ house that morning, I shed a few tears over another gut wrenching situation in my life, while worried about what I was to face now. Little did I know that I was now embarking on another grief upon grief in the weeks and months to come.) Dad didn’t think my plan to walk him out to the car would work, even though he said, “You’re going to have to help me” while he leaned against his bathroom counter, skeptical he could make it out. I kept telling him, “Trust me; I’ve got you.” (And I did. Then, and all the way to his death.) As we slowly made our way out of the house, his grip on my shoulder indicated his concern that he (we!) might fall. He kept adjusting his grip, bundling up the material of my sweatshirt in a bunch that got bigger and bigger in his fist as we walked to the car, the side of my torso exposed as my shirt kept gathering in his worried grip. I think it took about 20 minutes to get from the bathroom to the car. I think a lot about that long, but short walk out of his home, knowing now it was his last exit from that loving home I would later spend the months of autumn packing up and reminiscing through, after his death and my mom’s move to assisted living.

I was very worried about Dad the couple of days leading up to that oncologist appointment, having helped sort through his medications the day before, and noticing his inability to balance well, or get around safely. He thought it was just side effects from the brain radiation. (I wonder if his doctors reminded him about stroke symptoms and to not hesitate for one second if he had any inclination of change. He did say during his first hospital stay that he recalled a subtle change in his vision, and only wondered then in hindsight- if that had been the onset of the stroke.) He didn’t take my advice to go to the hospital the day before his appointment, but said he would if his oncologist said he needed to. Sure enough, that was what he recommended. He wanted scans of his brain immediately, and sent him to the ER. Scans revealed several small strokes in Dad’s brain, although it was really just one stroke that had had broken off into different vessels impacting multiple parts of his cerebellum. Dad began treatment, with several ups and downs, mostly feeling discouraged. Physical Therapy took him up and down the hallway with a walker. Speech Therapy worked on his swallowing, a problem that hadn’t surfaced right away. He was weak on his right side, and tended to lean that way while walking. On the second night of his stay, he fell and I got a call at midnight about it. I burst into tears, sitting in my closet so as to not wake anyone, even after the nurse said he was okay. Dad later explained that he thought he was at home, and was calling out to Mom to help him get to the bathroom. I don’t know why he wasn’t on closer monitoring of his fall risk, but he sure was after that… 

On March 25th, we celebrated Dad’s 80th Birthday in the hospital, and my brother had flown in from out of state to help. Dad was so touched by the cards that were beginning to pile up on his corner counter in the hospital room. (Whoever designed hospital rooms forgot to consider card/flower placement and accumulation…) He loved the digital photo album I put together with photos and birthday messages from each of his immediate family members, and even the family pets. : ) He wore the hand knit beanie with pride his “favorite granddaughter” (his only granddaughter) made for him. He joked with the staff, and immediately became a favorite patient even with his stubborn curmudgeonry. They loved him. He would complain about the care while also being tearfully grateful. He would generalize how “nothing was working” and “everything was terrible” about his hospitalization, while offering gratitude to nurses and therapists. He cried when his loved ones arrived, and cried when we left. About 10 days later he was discharged to rehab, and we held on to hope. Dad would often say, “That’s all I’ve got. Hope and humor.” One of my favorite stories was one afternoon when he had been in the bathroom, and his nurse for the day, Tyler, came in and asked him how it went. He said, “Here I sit broken hearted, tried to shit, but only farted.” Tyler threw his head back in laughter. Dad acted shocked, “You haven’t heard that quote?!” So many times, we were laughing, as much as we were crying and depleted.

But one day when Dad and I were alone, and we had been siting in silence, he broke it with, “I’m scared.” 

“I am too, Dad.” I said, not being of any comfort other than being honest. “I promise to face these fears alongside you in the best way I can, and I know our fears differ, but I love you. I will be here with you in all of it.” (Or something like that.) He had mentioned several times, “I am the patriarch. I need to be here.” Instead of patronizing him by saying we had it all taken care of, we recognized his need to be needed. And we did need him. So we told him that. My brother one night said, “Dad, you’re right. We do need you. And, you can trust us to take care of things while you’re getting better.” My brother noticed how Dad relaxed into sleep after he told him that meaningful truth. During a conversation we’d had about steps my brother and I needed to take in case he didn’t survive, I told him, “I can’t imagine life without you, but we will take care of things.” He didn’t need to hear, “Don’t worry. We’ve got it all under control.” He needed to know that it was both. We wanted him here. But we would also take care of the items left undone, the details, and most especially, Mom. His beloved wife, whom he truly adored, admired, respected, and loved. He wanted to care for her until her dying day. (By the way, my parents planned very well for their aging and deaths, with wills, life insurance, long term care insurance, savings, password managers, prepaid burial plans, and more. If you have not done these things, please do. Your loved ones will be grateful!)

One of the things Dad looked forward to most at rehab was being able to see his beloved greyhound, Genny. Dogs were allowed to visit, and we were thrilled. Pictured is Dad seeing Genny for the first time in almost two weeks, worried she’d forgotten about him. She had not. At home, she would smell his boots by his bed and whimper. She looked around for him. She placed her snout on his favorite reclining chair, just waiting for him, and seemed a bit restless if anyone else sat in it. Genny has never been quite the same since he left the home and never came back. She knew. She didn’t engage in her regular zoomies for months after his death, even when we took her to her favorite dog park over the summer. She trotted around, but it almost seemed as though she was thinking, “Maybe he is here. I will look for him.” Dad loved taking her to that park. It felt as if Genny refused to play freely without him there with her. I can report now, however, that she has resumed zoomies, her grief perhaps not quite as heavy as it first was. Dogs are so special…

The first few days of Dad’s intense physical, speech, and occupational therapies in rehab were encouraging, but strenuous. His abilities remained steady, but no significant improvement. Some days were better than others, and his therapists would gleam in his ability to go up and down a step in the gym. “A good sign!” they would celebrate. (Remember the last time one step was a celebration? Toddlerhood.) We began to make plans about walkers at home, and bars to help him in and out of the bathroom, etc. But then he grew weaker. Participating in his therapies was exhausting for him. At one point after he had managed to move from a wheel chair to another chair with such despair and frustration, tears, and depletion, and upon giving him a small shoulder massage afterward, I had to excuse myself discretely to the bathroom and cry. Shedding tears with him wasn’t the issue, and in fact, it was good to do that, too. But this time, I needed to cry a little harder, and do it on my own. To witness my dad in such a struggle was at times too much to bear.

Dad began to eat less, and then not eat all all. If approved by the nurse, I brought in foods I thought might be more appealing to him. I tried to be present at his meals, so I could assist, and then they changed his tray color, indicating he needed someone with him during meals to encourage eating. Many times while there, I would feed him. After three to five bites of applesauce or pudding, with plenty of time between each bite, he would say, “Am I finished yet?” And I always encouraged just one more bite. (Or two, suddenly hyper aware of each of those bites of sustenance. The water, the vitamins, nutrients, going into his body and absorbed in quick desperation. Pause, we should, when we eat, aware of what we are putting in these temporary, invaluable vessels of ours…) Soon he had required oxygen for the first time, and his condition was slowly worsening. Upon ordered scans by a doctor, he was readmitted to the hospital discovering that he had pneumonia, likely caused by silent aspiration due to his difficulty in swallowing. Our hopes that he would move to a sub acute rehab had disappeared, and we were back to square one.

His second stay at the hospital he was much weaker. Instead of physical therapy walking down the hall with a walker, his goal was to simply be able to sit up on the edge of the bed. He did so at one point with PT, and he cried in pain once he had accomplished it. Later his goal was to simply be able to turn his body to the side on his own without assistance. I couldn’t help but remember the goals he’d voiced only days and weeks earlier: “I just want to be able to mow the lawn, or take my dog on a walk again.” Those were now lofty at best. And he couldn’t even talk anymore, but maybe one or two word responses. Mostly, he moaned and groaned. His only hope to have any improvement was to begin a feeding tube, to which he consented. I was reluctant, knowing Dad was the kind of guy more afraid of the conditions he was now facing than death itself. But, he wanted to try it, and it did provide a decent amount of improvement. Doctors were encouraged by his returning strength and diminishing need of oxygen. And so the roller coaster had shifted uphill. With some hope and improvement, Dad agreed to receive the PEG tube, a more permanent feeding tube he could have while going to rehab again soon, and while he worked with speech therapy to be able to swallow properly again. But just before his surgery to place the PEG, a condition called, Hospital Delirium hit hard. He was horribly confused. He pulled out his nasal feeding tube that goes all the way to the stomach, something the staff had feared he might do. After some stabilization, he had the procedure to place the more permanent PEG feeding tube directly into his abdomen. But the procedure itself had worsened the delirium. He was confused, and hallucinating. He had to wear mitts to prevent him from pulling at IV’s and tubes. Hospital Delirium was one of the most awful things I have ever witnessed a loved one go through. Eventually his mitts were removed because he hated them so much, and one of the nurses felt it was actually making things worse for him. (I will never forget that intuitive nurse…) But he pulled at his PEG tube and caused some bleeding. Eventually that improved, and while he wasn’t fully out of the delirium, it had calmed down a bit. And then it was gone.

Then he slept. And he slept, and he slept, and he slept some more. He was awakened for medications, and swallowing therapies. But he could barely talk. I clearly remember one day I was there when his speech therapist came to work with him and his swallowing. She had to wake him up, and sit him up to begin. She explained how the sphincter at the top of his esophagus was not relaxing the way it was supposed to, and so there was too much risk knowing foods and liquids would pile up there and spill over into his lungs. She fed him an ice chip, instructing him to swallow really hard once it melted. She fed him a spoon full of water, having him repeat a hard swallow. Three or four times he did this, and afterward, he was exhausted. Imagine just the simple act of having to swallow, only three or four times, taking every ounce of energy you have. When swallowing equates to running a marathon… I thought back to a few days earlier, when he was readmitted to the hospital, and could still put together a coherent sentence, Dad said to me, “Who really has any kind of significant recovery from the state I am in?” He really wanted to know. He deserved a clear answer. But nobody could say for sure with 100% certainty. So much of our lives is accepting that we just cannot know what the future holds, even with all the information possible. Medicine is a “practice” after all. That day, I could sense the speech therapist’s skepticism that all of this effort was really making a significant difference. Even though I couldn’t really name it at the time, somewhere inside me, I intuited in that moment, that Dad was dying.

