To those with no birthday

Yesterday I woke up before my alarm, sleepy until I remembered it was a special day. Then I felt overwhelmed in God's presence, who waits for me, for each of His children to wake up each morning so He can shower us with love. "I'm glad you were born," He impressed upon my heart in the quietness of a brand new day, before anyone else knew I was awake.

Lying still, I pictured all my littlest birthdays, before I knew Him, while He waited years for me to be told His story and learn to trust Him on purpose, instead of instinctively. He was with me at Chuck E. Cheese in California and Chimpy's in Illinois, present the first time I tasted cake and the times I was old enough to blow out candles. When I ran around with my friends and the soles of our socks got all dirty at Discovery Zone. I didn't know Him, didn't care that He was there, but He loved me and waited patiently until I did.

"Today is my birthday," I thought, and suddenly realized countless children in America never experience even one birthday, not even the one that starts the clock, because their mothers deemed a day of death would be better.

A birthday is a special thing. On the best birthdays, you're reminded that it matters that you were born. That someone, or many someones, are glad you were. That their lives, the world itself, would be different without you. That you are worthy of celebration, of smiles, hugs, cards, gifts, of being looked at and wished well. And of course worthy of being alive. Of course. Shouldn't that go without saying?

One birthday when you're old enough, you understand that years ago, your own mother, probably terrified and excited, removed shoes and clothes and entrusted herself to people she may not have known well, letting them hold her soft bare feet aloft, as she was brave and strong for you. Your birthday her birth day. Whether she's been with you ever since or you had only tumbleweeds where you needed a mama's love, she will always be your mother. Her gift can't be returned to the store.

I wish everyone would rest assured of this: much as your mother and father may love you, you've an even more direct parent. In the kingdom of God, no one is grandfathered in. Your earthly parents couldn't design you, neither assembling nor predicting eye color, hair color, height, talent, intelligence, personality. God designed you and pulled you into the world using your parents' raw material. God as the agent, you were a sacred gift entrusted to them. You have never been the property of another person. If ever they treated you that way, they were wrong to. From the moment of your conception, your body began where your mother's ended; after all, you are half your father, too. You lived inside her, yet with borders.

Please know, if you don't already, that you're wanted through and through. You belong here. You can become whole, free, and perfectly loved, with or without the consent or knowledge of your parents, whether they're here or gone. They never defined you fully. I speak from a mixture of listening, experience, and hope. I speak because I once needed this assurance. I give it on God's authority.

To all the little ones waiting in a warm place, impossibly fragile, skin too thin to touch, whose very presence is wordless hope and trust, a held breath waiting to be broken: I see you. Please forgive me for being too afraid to do much about it for too much of my life. To those who will never be sung to, or wished a happy birthday, or gently kissed on the scalp, or even smiled at: we remember you though you're all but invisible and we will never stop praying and fighting for your birthdays.

A Wasted Day

Today was a wasted day. Not only did I not write a blog post, but also instead of having either an enjoyable or a productive day, I spent most of the day awkwardly, a little miserably, avoiding writing by clicking around political articles regarding the upcoming Presidential election and the Clintons' home life in their White House days. Today was a failed mission. A small mission, the fate of which leaves no lives hanging in the balance: post to the blog. Nevertheless, I missed the mark.

Then again, late in the day, when the sun started slanting yellowly in through my west-facing bathroom window, I did what I sometimes do: I held my life up to the parallel universes. Who else could I have become by now? I've read plenty of personal anecdotes about the mundaneness that young motherhood can bring. There are many days in which simply making it to the evening alive and standing, with an uninjured child, is a triumph worthy of a parade or at least a hearty round of applause and a head massage. I have some former classmates my own age who are in that phase now. Maybe some of them had such a day today. This train of thought took me to a few years ago, when I was serving at a ministry in New Hampshire. Often, evening would come and I would have spent the entire day dusting and mopping, except for meals and some prayer. I would have given anything for more free days, more breaks, less toilet-scrubbing. Older and wiser people in the ministry said my discontentment resembled that of a mom; important tasks were thankless and repetitive and payoff was not instant.

Still in my thoughts, I washed dishes in the kitchen and decided I wouldn't recommend my day to anyone, but there's infinite grace to move past it now that it's over. Isn't every mistake like that? I'll get yet another chance to do better--I've had so many chances--and one of these days maybe I'll even catch on. Maybe I can learn to extend grace to myself. To repeat to myself, "you're only human," and to mean it, not as a compliment or an insult, but a statement of fact and a sanity-preserver. Humans sometimes panic about nothing, or waste time, or feel things that don't make sense, or act against their own self-interest. I'm human.

This morning I prayed. However small the measure, these are things I did today: texted, Skyped, made plans, journaled, read Anna Karenina, read a less-illustrious-but-as-entertaining teen fiction book, cooked, ate delicious food, learned about the 270 electoral votes (again. I used to know this stuff when I was younger), had kind thoughts toward my mother. I washed dishes and in so doing brought order to my small world. (I did not sweep the floor, and it needs it after my cooking). It wasn't my favorite day. When I come close to dying and reflect on my life, it won't be remembered. But I'm glad I participated in a small way in important things: praying, Bible study, contemplative thought, gratitude, human interaction. My day isn't even over. There's still time for me to grocery shop, as I had wanted to. Thank goodness stores stay open so late. I'm about to go out to dinner with a few people, and maybe that will be fun or meaningful. And, hey, look at that! I posted to my blog after all!

Life with no Air Conditioning

Yesterday it was too hot to think straight. I couldn't get any writing done, so I finally drove to a library. Hot as my apartment is, I still resist leaving it. The prospect of walking anywhere is miserable, especially with my computer. I don't even have a real backpack, just a promotional drawstring one that says Butterbraid on it, a product I do not endorse on principle, and its strings bite into both shoulders, just not quite as badly as a tote bag that rests all its weight on one side. By the time I reach any destination by walking, I'm sure to be disgusting. Taking my car is no better. It's essentially a metal box with windows that let in sunlight but do not let heat escape. It's been baking all day, so opening it feels like opening a large oven. Sitting inside it creates an instant second skin of sweat that is there to stay until showered off. I try to avoid this moment at all costs. I tell myself that I am better off staying put in my un-air-conditioned apartment all day, when the reality is that car travel would be a short time of discomfort followed by potentially hours of comfort, and I'll need a shower no matter what. I'd successfully resisted writing at a library for a week, but since I had to go out anyway, there would be no avoiding the car moment. Soon enough I was uncomfortably cold at the library, sharing a wooden table with a woman who had been waiting hours for her car to be repaired, and I was grateful for it.

When I got home again, I walked down the three flights of stairs with my bagged frozen compost, too hot to be disgusted that I pressed it against my back and sides to feel its cold. Then, once it was safely in the forest, it was back up the stairs again carrying empty, uselessly warm containers. Next, I walked the few mostly shade-devoid blocks to dump my recycling. My sunglasses slid awkwardly down my nose whenever I wasn't pushing them up, which was most of the time. Worst of all, while I was innocently carrying the recycling in both hands, not imagining I'd need to defend myself, a fly kept landing on my legs and doing something itchy. Even after I'd stopped walking to investigate and slapped him away twice, he bit me hard enough to draw blood. I was so mad. Why do flies like that exist? What makes them think they have the right to bite me? I ran away a little bit, cans clattering, so he wouldn't follow me, and took a detour back home. I was finally done after one more little jaunt down the street in the other direction, to the nearby mailbox. To say I was hot at the end of all this would be quite the understatement. It was hot-car moment times a thousand. I splashed my face repeatedly with the coldest water I could get from my bathroom faucet (coldness rating: kind of cold). No drying off--in the summer, every towel feels as though a (sadistic) personal assistant dryer-heated it, just the way I wish they'd all feel in the winter. Just as I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror, a faded black tear of mascara dripped down my face, leaving a long trail that looked like a badass vein.

Summer is animalistic. I'm more aware of my body--feel more bodily disgust as my skin crawls at a soccer game or picnic, feel more bodily relief (however brief) when I take a cool shower. I feel like prey, desperately seeking relief from the environment that's slowly become hostile around me over the course of weeks. My faceless, omnipresent predator. In winter, one can add clothes and blankets, as many as needed, against the elements, and both are very human to possess and use. In summer, there's a firm limit to what a person can remove. I can't peel away my skin, or rather, if I did it would not make me feel cooler.