Somewhere, deep down inside in a place we couldn’t seem to find, and quite possibly neither could the professionals, we all knew, even Dad, that Dad was dying. But it was subconscious. And truly, nobody really knew he was dying, because there was always a “chance” of improvement. But was there really? And aren’t we all always dying, even if not actively, even as we are living and surviving? Even as both my dad and I told the doctors to be 100% clear, straightforward, and honest about his prognosis, even they were holding onto something while also being transparent. The palliative care coordinator and I had several conversations which were probably the most on par with predictability, even without fully knowing what may or may not happen. But she did know that another catastrophic event would likely be the impetus to transition into hospice care. We just didn’t know what the timeline would be. Days? Weeks? Months? Maybe he’d go to rehab and stay in assisted care/skilled nursing? Maybe he’d be able to go home with in house care? And we did know that the cancer he had, which was not curable, only treatable and manageable, would eventually take his life. But at least with the cancer itself, we knew he could have had at least a couple of years left. Maybe even longer. But with the complications he’d suffered from, nobody knew for sure. Nobody ever knows. 

Dad was living his worst fears. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he’d lost his independence, and was living with such indignities he hoped he’d never have to face. The fear of not being able to control things, care for his wife who relied upon him in her state of Dementia, not ready to die, needing more time, needing help with every day basic needs… But Dad had also wanted to at least try the therapies and procedures if there was any hope he could regain some quality of life. Hope is sometimes a dangerous and cruel thing… 

“Thank you…” were the last two coherent words my dad said to me before he died. It was the night before he died, to be precise; two simple, ordinary words in a moment of clarity in what seemed like a miraculous break from the confusion, pain, and many setbacks he’d had. I didn’t have to go back and see him again that night before he died far sooner than we, or the medical staff expected, but I couldn’t ignore the strong intuition that told me I just had to. When I think about it now, it must have to do with that mysterious connection people have in close relationships. My mom and I had been with Dad all afternoon that day, but I decided not to ignore this bothersome nudge that I should just go back again and be alone with him that night. When I arrived again, I had only just a little over an hour before visiting hours would end. It was already dark. The hospital was eerily quiet, other than the usual beeps and sounds randomly declaring messages about lives and needs on the floor. Dad appeared to be sleeping- something he had been doing a lot those days, like a newborn baby. (Interesting isn’t it, how the end of life mirrors much of what happens at the beginning: dependency, vulnerability, sleeping many hours of the day and night. New life and end of life are precious, even as they differ.) I reached for his hand, and he turned his head and opened his eyes to see me. He gave a small smile. There was no confusion. I explained why I was back, and that I would just be by his side until I was told to leave for the night. As I was telling him this, I recalled what he had said a few weeks ago, which was, “I feel bad when you’re here because I know it’s a burden, but I’m also so glad you are here, because I feel so alone when you’re not.” His mouth was open and dry from the mouth breathing he’d been doing for weeks now, but he opened it a little more and barely got out the words, “Thank you…” then he turned his head center and closed his eyes again, as I replied to him with something along the lines of, “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way; you’re my dad.” I kept holding his hand, saying words of love and affirmation to him here and there, but mostly taking in the dark silence of the room, feeling a weighty, but good presence of my thoughts about his life, our relationship, all wrapped in this one moment, this one, precious hour with him. About a quarter past the hour that visiting hours had ended, the nurse peaked in, and I gave a nod. I unfurled his fingers, the hand I’d held off and on as his child, noticing his bruised and papery skin, and placed it across his chest next to his other hand. “Goodnight, Dad. See you tomorrow.” 

The next morning, I called the nurse to check how he was doing. I was worried about him. He’d complained about pain as an 8 on a scale from 1-10 the past few days. He’d been on some pretty strong pain medication. The nurse had a bright and optimistic report, “He’s doing great this morning! He reported his pain as a 4. He followed all of my instructions, and we’re getting everything ready for him to transfer to rehab this afternoon.” I was thrilled. Little did we all know, that instead, hospice would be his destination in only a few hours.

A couple who have been long time friends of my mom and dad were scheduled to take mom to the hospital that day. As hard as it was, I had taken advantage of other’s willingness to help ease the burden of transportation and visitation, and this was supposed to be my “day off”. (Note: Please do this. You must take care of yourself. You don’t have to be there every day. I know you don’t want to “miss” anything. I didn’t either. But there is no shame if you do. It’s not your fault. You know what you can control? Your growth in the acceptance of the Unknown. And, this is what community is all about. My dad had a steady stream of visitors and volunteers. I cannot express enough gratitude for his friends and pastors who regularly visited my dad, checked in with me, and all of our family, and stepped up to help. Accept the help.) Not long after Mom texted me to tell me she was there, I got a call from the doctor. “I’m very sorry to report that your dad has had an unfortunate setback, and I am very concerned about how he will do over the next few hours. He then shifted into medical jargon. Some of it I knew, having worked in a hospital now for over 7 years. But the moment he began explaining, my brain, which loves to hoard information, attempted to process it all, but stopped, while my ears filled with a blockage of what felt like the sound of darkness, like a tunnel of surreality that helps one cope I suppose, in a moment of chaos, or trauma. Once he paused, I noticed this “sound darkness” fade, and his voice clear again, and I asked him to clarify what he meant by “how he will do”. I asked, “Do you mean he might die?” “Yes,” he acquiesced. “I’m not sure he will survive this.” As his nurse had been in the room with him checking his monitors and feeding tube, Dad suddenly vomited, inhaling much of it into his lungs. Massive pulmonary aspiration of gastric content carries a high rate of mortality, and especially in such a fragile state as my dad was in. I get angry about this. Many of us fear drowning, and this was a drowning of sorts. But the staff were expedient upon trying to provide relief, and it wasn’t long, although it seemed forever, until morphine took the suffering and pain away.

I hadn’t showered yet. I put on a couple more garments that would make me more acceptable in public, announced to my firstborn a summary of what I was told, texted my husband, best friends, and pastors, and drove to the hospital. It was a long drive, longer than the 20 minutes it takes to get there, even though I arrived in 20 minutes, and I don’t remember any of it. I quickly paced without running, making my way to the second floor Progressive Care Unit, the hallway seemingly stretching longer than usual (I have had nightmares of this happening before in the hospital I worked in, especially during the COVID pandemic). I noted trays and equipment outside Dad’s room, then coming around the corner to see my parents’ friends standing back while a sea of blue scrubs surrounded my dad, hollering out instructions and demands to each other, mom near him on the other side of the bed. One of my mom and dad’s long time friends, Bill, whom I lovingly call, “Uncle Willie” took me in his arms and offered words of encouragement. I then approached my dad, he reached out his hand, and I took it. He was gasping for air. His body and effort maxed out in a massive attempt to pull in as much oxygen as possible. He had grown so weak over the last several weeks, and yet, it seemed he suddenly had the power of an ox in his body’s instinct to try and survive. Every single muscle working. Head to toe. The doctor reiterated that normally in a situation like this, they would have taken Dad down to ICU and intubated him. But my dad was a DNR. I knew he did not want that, too. So they had the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and cranked up as high as it would possibly go. They had suctioned as much vomit as they could out of his mouth and lungs. They could not use the B-pap, as that would have caused more damage to his fragile lungs that were recovering from pneumonia. What a drastic shift from last night, and even from this morning’s cheery nurse report, when he needed very little O2 in his nasal cannula. The crackle of vomit in his lungs increased and decreased in its rhythmic in and out mingling with the air. He looked at me with his longing blue eyes. A couple of times, he tried to reach his oxygen mask with his hand, and I assumed he wanted to say something. But he was so weak, only his finger tips could touch the very bottom of his mask, before his arm would flop back down to his side. (I had nightmares of that moment, wondering what he wanted to say, what was left unsaid.) I also knew how frustrated he had been suddenly not being able to hear very well these past few weeks (a side effect from the brain radiation). He must have felt so alone at times because of that hearing loss, even while being surrounded by people. When his languishing eyes locked with mine, I looked back, a pooling of tears soon to spill, and said, “I’m right here, Dad. I will do right by you.”

After consulting with the palliative care coordinator, and speaking with the doctor, it was time to admit him to hospice care. The PCC assured me that when she asked him to indicate his desire about hospice or more intervention, he had given clear indication that he was done, and wanted hospice. Even as I saw right in front of me, the impossibility for my dad to “clearly” communicate anything, I knew my dad, and I trusted that was indeed what he wanted. The doctor encouraged us to move him to Denver Hospice, which is what he said he would do for his mom (who was in a similar situation), and said we had some time. He could die today, tomorrow, or the next day. The ambience and hospice centered care at DH would be a much more comfortable and peaceful space. But I remember clearly the coordinator telling me that she predicted my dad would die that afternoon. I only wish now that she would have pushed for him to stay put, and I wish I would have done the same. But the lure of a more peaceful setting for him to die, and following the doctor’s recommendation, fueled that dangerous kind of hope.

The nurse began pushing morphine, and over the next hour or so, my dad wasn’t struggling. Finally. Only his body continued to work as hard as it possibly could to breathe. “Air hungry” is what it’s called. The muscles in his neck flared and strained with each and every breath, his neck tendons, and his collar bones more visible with each breath. But Dad’s eyes were closed, and his body still, except for the muscles’ instinctual fight to survive. Yet there was no more moaning, no more longing eyes, no more fear. Mom and I held his hand, and took turns telling him we loved him, and offering other words of comfort. I signed papers with Denver Hospice. We waited for a few hours until DH could come get him. About 30 minutes or so before the ambulance transport had arrived, I noticed Dad’s heart rate fluctuating more. I knew then that his death was imminent. It was something I saw in the the hospital in my work over and over again. Sometimes it would take a while, other times, it was quick. But it was near, no doubt. I don’t know why the staff didn’t recommend we stay put at that point. I don’t know why I didn’t think to insist he stay. It is a regret I hold, and always will. But the staff had made their recommendations over and over again. The doctor had come into the room twice since Dad kept having doses of morphine. They all kept on the same page about moving him. The doctor even expressed that he was encouraged by his lung x-rays, believing he would have more time than initially thought. Sometimes, I wonder if it was a numbers thing- (push him out so we have one less death to report at the hospital). It’s hard to avoid speculating, but I still didn’t doubt the compassion the staff held for us and this situation. I do know it was genuine. And the staff loved my dad. “Carl is our favorite” some would say. They loved his raw honesty, his dry humor, his quick wit. (Also, I think his 80th Birthday photo album I made for him supported a special connection between him and the staff. Even the EVS staff read it and flipped through it along with the nurses and doctors. It just helped bolster my dad’s humanness, his personhood, his life, his past, what made him special, why he was so loved, pictures of him in good health, pictures of his family, all created a bigger reality in their minds than him only as their patient. A quick flip through the album, and suddenly this was less clinical, and more personal. We think bringing photos and personal items into our loved ones’ hospital rooms is for our loved ones themselves, and it is, but guess what? It’s for the staff, too.)