In the most extreme temperatures of the season, I forget how unpleasant it felt at the other end of the year. It's hard to imagine snow was everywhere and my room was so cold I had trouble falling asleep because the heater was broken. Main takeaway from my half-summer without air conditioning: I can't wait to move again!

Why I didn't "go to church" for two years

I don't have a problem with church, but I kind of have a problem with the word referring mainly to a building or a specific congregation instead of the eternal body of Christ, composed of each and every person who has trusted Him for salvation. Having said this, I often slip into the common usage myself, for clarity's sake. A lot of pain and confusion and needless guilt have come from a sloppy usage of "church." I haven't found a passage in the Bible that says you have to gather at 10 am on Sunday morning and that's church. I have seen passages about keeping the Sabbath and verses about believers gathering together and breaking bread, but it's such a stretch to imply these are an inviolable basis for the present Christian culture of Sunday morning services.

I believe that inside of each person is a little sensor that detects whether one's present situation is healthy/life-giving or not. I want to think this is the Holy Spirit's voice, but in light of what I'm about to say, I'm not completely sure. The sensor can somewhat get off-kilter and need re-calibrating (I've lived through that) but it exists to be heeded, and I tend to think pressing on despite its warnings is not a part of God's will for a person's life. For a longish season, whenever I entered a church, this sensor would sound its alarm. In my trinity of body, soul, spirit, there was a dissonance, the polar opposite of "this resonates with me," the silent scream of ringing false.

For what it's worth, I sporadically attended services at five different churches over a span of a few years, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. There were nice moments, even deeply meaningful moments, sprinkled throughout. I enjoy dressing up. But sometimes during church services I would hear a gentle voice telling me, "you don't have to do this." I realized very plainly that the only reason I was attending church was because I knew people would look at me differently if I stopped attending. And the opinions of others are not always a great reason to do or avoid doing. I got honest. I have integrity, and I didn't want to be doing something for such a fake reason, even if the "something" in question was weekly church attendance.

I was never "out of the church." I never stopped being a member of the body of Christ. I couldn't have helped it if I wanted to; that's my deepest identity, beyond career or location or relationships or even appearance. It's more like family than a membership. This card can't be revoked. I still met with believers all the time: prayed with them, encouraged them, dined with them. For me to say I didn't go to church, while in some sense accurate, was a shorthand that didn't convey the reality of my life as a believer.

I wouldn't have an answer for someone who asks why you "have to" go to church. Oh wait, thought of one: "you don't have to." A friend quoted to me, "church is to be enjoyed, not endured." Do what you want and what you are led to do, always letting your service and devotion to God be a guide. If going to church helps you serve Him and others, please go. If it's an outward sign of an inward commitment, a physical prayer when your lips can't find the words you want, please attend. If it has the opposite effect, if it's awkward and self-conscious and pretentious and you find yourself silently judging others as well as yourself, if you feel heavy when you walk in the door and lighter when you leave: if you can feel in your soul sensor that it's not where you belong, please don't allow yourself to be burdened by this. Don't feel that your presence or absence at that particular gathering at that particular time is going to make or break your own or your neighbor's trajectory. It's okay to not go.

I don't know how to reconcile this with the "rulebook" of some Christian traditions. I do believe God put that little sensor inside of each person to protect us, and part of living a full and healthy human life is learning to honor it, to resist caving indiscriminately to the demands of the world and people around us, however pious they may seem. It's okay, actually it's preferable, to be honest about your motives, and not to seek to please anyone but God, even if others doubt you. At the end of the day, in those words attributed to Mother Teresa, "it was never between you and them anyway."

Audience

For most of college, I judged my actions by the opinions of a group of "cool girls" from high school. Let me clarify. I judged by my perception of the opinions of these girls. Never mind that I didn't know them well, that I hadn't seen them since high school. That some of them were kind of thoughtless or mean to me. That they weren't even the "coolest" group (as though that would make it better). Now, I see what nonsense this is. Then, I unconsciously, if uncomfortably, accepted it. I didn't necessarily alter any of my behaviors to "impress them," but I mentally judged myself, based on my perception of their hypothetical perceptions. And "they" were not kind. Why did I do this?