When the hospice ambulance staff finally arrived, Mom and I gave dad kisses and more words of love. Mom was the last one to tell him she loved him as we walked out of the room, and I intended to tell the nurse about his heart fluctuation, even though it had seemed to stabilize at a normal rate again since the half hour ago when I saw the first fluctuation. But she was nowhere to be seen. With another patient, I’m sure, and nobody was at the nurses’s station. If she had been, maybe we would have stayed. We walked down the hall, and headed to the car in silence, leaving my dad to the EMT’s care. I told them to take special care of him. “Oh, we will.” I reiterated, “No, really- please take extra special care, more than you ever have.” They paused as if to break out, just for a moment, from the routine of having done this over and over again, multiple times. We drove to Denver Hospice, crying off and on. When we arrived, we signed in, and as we were directed toward the nurse’s station, a nurse came out of her office and stopped us in the hall. Right then, I knew. The look on her face, I knew before I could form the thought in my head, and then she said tenderly, and along with some caring words, “He died during transport.”

It was just one more thing that had gone wrong, of all the things that could go wrong. (Now, just in case you might be trying to assuage that last sentence with justifications, stop. Let it be. Things went wrong. Lots of things. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Things went wrong. Many things. Let me have that. Let my dad have that. Yes, let us have the things that went wrong. Thank you. Among the moments of joy we had, we deserve to have what went wrong, too.) I am grateful Dad was on morphine. My hope is that he had no consciousness of the transport that was probably was too rough for him, that may have expedited his death, or perhaps didn’t have any bearing on the timing of his death, but I hope, I trust, because I must, that he did not feel alone, confused, or in any pain when he died. Any other option, that very well could have happened, throws me into despair.

The hospice nurse placed her arms around my mom and me. Mom, looked at me for reassurance, and clarity, “He died?!” Not wanting to have to say it again, but knowing I must, “Yes, Mom. He died.” My mom justifiably balled, and continued to for the next half hour straight. We were escorted to a fire place room. The chaplain came in with us, introducing himself to us. I hadn’t seen my mom cry like this in a very long time. Mom cries a lot, because she’s tender, strong, sensitive, and highly emotionally intelligent. But this was the cry of deep agony over losing the love of her life, and her safety and security. At one point she paused as we sat next to each other on the fancy loveseat, waters being fetched. The chaplain returned, placed water glasses on the table. (The table…I briefly noted in my brain how odd it was to be a chaplain, cared for by another chaplain, the tables having turned.) He sat with us in silence and rolling tears, and intermittent vocal cries of my mom’s deep grief. There was a bit of small talk between the chaplain and myself when Mom’s crying became quiet, but then soon she balled again, and I embraced her from the side, and let her cry and cry on my shoulder. I also thought about what a miraculous gift it was- the clarity my mom had about Dad’s death in this moment, even with her Alzheimer’s. We waited for what seemed like such a long time to go see my dad. Finally the time came, and we were escorted to his room. 

“The silence death imposes.” Low light, clean, a cozy room. There he was, nicely tucked into crisp bedsheets that reached to his upper chest, folded over at the top with a nicely made white sheet cuff over the top blanket. His arms placed neatly across, one hand on top of the other. He was wearing a new heather grey t-shirt. “One of my, and his favorite colors in T-shirts,” I thought. A bright white towel was rolled and placed under his chin, his mouth slightly open. His eyes closed, his skin pale. He looked so fresh and clean, even in death. A sign of the tender care and preparation by the hospice staff. I sat down and held onto his cold, still arm. Death is so very still. His body solid, and lifeless. And yet, for me, it was exactly the vision and space I needed of him. Just to see his body at perfect, and total peace. No more struggle to breathe, no more agony. No more indignity, tubes and needles. In this awe, and in this eerie space, I stared at his frozen chest. The images so fresh before of air hunger, juxtaposed with this total relief, I soaked in the stillness, the peace, the lack of suffering, this death-rest, my dad’s body that carried his life and soul for 80 years and 30 days. The vessel that made him the one with skinny ankles, and a strong back. The body that survived Polio, a lightning strike, his hand tremor, his slow, steady gait when he walked down the hall of his home that alerted us to his nearness, his beautiful blue/gray eyes, his full lips that my firstborn inherited, his love of using his hands to tinker with engines and things that my second born inherited, his deep voice, his brilliant mind, his humor… He was gone. Dad was dead. And yet, I was so grateful to be with him right then, in the still, silence of death. It was a gift.

The next few weeks were focused on memorial planning and caring for Mom. I wanted so much for Dad’s memorial to be perfect. I poured my heart out into planning and preparing. I wish my dad could have seen the care, and preparation by so many, and the attendance by those who knew him. How grateful we are to have such a loving faith community. The amount of friends, neighbors, and all who knew him who attended was a testament to the fact that my Dad had lived a life more full than I think he ever realized himself, and more full than many in the world, who might define their lives as full, but only fooled by a kind of false fullness opposite of what it really means. Fullness is authentic by simple, but profound truths in friendship, healthy family, community, love, and connection. And I can promise you there aren’t many churches and pastors who put so much time and personal touches, and tender care into their caring, planning, and eulogies as my faith community. Perhaps I’m biased, yes, but I believe it’s generally true. Many commented that it was the best and most meaningful memorial they had ever attended. It was long, but worth every second.

Dad’s cremains rest in The Foot of the Cross Courtyard at our church home, Calvary Baptist Church of Denver. It is such a lovely space full of reminders of life, as much or more than the reminders of death. A water fountain, flowers, plants, a breeze, the sun or rain, traffic nearby- all reminders of the living, are juxtaposed with that welcomed stillness of death: the columbarium and a common urn, statues, and stones, inscribed names, a bench to sit and be still. Our pastor, Anne, reminded us during the interment that, “So many significant moments in scripture happened outside in gardens!” The courtyard feels like one. One mention in particular touched me in a newly healing way when she said, “It was in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus cried out to God – asking God if there was any other way other than to endure this suffering…perhaps a cry Carl himself knew in his days in the hospital and rehab.”

There it is. That is the deepest meaning we can draw from Christ’s suffering. Not atonement, but resonance. That reminder helped ease the haunting memories of my dad’s suffering, something I would grapple with for weeks, and still am. But Spirit fell afresh upon us that sunny morning. And as my brother and I helped my mom pour Dad’s cremains into the common urn at the foot of the cross, Emmy Lou Harris’ (one of my dad’s favorite singers) voice sang out this song, “Someday my Ship Will Sail”. For my boat loving Dad, striving to be satisfied in life, it was the perfect choice. You can listen here:

https://open.spotify.com/track/5jb2TNBSpfn0J5lcT9Nk3b?si=b5480192fb16467e

Psalm 116:15 reads, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his faithful ones.” Have you ever thought of death as precious? Know this: no matter how your loved one dies or died, whether agonizingly, suddenly, tragically, peacefully, unexpectedly, long and drawn out, whether they suffered greatly, or very little, there is no shame, but only preciousness at the final threshold. If your loved one had a difficult death, you are not alone. It’s not fair. Not every death is a “good” one. But death doesn’t need to be good. Sometimes death is just hard. My dad had a hard death, but thankfully, as my brother reminded me, the suffering was mostly all in just that one month of his 80 years. Everything was done to try and prevent a hard death, but it’s just the way it was. There is no reason (read that again- there is no reason), and there is no shame. The truth of death we try to control will always override. As I have tossed and turned at night thinking about this, I have given myself grace in knowing I did everything I possibly could as my dad’s daughter, making decisions, asking questions, honoring my dad as best I could. Sometimes I would still cry out in lament, mostly while driving, apologizing to my dad for they way he suffered and died sooner than he wanted to. It was the most difficult privilege, and the most precious moment, in those 30+ days to care for, and eventually assist in my dad’s death. Even in the exhaustion, time, and witness of such dreadful suffering, I wouldn’t change for one second, the gift of each and every moment I spent with Dad as his life ended.

My beliefs about the afterlife are complex, and not simplistic, easy, or wishful, and certainly not certain. And that’s okay with me, really. That sits better with me than being convinced and question-less about something none of us truly knows. (I could say the same thing about my beliefs in relation to God. I guess that will need to be a different blog.) I also acknowledge the way certainty brings some people a sense of comfort. Even me sometimes, especially as one who longs to “know” stuff. But for things so grand as to be outside our human ability to grasp, for me it feels shallow, and misguided to be certain, for example, that my Dad has a conscious similar to what he had while living, or that he still has anthropomorphic abilities. Regardless, that is why I feel that memory, is one of the most inestimable of gifts we have as humans- an afterlife in and of itself- perhaps the afterlife- memory-which does carry on, and is indelibly pressed upon my heart. And fading as it may, as it will; impermanent, as all things are, we can still speak to the people we’ve lost in our hearts. It’s not really a matter of whether or not they “hear” us (after all, they don’t have ears anymore), but more about the ethereal relationship we still have with them which latterly exists in our grief and in their death, in our healing, in our humanness, in reminders, in uncanny revelations, encounters in nature, in wonder, in our tears, in the words we still speak to them, in the Essence, in the Soul, in the Mystery of it all, in the legacy and memory of our loved ones.

Dad printed out and framed on his desk a quote I once said: “I would rather embrace the wisdom of mystery than be limited by the vice of certainty.” I love that we shared conversations, pondering, reverence, and wonder about Mystery…

Dad’s death was hard, but his life…was extraordinary. Peace to you, if you, too, struggle with the suffering and/or difficult death of a loved one. Circumstances such as disease, aging, choice, accidents, etc., can vary of course, leading to death. But may you know deeply, that there is no shame, and no judgment. Lament, cry, raise your fist with the “whys” as you need. But the threshold of death itself is just truth. Sacred, but nothing more than truth.

Carl Anthony Ramay 3/25/1942 ~ 4/25/2022

Dad’s Memorial Service: https://youtu.be/wWSInIUpL0M

Reluctant to practice gratitude? You just might be the best practitioner of them all…

It’s been a while since I wrote in my blog. Everything I have hoped to write recently has been ruminating in my pandemic-enduring brain, with a few jotted down notes, paragraphs, and thoughts to come back to. As a hospital chaplain, a thinker, a parent, a passionate responder to all that’s going on in the world, a human…Eventually these experiences and ideas will probably show up here. But what sort of got me to begin again now was something akin to what usually sparks me to write: a realization that I need to get out of my cave. It’s been really nice in there. (Or has it…) Can I go back now?

Every November on social media, several people participate in the trendy “Thankful posts” sharing something they are thankful for each day until Thanksgiving Day, or throughout the entire month. I’ve done this a few times in my social media life. I do enjoy (for the most part), reading my friends’ gratitudes, and seeing something positive on social media. (But I’m okay with the negative stuff, too- when it’s real, necessary, challenging, connecting, or growth inducing). And I enjoy sharing my own gratitudes when I can and do. But this year, I’ve been wondering, how many of those posts are something the writer can’t wait to share, and do they get all excited in anticipation of what they’ll share the next day? Or, are any of them participating because they know they really need to? I mean, really need to. Not just because this is the time to be the positively-perfect-practitioner of November…

Ugh.

Is it hard for you to be grateful? You’re not alone. There are multiple factors that might be part of this ability to be grateful, or not. Genetics, personality, nature, nurture, circumstances, etc. Maybe it’s not really hard-wired for most. Some studies have shown that practicing gratitude can change your brain. If that’s the case, maybe we need not worry if at first when we engage in this practice, we don’t feel anything right away. It takes time to build habits and break habits. Maybe you just don’t feel the need or desire to share gratitudes, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck in the muck, or feeling forlorn. Maybe like most things in life it’s a both/and. We can hold both gratitude and grief; we can have little to no desire to share gratitude, and we can trust in something more. (Ps. 13) Mindfulness and cultivation are what digs up meaningful gratitude attempts, telling us we have and are enough, even when we don’t and aren’t feeling as such. It’s all valid.

We have a tradition in our house during November where family, and friends who come by, can write something they are grateful for and hang it in on our little two foot, Charlie-Brown-esque bare wire Thanksgiving Tree. This year, after I pulled it out of the “fall decor” box, and set in on our countertop, shuffled the different color leaf cut outs and placed them in a pile near its trunk, laid the black, fine point sharpie by the pile, and set the placard in front of the tree which reads, “What are you thankful for? Write it on a leaf and hang it on the Thanksgiving Tree!” I stopped and stared. The idea felt a bit dreadful. I do know, at least somewhere in a deep place, that I have much to be thankful for. But this year, and especially this time of year, for circumstances which have recently occurred in my personal life, and in the over all everyone-is-struggling reality of these times, I just didn’t have the same reception to the idea that I might normally have. And then I wondered if the reception to the idea we might “normally” have is a norm we need to rethink. Subsequently, I began to wonder if it is within this arduous space, where practicing gratitude can be its most genuine.

After all, it’s called a practice, right? If we need to “practice gratitude” perhaps those of us who are reluctant to participate are the best practitioners of all…

The first leaf on the tree written by me simply said, “I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving Tree, which reminds me to be grateful, even when it’s hard to.” I’m not sure I really meant it, but there it is. But maybe I need that reminder right now. And even though I didn’t name anything specific, that’s okay. Maybe this time, this year, the reminder is enough, whether I believe it or not. Someone else can post their rosy gratitudes every day. Someone else can fill the tree. And if I muster the dedication, energy, thought, and heart to write something else, then I am the practitioner of gratitude from the depths of an authentic, sacred space. It’s not that easy-to-summon thankfulness isn’t good. I’ve had some of those days, since optimism is part of my both/and realist, neutral, and calm-in-chaos mixed nature. But when life is difficult, when our usual natures are off kilter, understanding this sacred practice takes on such a deeper meaning of grace, vulnerability, spiritual exercise, and hope. 

I wrote a prose to release the brick that weighs me down these days. After I wrote it, I re-read it a few times, and as I did, I began to picture myself at one of those spoken word, poetry slam, open mic nights, at a little city corner, worn, uneven floored, poster-plastered, draping with mini ceiling lights, yesteryears buildings, with collected mis-matched, too small tables topped with flickering candles in the dark, and more-than-the-tables-can handle poets and wanna be poets like me, huddled around them in beanies and piercings, or in fedoras and bowties, or just whatever-I’m-wearing wears, adjusting their bodies in creaky, wobbly chairs. I read this cathartic prose in my mind, imagining it aloud, with an underlying rhythm, with no concern over who was listening, releasing the angst, sadness, disappointment, and the hope of where the “pen” led me, catching my swallows of saliva a little later than normal talk would, just in time as it gathered in the corners of my brave lips, in-between uneven stanzas and phrases alternating attempted subtleties, blatant grief, and fractured clue images of the truth I am trying to express. Wow, did that feel good in such a horrible way… This must be why I wouldn’t do it very often.

I don’t know if I’ll ever share it publicly, or with anybody, and it certainly won’t fit on a leaf, but I’m counting it as something I’m thankful for. Not for the content perhaps, but maybe for how it was written, arranged, imagined in its presentation, for its healing nature, and its lament. For its ability to draw me to a place of imagining something new from something broken, torn, and released, even if for just a redemption-teasing-second. Or maybe just for what it is, and nothing more.

If you’re struggling with something in life, which of course you are, right? It’s 2021, which is just the extended 2020, and really the extension of history and humanity…

Maybe try the grace of allowing your lament to actually be something you are grateful for. For the things that would make you not quite fit in to the smiley, daily thankful posts, but perhaps an acceptance that you can join that next year (or a “Thank God” that you aren’t). And by the way, if you’re in that space of easy-to-summon-can’t-wait-to-share daily gratitudes life, that’s awesome. I am reading them with a warm heart. No really, I am. And I know that you, too- just might be having to summon them with dedicated practice in the hopes of dealing with whatever is heavy in your life. But if that’s not you, maybe try the vulnerability to let yourself be okay in this space of molasses-I-can’t-move, it’s hard to breathe, I can’t process this, hardening-ground-for-winter-on-the-horizon moment, accepting your blank stares at the invitation to be grateful, as no problem, as real, and as a genuine connection to suffering. The balance of humanity needs all of these phases and connections among each other. Maybe let these tough days remind you of why we need each other, in whatever form of community or relationship that might be for you. (Talks to self, “Yes, you!” while reminder-pointing at the cave…) If you are invited to share or write a gratitude on a leaf, and you want to write, “Gratitude shmatitude” on it, hope can be there, too- just as it is if you don’t write anything at all. Rest in knowing others are hanging the leaves this year, but that your potential leaves, or crumpled up leaves, or working-on-them leaves, or imagined leaves, are swirling in the autumn winds, eventually to be nurturing the shitty, stinky compost in the best way possible.

(P.S. A few more leaves in my pen-person-ship, since the first one I wrote, have made it to the Tree…)

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.” – Maya Angelou, Poet and Civil Rights Activist

“It is not joy that makes us grateful, it is gratitude that makes us joyful.” -David Steindl Rast

“When we lose our tolerance for vulnerability, joy becomes foreboding.” -Brene Brown

“How Long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, Lord my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death…But I trust in your unfailing love…” -Excerpts from Psalm 13

 

It feels invasive when your property is vandalized, stolen from, desecrated, destroyed, robbed, etc. On January 6, 2021, a day for the history books of national tragedies, a mob of white nationalist domestic terrorists stormed the United States Capitol, incited by years of irresponsible rhetoric, coddling and fanning the flames of white supremacists, and again in incitement, the days leading up to and the day of, by the President of the United States. Such sadness and horror, seeing the terror in a symbolic space of democracy, seeing the confederate flag fly inside where it never has before. Such a day will never be forgotten, and never unwoven from Trump’s incitement and complicity, not to mention his sycophants and enablers. It was so painful to see, and I can’t imagine how much more painful for those who know oppression, racism, and the suffering of their ancestors upon witnessing an unsurprising but appalling event. The evening this occurred, I got on to Facebook and made a statement:

On the one hand, you have a violent coup attempt at the US capitol. On the other hand, you have a “soft” coup attempt, if you will, inside the US capitol, by elected house and senate GOP officials. While upon appearance you see stark differences, make no mistake about how these are connected. An actual insurgence at the US capitol occurred today. It is white nationalist domestic terrorism. The biggest threat to the USA. At the same time, too many Republican leaders are repeating conspiracies and supporting the destruction of democracy by having tried to block the state certified votes and the will of the people and an election win by a large majority. It is cowardice. And do not forget that what occurred today was the epitome of whiteness. Do not forget the overblown militaristic presence in preparation for BLM protests, and the drastic opposite in what unfolded this day. People have said in response to today’s ambush of the capitol and to the GOP attempted coup, “This is not America!” 

Yes it is. 

This is the long accumulation of generations of excused white supremacy, silence in the face of oppression, emboldened by Trump, no doubt, and diseased by another pandemic called “Trumpism” which rides on the back of the sin of racism that is woven throughout the very existence of this land. It carries on, and is being used to gain power by the traitorous GOP officials who objected to the EC votes today. This is who we are.

Furthermore, any excuse to adhere this to authentic Christianity is blasphemous. To see people wrapped in Trump flags bowed at crosses and “Jesus saves” flags accompanying violence and hatred is evil, both blatantly, and with an undercurrent of complicity by many others (in elected positions, and in churches widespread). For 45 to tweet “love and peace” to his white supremacist supporters and call them “patriots” and “special” is despicable, and sacrilegious. His pretend attempt to quell the violence in the video release began with a lie, unsurprisingly, as his entire sociopathic endeavor to destroy America is lived out by such. Will this be enough?! Warnings and red flags have been waving in our faces for far too long. And too often those red flags have been waved in the name of Jesus fueled by the cult of destructive white evangelicalism in what you see today. The ruin occurring in congress, and by the terrorist attack today is authoritarian, toxic, and has no business calling itself Christian. What total dishonor. For all those who treasure what is true, garner the courage to speak up! Trump should have never been elected, and he most certainly should have been removed long ago, and he undoubtedly should be removed now. But this is about so much more than him…

We knew this was coming. We knew the volatile, irresponsible words of Trump and those who aided him would create this kind of rise out of the woodworks, and this kind of attack, even though we were told we were being dramatic. In the midst of processing this national tragedy, and the continuing deaths of 4,000 people a day from the pandemic (for which POTUS is also responsible for mishandling at the detriment of human life and well being), I am sick to my stomach. I think about Capitol Officer Eugene Goodman, a Black man outnumbered by a mob of racists, who had the courage to think quickly, and literally save lives and a possible hostage situation. I think about the many reporters who put their lives on the line to cover the event and reveal the truth, surviving assault and watching their expensive equipment smashed. My gut turned when rioters body slammed an officer over a wall to the ground. I think about Rep. Jason Crow, among many others, who took heroic action and compassion for their colleagues. In the wake of this national disaster, I’m once again, appalled, but not surprised, with the attempts to soften this, excuse this, deny the severity of this, use “whataboutism” and “both-side-ism”, etc. When whiteness is at the center of terrorism, look at the denial perpetuating white supremacy. Compare the response to other national tragedies…As this all continues to unfold, we see more and more the evil at hand, and how dangerous and significant this was and is…And yet. 

And yet, the denial, division, and cognitive dissonance persists. That is white supremacy. And for some who try to deny it with calls for unity, or using gaslighting by saying those of us who are fighting for justice are only being “divisive”, remember these words by writer, Austin Channing Brown: “There is nothing noble about unity for its own sake. I won’t be unified with injustice. I won’t be unified with white supremacy. I won’t be unified with overturning a legitimate election. I won’t be unified with hypocrisy, lies, and harm. If that is what unity requires of me, consider us forever divided.” We must be prepared by remembering that while Trump tapped into holding on to white power, and emboldened it, he didn’t create it. It is part of American identity, and we need the light to be shined on this truth, face it, and deal with it. And let us not forget how easy it is for “good” and “normal” people to be swept up into this. It’s not just identified, out white nationalists, it’s a business colleague, a neighbor, a sports fan, it’s someone who we think would “never” participate in something like this…

The same day this awful event occurred, was also the day Christians celebrate Epiphany, the manifestation which concludes the Christmas season. Such glory revealed in Jesus is proclaimed for all people. All. Like the light of the star that guided the Magi to Jesus, the light of Christ reveals who we are. Beloved Children of God. (But who else are we?) We are sent out to be the Light, sharing the Good News of Love. As we reflect on the reality of a full blown, violent insurrection, I wonder what epiphanies we may have. I wonder what else the Light needs to reveal about us. Those Wise Ones had their “come to Jesus” moment; will we? Will that day of Epiphany on 1.6.21 be the juncture in the road where we find the courage to eradicate the denial which only blocks our ability to change and grow? Will we shine the light upon ourselves so we can be honest about who we are- acknowledging the worst, so that we can highlight what is also good about us, so we can then be on the path to truly be our best? That day of celebration in the Christian Faith, juxtaposed with that day of terror in the United States, I came across Jan Richardson’s Epiphany Poem, “Blessed are You Who Bear the Light” and an excerpt stood out to me:

“Blessed are you who bear the light in unbearable times, who testify to its endurance amid the unendurable…” 

Quite fitting on 2021’s Epiphany Day. And it is where my hope lies, because there are also so many of us, far more, I believe, who are fighting for justice, doing the work to eradicate white supremacy, and speaking out in prophetic ways. And also because if we face what we really are as America, then we can use that light to shine on what we also are, and what we want America to be, and who God created us to be. Let your emotions come. Feel your feelings. Seek support. Rest, and do the work. “Testify to its endurance amid the unendurable.”

Testify.

—

I feel like there is so much more to write. And there is. I’m grateful for so many voices, pastors, journalists, who are speaking up powerfully and eloquently about this. I included a few of my favorite thus far:

https://www.nytimes.com/video/opinion/100000007538961/capitol-riot-america.html?smid=fb-share&fbclid=IwAR3pAS7h7QP-mVEapa1BpAPHaou5-EvjU8duFR2BAMDjx0qjH7r_1rJ7uBc

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2021/01/trump-rioters-wanted-more-violence-worse/617614/?utm_content=edit-promo&utm_campaign=the-atlantic&utm_term=2021-01-09T14%3A11%3A50&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&fbclid=IwAR0zy8A0Uu1uGM5oApG-93xhm21dRO8z0DLvUYYovhYuwVFo7OTZYP6vibQ

https://billmoyers.com/story/podcast-bill-moyers-and-heather-cox-richardson/?fbclid=IwAR1IugKZ4RcqErjNNzppee1AcDJvBgUsRr3GCPAPyUS7DWjJ95YqlImgYP4

https://calvarydenver.org/news/2021/01/07/message-pastor-anne

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/09/magazine/trump-coup.html?referringSource=articleShare&fbclid=IwAR2CcLqclO-rdlvzXL4pCgin8k30WRbt3o9XRzLplKtGk67AO2Zkx0s1WLY

https://baptistnews.com/article/pastors-respond-to-unbelievable-events-at-capitol-on-epiphany-2021/?fbclid=IwAR316njfM3ZJQ-zOf0PNPmEkNMTlt70-In22H-xNr2ROm2pU54FXcmoz4pk#.X_dOlS1h1pR

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/01/denial-heartbeat-america/617631/

Signed along in spirit, Rev. Brenda J. Goodman: https://sojo.net/about-us/news/called-be-peacemakers?fbclid=IwAR2FLMM8lKFeURiywW5LrItADDGV3eJYuB1jEaEo9BKaqLziiSlFVJJRxGY

https://www.hulu.com/watch/89a49f22-f8b1-4133-bfcb-a47dcbdf8b6f

https://www.npr.org/2021/01/10/955392813/the-lies-we-tell-ourselves-about-race

(An ongoing list of resources is at the end of this blog entry.)

______

“It’s Not Fair!” This was a common refrain of mine as a child, and something I became known for apparently. I recall a voicemail when this was mentioned by one of my pastors who watched me grow up. She reminisced about it upon hearing the news in 2009 that I was going to attend seminary, stating how appropriate it was knowing I had a heart for fairness and justice from a very young age. I kept that voicemail, and listened to it from time to time, especially when fatigued during my seminary years, when I would ask myself what the heck I was doing there…

I’m sure my cries of unfairness and injustice as a child were genuine at times, and at others, more childish. The genuine times were likely upon seeing an animal suffer, or friends not sharing, maybe those cries were both genuine and childish when coming from the woes of being the younger sibling, or from places I just didn’t quite understand yet, and they were more childish from less significant “problems” (like being too short for the high dive). But it was a shout that would mature and reach a broader grasp beyond myself, and is still informing, and listening to those who are being treated unfairly, suffering from violent consequences of unjust policies, and ultimately, manifesting into a shout that calls out what fails to support the Gospel of Liberation, and becoming a bellow of insistence for justice exemplified by the radical love of Jesus.

Amos 5:24

The “It’s not fair” inner child in me has been growing to call out injustices around suffering and inequality, violence and oppression, and has compelled me to work to eradicate violence and seek authentic healing. I join in the statement I have joined in from its founding in response to the acquittal of Trayvon Martin’s murderer, since then and yet again, after the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and more…

Black Lives Matter. 

We must end the silencing violence of using “All Lives Matter” in response to Black Lives Matter. It’s an insult to our intelligence; yes, all lives matter…inherently. Every life is precious, beloved, and marked by the Image of God. But the cry and protesting voice of Black Lives Matter rings out, and will continue to, like the waters flowing toward justice, until the inherent value of all of us is reflected in society, policy, education, living, health, communities, religion, relationships, life, and more.

Black Lives Matter.

Gen. 1:27

Ps. 12:5

Ps. 103:6

Gal. 6:1-3

Jn. 15:13

I have a blog. It’s not a widely read one, I only write in it on occasion, and it’s only one space of many I can express myself. Some of my entries are light hearted, about family and parenting; some dig deep. Some are poems, some are reflective, some are my wannabe movie critic musings, and some are necessary responses to injustice. Today’s entry is one of the latter. I write this blog entry because I must. I am full of outrage, and deep grief. It is from the obligation I have as a white person, as an ordained person, and from other places of privilege, to do the work in dismantling the very institution of whiteness I benefit from. Over 2000 years ago, a man of color was killed by the powers that be, and the lynching that occurred then, and now, is linked to the modern day lynchings that linger. And those of us who don the stole should take to the streets in solidarity, work as the hands and feet of Christ, knowing Jesus himself, if he were with us in body, would undoubtedly be marching with a Black Lives Matter sign. Jesus stood with, and fought for the marginalized. Yet Jesus is here in spirit, in body, through our bodies. How are we using them to be active in the struggle toward the embodiment of justice? Are we seeing the way Jesus is still being killed at the hands of corruption and power, again, and again, and again? If we are a resurrection people, we need to look inwardly and outwardly, at what needs to be part of the ongoing resurrection.

Mt. 21:12-13

Mk. 8:34

Mt. 4:17 

Sadly, arguing with fanatics, those lost in cognitive dissonance, and thick denial are not usually worth our energy. In essence, they are lost. But I believe in the power of redemption. And many are coming around, some even surprisingly, to join the effort. Voices are speaking up in various ways with platforms big and small. All of these spaces, in whatever ways we can use them, are critical right now for our usage. Don’t think for one second that someone else saying something similar to what you want to say about these injustices, or someone who says it better (whether that’s true or not), is reason for you not to speak up. I have wondered this. Don’t believe that lie. Take away the power from those spurious voices that tell you otherwise, and speak up anyway. Squash the voices of doubt that tell you you aren’t smart enough, not influential enough, that someone else already saying it is enough, or (fill in the blank)… 

While I have endured sexism, misogyny, and can count myself among those who lament with #MeToo, my privilege as a white woman has afforded me security and freedoms that black men and women have never experienced. My white friends and family, we cannot be silent. The more people using their platforms, dinner tables, social media, church groups, book clubs, bus rides, wallets, any of the spaces we occupy to do the work we are called to do, the better. All of our voices combined are necessary in the resistance and the persistence for change. Most importantly, we must persist until policy changes are made. We must work to shift the destructive narratives, to stand up to racism, to resist all forms of injustice and oppression however they show up; all of our voices are needed to dismantle the evil of white supremacy. 

Speaking of churches…If your churches, houses of worship, sacred spaces (if you are part of one), are not responding with clear, substantive stances (sentiment won’t cut it), and are lacking in action, ask the staff why, and see about changing that. Be patient and willing to work with those communities to create needed shifts, but be prepared to leave if nothing changes, and seek out new faith communities who are making authentic commitments to justice and action. It is the work of the church.

“Put simply, any theology today that does not confront the cycle of violence perpetuated by white supremacy betrays the God of the crucified Jesus.” -Rev. Dr. Kelly Brown Douglas

You might say the wrong thing. I have, and you will, and we will again. But worrying about saying the wrong thing as an excuse to stay silent keeps us complicit, so please join me in this growing edge. Reject the culture of shame around acknowledging our part in white supremacy and racism. In Ibram X. Kendi’s book, “How to be an Antiracist,” Kendi reframes the calling out of something/someone as racist to its true power of enlightenment, explaining the difference between the word received falsely as a pejorative, and correctly as a descriptive. In a perfect partnership of linguistics and social work, Brene Brown’s interview with Kendi in Brown’s podcast “Unlocking Us” (highly recommend) where the two discussed Kendi’s book, and the issue of shame (a focus of much of Brown’s work), the two break down shame, cultivate empathy, and recognize the term racist as an identifier, to shut down defensiveness, and the reactive ego response that dismissively makes it about one’s self (and entirely misses the point). It opens the door wider, to have the courage to be authentic in our transformation once the identifier holds us accountable. This is huge. Shame-rejection work opens up the expansiveness of human growth potential. Reject the culture of shame that keeps us from growing, learning, being antiracists, and authentic humans. As white people, we must be consistently self evaluating how we need to shift, change, let go, take on, act, and more. We only perpetuate the problem when we don’t. White supremacy depends upon our denial, our cognitive dissonance, our ignorance, our fear, our refusal to do/say something. Work to understand the difference between having white skin, and whiteness as ideology, as positions of power, and as sets of normative privileges.

White silence is violence.

“The beauty of anti-racism is that you don’t have to pretend to be free of racism to be an anti-racist. Anti-racism is the commitment to fight racism wherever you find it, including in yourself. And it’s the only way forward.” -Ijeoma Oluo

“When we know better, we do better.” -Maya Angelou

The divisive “leadership” response to these century long cries for justice continue to silence the despairing cries with cowardly displays of force and words that incite violence. Jesus weeps. A nation’s so-called leader “turned holy ground into a battle ground” (Budde) at the sight of sacred scripture being used as a propped up, desperate signal virtue, condemned by military commanders, and lawmakers, and church/spiritual leaders including myself. Peaceful protestors’ rights and bodies were violently assaulted by the unacceptable orders of the current president by violation of his oath of office. To be Christian, to be followers of Jesus, is to be active in resisting evil, injustice, and oppression, as in the case of white supremacy, systematic racism, tyranny, and ever so clearly in current events. As an ordained chaplain, I join in the Bishop’s outrage over what occurred at St. John’s Episcopal Church in D.C. She is right to be outraged; I am, and you should be, too. Rt. Rev. Budde continued, “He didn’t come to pray. He didn’t come to lament the death of George Floyd. He didn’t come to address the deep wounds that are being expressed through peaceful protest by the thousands upon thousands. He didn’t try to bring calm to situations that are exploding with pain.” 

Instead, this man in yet another display of cowardice, used the bible as a prop, as a shield, violating his oath of office, using gas to dispel peaceful protestors. This is what wannabe dictators do. This disrespectful, sacrilegious, waste of time photo op is pandering to groups of the evangelical right, b/c he needs their votes again, and hopes some will continue to be sell outs (for judges, the “platform”, for single issues, or in flat out, full, unabashed support) if/when they do vote for him again. The irony that he stood in front of a church sign that says, “All are welcome” is not lost on me considering this administration’s xenophobic, racist, homophobic efforts to exclude. If one is wondering why I bring up Trump in this blog, it’s because he is the white backlash result of the post-Obama presidency, and his rhetoric and policy reveal white supremacy blatantly, and in covert whistleblowing. It must not be tolerated. This is not a normal presidency. But it didn’t start with him, and it won’t end with him whenever he leaves the White House. The pain of injustice began centuries ago, and continues today, and we need to get past only paying attention to the blatancy of racism (or staying comfortable in declaring we are not racist in that way), and open our eyes to, and work to eradicate, racism in ourselves, institutions, education, the injurious impact of neighborhood redlining, gentrification, healthcare, law, government, and more.

Many of my blog readers know my partner is in law enforcement. Some of my personal connections have asked me what my partner thinks, and what I think of this. I’d like to address that, but I don’t want to lose sight of the focus. I want to respond to the curiosity of others in how I navigate my marriage’s reality in this way, along with my call to justice work. I want to share the legitimate struggle that it is. My hope is that by responding, others can latch on to whatever courage they are working to summon, because I know there are many people in relationships with, or as people themselves, employed by corrupt institutions, and/or in problematic spaces entrenched with colonialism and white supremacy. Many of us are, at some point or another, thinking through whatever clashing actualities and existences are occurring in the complexity of it all. Each of us in my family seek out the care we need, and reach out to our support systems to remain healthy, with supportive pastors, therapists, friends, and more. But my struggle as an LE family should not distract from the work at hand.

I cannot speak for my partner directly, but I can share some of what has surfaced in our conversations, and my own perspective. I recognize that it is easier for me to talk about it, not being the one wearing the uniform. I also recognize how important it is for those in uniform to speak up. And for me, because I am married to a cop, I feel I have all the more obligation to speak up because of that very relationship. It is very difficult to hold so many things that are true, to hold so much intricacy, emotion, pain, and more. There is so much I don’t know, am seeking to understand and learn, and how to be, and how to navigate with this critical movement, woven in my commitment to justice, and my commitment to my relationships. 

The job in LE is very difficult. The dangers, unhealthy culture, and overall challenges of being a cop have had traumatic impacts on my spouse and our family in ways I wish were never true. While there are good people in LE, like my partner, who do take their oaths seriously, and are doing good work, who have a good rapport, who are respected by leaders, who have a good influence on young officers, who feel depleted by being lumped into categories, who are dealing with the stress, strain, PTSD, and burdens of arduous work; many of them are also struggling, some silently, some with their loved ones or in therapy, some unaware, with how they are part of a system of complicity even so. It’s important to understand the accusations toward police as an institution as valid, harsh as they are, with the justified anger behind them, even while it’s a concurrence that is very difficult to grapple with.

I do believe it is important to avoid demonization and dehumanization when talking about the human element in any group, while also recognizing the understandable labels of police as an entirety. My spouse plays a role in LE, and he is also a spouse, father, son, brother, church-goer, gardener, bird watcher, and a meditation expert (far better than I am)! He’s a model builder, history buff, a Civil Air Patrol volunteer. He’s full of energy, humor, kindness, gregariousness, making friends wherever we go (much to the chagrin of my introverted self), and so much more. He’s a human being. I think we can be aware of the both/ands (a common theme in my theological positions and writing), of the problems in dehumanization, while also understanding the perilous system within which one can operate. We can try to figure out day by day, person by person, election by election, vote by vote, policy by policy, choice by choice, deconstruction by deconstruction, brick by brick rebuilding, the goal of transformation both painful and healing, toward what is just. What are the both/ands in our lives, in our various roles, in the sources of our income, in how we spend our money, in our relationships, in the things we consume, etc.? It’s messy. Grapple with it, see what you can untangle, talk about, disconnect, reconnect, rebuild, transfer, shift, make a change, imagine…

I have heard the stories of ridicule in my spouse’s efforts to speak out against toxic culture, excessive use of force, speaking in support of common sense gun control, efforts to be patient with more verbal commands, before, or entirely in place of physical engagement, his support for certain aspects of reform, and more. “Who’s side are you on?” (Hear the problem with that comment? The implication to take a side?!) “You’ve gone all soft”, “Inmate lover” and more, are frequent replies. Aside from toxic cops, he knows firsthand that while he works alongside like minded friends who also take their oaths seriously, there is a haunting he and his colleagues face, both externally and internally in this tug of war, with a rope woven by humanity, livelihood, intentions of duty, and morality; along with toxicity, trauma, the stigma of mental health support, corruption, and the impact of violence. There is not enough acknowledgement, nor recognition for calming down situations resolved by communication skills, and fear of getting in trouble when not meeting the expectations to support stat-driven policing. Training focuses far more on combat techniques and shooting, than community policing and bias training. Much of what’s being begged for is treated like a box to check. Humans labeled by numbers that build from arrests, unnecessary warrant sweeps, tickets, head counts in jails and prisons, drive funding. The divisive culture of “back the blue” (again, implying “us vs. them” mentality), the detriment of the “blue code of silence” the racism of “Blue Lives Matter” encourages deception, divisiveness, violence, and more. Claims of “just following orders” and “justified” and “following protocol” become reasons why police aren’t always held accountable, backed by unions and immunity, civil cases almost impossible to win, etc. (The FOP- Fraternal Order of Police, the largest police union in the world, endorsed Trump in September of 2016.) Just because an entity can legally claim justification, does not always make it right.

Even though some incremental changes have helped (my partner launched a structural change in use of force policy within his own agency which reduced such instances), the entrenchment of white supremacy and toxic culture are resistant to lasting, fundamental and broader changes/deconstruction, greatly needed for the betterment of communities. Such reform attempts continue to be deflected, or proposed, implemented, then watered down, or they fail to bring about a fruition of what it means to protect and serve in the very heart of those words. (Think about it. Protect. Serve.) Incremental steps, and reform are still not enough, and have not worked well enough. Culture shift, policy changes, community building, investing in safety nets, the reduction of ridiculous expectations on police, are a welcomed reform in the discussions I have had, and heard in my partner’s stories. And while kneeling, hugs, marching arm in arm, are symbols that stir (assuming they are genuine), and could be a signs of hope, they will ring hollow if they don’t accompany the ongoing work such gestures seem to communicate.

“The photos of officers kneeling and marching and hugging are nice. The video of officers giving good speeches and becoming emotional are moving. BUT. Friends, we are not going to hug our way to justice. This fight is not about police being nicer. This fight is about systemic racism, injustice, accountability. The cute pictures won’t do. *Policy change. *Defunding. *Abolition *Prosecution These are examples of the deep changes that are being called for right now. This is what it looks like to fight for Black lives in this moment. If you don’t want this to happen again, we are going to need more than hugs. *PS: when you do see the “nice” officers; don’t ask for hugs, ask for courage. Courage to change a system that hurts Black people.” -Austin Channing Brown

Systemic racism’s stronghold, even beyond blatant acts, words, and police brutality, stubbornly resists reform as the ultimate goal. There is a barrier that often keeps policing from adopting the drastic changes being shouted for. And it’s most certainly beyond the erroneous “bad apple” argument. Cops aren’t necessarily anymore racist than a lawyer, or doctor might be, for example. But it’s the system that was built in a way that gives them the tools, and power, mixed with a virulent culture, a fear of betrayal or appearing weak, and the statistically backed fact that biases in the police force are rampant, altogether revealing that we need to just stop with the “bad apple” excuse. Plus, even if we take the literal bad apple argument and apply it, look at what happened in Buffalo NY. Two officers who were “just following orders” assaulted an elderly man. (And the hallow look in the officer’s eyes who was pulled away from the man when he reached to help him…that second of empathy that arose in regret, but was quickly shunned…that’s a glimpse, that’s the beginning, or continuing, of the erosion of his emotional and psychological well-being as a member of LE.) Then the 75 officers alongside them resigned from their special duty team in support of the two, then later cheered among a crowd (cheered!) upon the two officers’ exit from the court house. How does one assess the quality of apples in such a scenario?

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/06/chauvin-did-what-trump-asked-him-do/612574/

Can we create new institutionalized policies and organizations that were not founded in, and are not so entrenched in white supremacy, and racism as was/is the case of the American police and the criminal justice system? Can we stop denying the fact that when a system (policing) was literally born out of slave patrols, it still carries that thread into the very violence occurring today? We are seeing the movements through the power of the people to work in a new direction already, and yes, even as the partner of a cop, I have and continue to wholeheartedly support this trajectory in the best and most effective ways I can, and commit to continue to learn how to do more and more effectively. And it’s not just in policing and justice systems; it’s racism in schools, higher education, neighborhoods, religious institutions, healthcare, and government; we can recognize ways in which racism and destructive power play a role in varying levels. But many who hold decision making power, do not have this kind of awareness, or are willfully ignorant, and that contributes to perpetuating problems, attitudes, division and oppression. It didn’t start with Trump, but he has, and is still fanning the flames on this matter (and he quite literally has encouraged brutal police tactics), and has ended the Obama era restrictions on military hardware flowing into police departments which was heightened during the Bush era “war on Terror”, thereby increasing the dangerous militarization of police (but the militarization goes decades back), in addition to so many other problems.

We need not pay attention to the fear mongering comments of “total chaos”, “insane” and “total anarchy in the streets” which continue to miss the entire point, and are a distraction to keep us from developing. Surface level judgments, fear mongering, and lack of understanding of what defunding and abolition mean are a hindrance to helping communities truly be safe, and set up to thrive. I know this is a long road ahead, but we need to creatively reimagine what it means to have healthy and safe communities that become less and less dependent on policing. We think we “need” police because we have become dependent upon that institution. Think about this. Why are we so reluctant to imagine a world where we don’t need police? Wouldn’t that be an ideal world? Are we reacting to this vision by thinking of worse case scenarios without policing instead of best case scenarios without it? What does that say about what’s driving our response? White supremacist power, which depends upon fear. That’s what. And even if we’re in our “realist” mind, and we think it’s utopian to have a world without policing, shouldn’t we try to work toward it anyway? For the benefit of those who are realistically being oppressed by it now? The answer is a resounding yes. The over-funded, militarized police system reflects a heavily weighted imbalance of money and power from places it could be more equally spent, better spent, more heavily spent, or altogether spent, directly to the benefit of human thriving. How is this system, or any of the systems we participate in, or are exposed to, life giving? How are they life limiting? 

https://fee.org/articles/the-militarization-of-americas-police-a-brief-history/

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/01/us/politics/police-military-gear.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/31/opinion/trump-police-george-floyd.html

https://www.politico.com/f/?id=00000172-7c37-d3d2-ab7a-7f3762a80000&fbclid=IwAR3JHAzShWo5VGZHdkZzHKtNv9aAjkrpdqxHTgY4PnUdBiI_ip400TdbUmU

“Safety, safeguarded by violence, is not really safety…abolition is not primarily a negative strategy…it’s not primarily about dismantling and getting rid of, but it’s about re-envisioning; it’s about building anew.” -Angela Davis (Informative interview on Democracy Now. See the entire interview here): https://www.democracynow.org/2020/6/12/angela_davis_on_abolition_calls_to?fbclid=IwAR0q2K7bZpGw9OBc0GXsx4lALnvh3xc7aOw9kG2THZ3tKp_G8VPaUHloYOQ

So how do my partner and I navigate these realities juxtaposed in our relationship? It’s not easy, but we are privileged to be able to have conversations safely and supportively while holding those nuances and complexities very carefully. I think it helps both of us, and our loved ones, not to be excused into thinking in extremes, but also to be held accountable and strive to do and be better, and to speak out. It’s important to note that the ability to distinguish being the spouse of a cop, in a space to do that, is a place of privilege itself. Being able to differentiate from how a cop I’m married to acts out of uniform within our family structure, is a place of privilege our family has. And it’s a privilege a lot of white people have, too. The dehumanization of cops isn’t ideal, yet is in no way comparative to the dehumanization people of color endure regularly. Speaking out is a must. The backlash can be rough and exhausting, especially when it comes from loved ones, but it is minor and doesn’t even compare to the injustices in point. I insist upon the conversations we need to have about the various options in police reform, defunding, redistribution of money into community based programs, unarmed trained responders of varying professional fields in mental health and social work, pulling out SRO’s from school districts, looking at the differing needs based on location, if not a complete rebuilding of public safety. All of these options on the table. This isn’t about a dichotomy of good cops and bad cops. This is about sanctioned violence. This is about systemic problems, and toxicity embedded in policing that must be faced, and changed.

I’m still trying to figure out, like many of us, what this might look like, with the ultimate goal of something reflective of healthy, thriving communities. Ignore the naysayers who claim extreme consequences, when they have and continue to ignore extremist police brutality tactics, prison policies, the preserving of oppression in numerous functions, and actions that are literally killing people of color historically, and right now. We cannot control how others will respond, as much as we hope they will be open. I wish people had more room in their hearts and minds for holding such entanglements, complexities, and nuances of the human experience, the American experience, and to see the need for reconsideration, destruction, rebuilding, and renewal. I hope and pray for clinched fists to unfurl and receive new ideas, and new possibilities, and to live into the kind of rebirth Jesus calls upon all of us to do at the very essence of “metanoia”.

“It’s not fair!” Feel the adamancy of that statement, if it is your inner child, or your own experiences of pain, to further develop empathy and compassion. Make the shift if the assertion comes from a distracting place about self, to the needed place about love. Tap into the desire for justice I believe we all have within us, summon the courage to make mistakes, to admit we were wrong, to be vulnerable, learn, grow, use your body, take the risk, use your platforms, connections, and join in the effort to eradicate evil and oppression. As Michelle Alexander declared in a recent New York Times Op-ed, “Our only hope for our collective liberation is a politics of deep solidarity rooted in love.” Everyone has to start somewhere. If you haven’t been doing the work until now, have remained silent, even though it’s past time to arrive, you/they/we are here now, and there is grace. White people, it is our work, to dismantle systems of oppression, speak up, speak out, and end white supremacy.

There is so much to say, so much to learn, so much emotion, so much to explore in such an interminable discussion, and lengthy effort. It makes it difficult to encapsulate in a blog entry (and makes for verbose writing, for which I thank you for your patience). I seek to learn, and do better in the effort to be anti-racist. Join. I am including links below to resources I have known, and continue to come across to learn, act, give, and other ways to support the movement for justice for Black Lives. It is not exhaustive, and I plan to keep adding to it as I find new ones. Let us all commit to educating ourselves to learn more about racial justice, to amplify voices and leaders of oppressed/marginalized groups in our writings, conversations, social media, and more. Let us make priority, substantive diversity, equity, and inclusion in the spaces we belong and are connected to. May we tap into what it means to be true activists who create substantial change.

“We have to be courageous to be antiracist…While many people are fearful of what could happen if they resist, I am fearful of what could happen if I don’t resist. I am fearful of cowardice. Cowardice is the inability to amass the strength to do what is right in the face of fear. And racist power has been terrorizing cowardice into us for generations.” -Ibram X. Kendi

Resist, disrupt, persist. Beloveds, continue the work…get to work. Grace, peace, and good courage.

Micah 6:8

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/08/opinion/george-floyd-protests-race.html

______

EDUCATION:

These first two links are FULL of multiple resources (and they may take a few seconds to load):

1)https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PrAq4iBNb4nVIcTsLcNlW8zjaQXBLkWayL8EaPlh0bc/preview?fbclid=IwAR1rMFLBBchRGSsec8de1VhwXc6k-YBgG7eAPnK21si4RB-AspXhKlmz3ew&pru=AAABctmRdq8*6IrrTcWe5s9G-OrQTwh-aQ

2)https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BRlF2_zhNe86SGgHa6-VlBO-QgirITwCTugSfKie5Fs/preview?pru=AAABcqSUIE8*GfY1Q3VCczacTFO5nQWXpQ

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/08/14/magazine/1619-america-slavery.html

https://www.nytimes.com/column/1619-project

http://www.avaduvernay.com/13th (Available on Netflix)

https://englewoodreview.org/antiracism-books-for-christians-a-reading-guide/?fbclid=IwAR1cxvmmQRx1nXmUNw29ilrB_lw2WTytx20LZl91uU6_8jdaSJGuABX2oLs

https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2020/06/03/457251670/how-much-do-we-need-the-police

https://www.vox.com/2020/6/2/21278123/being-an-ally-racism-george-floyd-protests-white-people

https://www.tnqshow.com

https://eji.org/news/tragic-death-of-george-floyd-reveals-continuing-problem-of-police-violence/

–https://www.courtneyahndesign.com/illustration/guide-white-privilege

https://academicaffairs.ucsc.edu/events/documents/Microaggressions_Examples_Arial_2014_11_12.pdf

https://www.npr.org/2020/06/02/868025780/code-switch-a-decade-of-watching-black-people-die

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8sUwXTWb4M

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrHIQIO_bdQ

I had to include this movie, because it was one that shaped my learning as a youth. I wrote a paper on it in my “Writing on Film” class in high school after viewing the film at age 15. It became indelible in my memory, the messages, the cinematography, my love for movies, and I’ve continued to follow Spike Lee and his spectacular work ever since. This article does a great service to recognizing the stellar achievements and complexities of the movie, it’s extant relevance, while also naming some cringe worthy elements (and calling out, thank you, the exploitation of female characters, something still problematic in cinema). https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/05/movies/do-the-right-thing-spike-lee.html

https://relevantmagazine.com/current/watch-the-creator-of-veggie-tales-explain-how-systemic-racism-works/?fbclid=IwAR1yVdxdNwL_MiJ9ORL4YwAnYuk5OPUOkv4N6BvMyNc9up1MG81Ao_A1Gb0

PARENTING:

https://www.npr.org/2020/05/31/866426170/raising-white-kids-author-on-how-white-parents-can-talk-about-race?utm_campaign=storyshare&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&fbclid=IwAR3oBycP01QZRWNOjM7S04KYHWbFbYCvfLktpqXYDiv5V5QedFWNG95ndgs

https://www.popsugar.com/family/kindergarten-teacher-explains-what-is-racism-video-47529956?fbclid=IwAR0WnB9OUkgu0fLFJoMRj_D_8fjbMo4UWgO8vgSgr9QjZpe0Ec5Vz_sMk0Y

https://centerracialjustice.org

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52220686-stamped?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=H8vAVncOb0&rank=2

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52535437-antiracist-baby?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=qIC0wo2VgV&rank=1

ACTION AND FURTHER RESOURCES:

https://www.showingupforracialjustice.org

https://soul2soulsisters.org

https://www.joincampaignzero.org

http://www.blacklivesmatter5280.com

https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd/psf/share?share_abi=1&message=perm_decline

https://www.change.org/p/andy-beshear-justice-for-breonna-taylor

https://www.runwithmaud.com

https://www.poorpeoplescampaign.org

https://fundly.com/coloradofreedom

https://eji.org

https://officialblackwallstreet.com/directory/?fbclid=IwAR3chCYHyp5dky-bYYistgmI3GDbaTyQLQUWZQPhQGTK8sPGR35Y_S6KBiM

https://303magazine.com/2020/06/black-owned-businesses-denver/

http://mendozao.github.io/Resource-Generation-Map/app/index.html

I love how fog quiets the air
Thickens my breath
Softens the night, eases the morn
Effects a delay.
 
How fog quiets the air
Draws December night forests near
Muffling herded cities and suburbs
A reminder of pristine worlds of woods.
 
How fog quiets the air
Generates an echoing landscape
Where Nature rules and sings
In low and hushed tones.
 
How fog quiets the air
Hoods objects in a cold waft
Languidly it presents, and no matter where
Brings all winter affairs beside you.

How fog quiets the air 
Accompanies running to make it quite fun
Amplifies paced, snow-crunched steps
Tunes the energy of movement in muscle and mind.
 
How fog quiets the air
Like low brass and a soft settling
How it augments solitude;
A welcoming cloak of detachment.
 
I love how fog quiets the air
Yet suddenly you can clearly hear:
 
The way trees stand
The boldness of snowcapped mountain tops
Flocks of flyers relating their abundance
Fresh, delicate prints of creatures 
The cessation of wind
The sharpening of ice
The entrance of a season.

Yes, you can hear it; how fog quiets the air.
 
I love how fog quiets the air
A surprising weather of clarity 
It blankets interruptions
And makes all that is meaningful well known.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

A Poem:

Some days I am the jagged river rocks the water caresses,
Bold; a deceived, asperous gem resistant to water’s power.

Some days I am the water slowly changing the rock's form,
Patiently, secretly changing what the rock thinks is an unyielding anatomy.

Will it be countless years to shed layers that want to be forgotten?
Do they really want to be?

Some days I am the forgotten layers flowing in the river, 
Finding peace in the dispersed, shaved shards of what used to be. 

Rivers carry them. Rivers always carry them.

Pieces flow scattered, resting, surrendered sediment,
Gratefully confused because they don’t connect anymore.

Is this what time is? 

The gift of seeing my reflection in the waters that carry dispersed memories? 
Disaggregation?
Time, making them softer, year after year, impossible to force together again?

Reflection in the water. Earth elements hold the essence of my story in clouds and
Rain, in rivers and bird songs. 

Holy Stories. Human love and pain, Godly. A face viewing its reflection...among jagged rocks and water. 

Year after year, moment by moment. Jagged river rocks, the water, and the Sediment. 

I keep thinking about conversations I had with the beautiful people who stopped by the booth Calvary Baptist Church of Denver hosted at Pride Fest, Denver, 2019. The conversations were brief, but full. I took a shift midday Saturday with my daughter (who identifies as non-binary femme she/they and bisexual), representing CBC, a welcoming and affirming congregation, affiliated with AWAB, the Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists. I am a congregant at CBC. I was ordained at CBC. Although I serve in ministry as a chaplain at a hospital, I also serve in ministerial roles on occasion at CBC. I wore one rainbow pin and stole, remembering with care, as best I could, that as a straight ally, I am in a space that doesn’t belong to me. I thought a lot about how difficult things have been recently, particularly for the LGBTQIA community.

One person reluctantly approached, understandably so. They told me they had just received a flyer a few minutes ago, by another “pastor” who was standing outside the gates of Pride Fest. (Hm. Outside the gates…) “It said I was going to hell for who I am,” they commented. I explained to them that that is not the message of the Gospel. I apologized to them for the hurt caused by a theology of shame. “We are all created in God’s image. You are Beloved, you are loved, just as you are,” I said. As I handed them some information, the responsive words, “Thank you” came out in a shaky whisper.

A couple of people were surprised we are a Baptist church, so I explained if churches claim the name, “Baptist” as it truly means, they would all be welcoming and affirming, not welcoming followed by, “but…”. Unfortunately, the phrase “religious freedom” which is a large part of the Baptist identity, is being used as an excuse to discriminate. I spoke of the broader message of Christ as one of liberation, a freedom from systems of oppression. Religious freedom as it is intended, means we are willing to stand by those whose freedoms are being suppressed, because as it is widely stated, none of us are free until all of us are free.

Some people inquired about the typical bible verses used to condemn them. I explained that the bible ought not be used as a tool to belittle others, and how that is offensive to the message of Christ. The Wisdom of the Sacred Text portrays, Wholly and Holy, a Love for all of humanity. Love, and the message of Jesus, is a lens through which we struggle and ultimately reconcile with difficult verses, sometimes used out of context, but moreover in fear, to hate and exclude. Sometimes this hate occurs blatantly. Other times, more insidiously, it is promoted under the guise of love and welcome, only to reveal itself as pretending to be loving, whether intentional or not. One person approached and said, “I used to go to church. Thanks for being a place that reminds me of a verse I memorized when I was little from 1 John 4, ‘Let us love one another for Love is from God.’” “Yes!” I responded enthusiastically while sharing about CBC’s community. They felt they had been too hurt by the Church to ever consider returning. Understandable. I told them I respected that.

One approached telling me they were atheist, and said, “I just want to shake your hand. Thanks for being this kind of church.” More people who identified as religious, and non-religious stopped by, all of whom offered words of gratitude. “I wish all churches were like this” one observed. I responded once to another atheist with, “Thanks for being one who questions, doubts, and values rationality. I have a similar spirit…” After all, “Open to All” means all- culturally and/or religiously…and more. One person told me she was a grandma to a transgender grandson. She said his mother wouldn’t come, so she brought him instead. She was so excited to know our church existed. I told her that her grandson was lucky to have her in his life. She said, “I’m lucky to have him.” There were so many inquiring hearts and minds, some from different religious backgrounds, others just curious about who we are as a church, some seeking advice on how to talk to relatives who are not willing to accept them, some simply adding pens to their pen collection from various booths, some just wanting to pet my Greyhound, Daisy adorned with a rainbow pride snood (created by my daughter) and buttons. Every single one of them welcome.

There were times of laughter and joy, and moments of deep despair. This year’s Denver Pride was a beautiful celebration of the expanse of gender identity and the vibrant colors of humanity. TBTG! At times I am convinced the Church will die, and in some ways, deservedly so. Yet I hope, in the recognition of such a need for community, that churches will find ways to change and be changed; that we may truly live into the call to repent, in the spirit of metanoia as it is written. May churches authentically welcome all, do the work of reconciliation, claiming through the Spirit of Christ’s radical inclusion, that yes, one can live into an identity of being Christian congruent with LGBTQIA identity. “Open to All; Closed to None.”

Check out CBC @ http://calvarydenver.org. “Calvary welcomes and affirms all people as children of God from every cultural and religious background, sexual orientation, family composition, physical and mental ability, economic means, race, age and gender.“