It's similar to the super mean voice in my head that sometimes pops in for an insult or a few as I write. It asks sarcastic questions, finds fault with what I say, takes me the wrong way, rushes to criticize. I find myself believing this voice channels the thoughts of certain readers, but is that so?

I've no evidence that anyone is judging me that harshly, or ever has. True, I have no idea who my blog audience is. I don't know whether any readers find great fault with my words. I can see some numbers on the back end, such as what countries the readers are from and what browsers they use, but Google doesn't track or analyze reader perspectives. Those who have reacted have all been extremely respectful and sometimes also complimentary or in agreement. Apparently haters ain't gonna hate, at least not at the level of disclosure I've reached so far.

I always imagine I'm writing to someone who will instantly know their own views on a matter and whether they agree with me or not, though the same can't always be said of me as a reader. In fact, my writing could be helping to shape those views, just as reading has shaped my own.

I don't know what kind of love people will have received by the time I interact with them. I forget I address a tribe of people in process, who've been wounded in unique ways, who have word-associations I never dreamed of. Some time I'll reach someone I haven't spoken to in years and may not have much in common with who was bored one night and clicked through, someone who never entered my mind as a potential reader, who the post isn't "for," but of course it's for them, too.

On a larger scale than this blog, I have a perception of "other people" or "most people" that is surely false. My imagination shows me a faceless tide of opposition because reality is much too complicated. My mind does its best but isn't big enough to give everyone a face or begin to grasp where everyone is coming from. How would I know what most people think? I sometimes claim to, and I could be right, but I don't really know. Self-selection plays a part. Passionate voices speak loudest, and may mask a "silent majority" (no political connotations intended). I am certain the media don't represent the views of the populace anywhere close to proportionally.

My friends are not a representative slice of Americans. I'm not friends with any open Trump supporters. I don't even think I know any personally (no one's voiced such support to me). I do know some Republicans, but none that admit to supporting him. Yet there must be tons! Enough to make him a Presidential candidate. My point is that I can't use my observations to extrapolate the rest of reality, though it's instinctual to do so.

I imagine the world is against me when perhaps no one is.

I have an impression that my life has an audience. I'm certain everyone's does. But it must be a less hostile one than I imagine. I'm a stranger to almost everyone I've ever seen. The eyes that watch me more closely do so, I would suppose, out of love.

The delicious world of Ramen-free living

I was washing dishes today when it hit me that I have no plans to ever eat Top Ramen again.

I could have gotten sad about this; I suppose it's a sad thought, but I decided to try to see the bright side. I thought about all the times I got overwhelmed as a child because my little brain was overloaded with all the things there are to think about. I'd just sit and stress: "There isn't even enough time to think about everything, much less do everything!" How I've repeatedly had to fight down the panic that I wasn't where I belonged in life, because the possibilities feel endless and I can ever only be one place at once. I read yesterday that self-motivated learners discover this equation through the proliferation of free online tutorials: anytime + anywhere = never.

I guess what I'm saying is having unlimited options has never kept me happy or effective. It's actually caused me a fair amount of misery over the years. So when I find a closed door, though my first instinct is to rail and pout, maybe a more accurate response should be relief. So I can't eat Ramen. There are literally thousands of other things I can eat, delicious things that won't give me a stomachache or headache. In this, my suffocatingly endless meal choices have slimmed by one, the weight of constant choice lifted by a small but measurable amount.

"Each time a door closes, the rest of the world opens up. All we need to do is stop pounding on the door that just closed, turn around--which puts the door behind us--and welcome the largeness of life that now lies open to our souls. The door that closed kept us from entering a room, but what now lies before us is the rest of reality." - Let Your Life Speak by Parker J. Palmer (I can't overstate how much I enjoyed and found meaning in this book)

Reality--and the world of real food--is large enough that placing limits, even substantial ones, will not render it stupid and boring. There are still plenty of choices I can make. Eating (more or less) Paleo has given me more than it has taken away, though from the outside looking in it sounds impossible or perhaps somewhat masochistic (at least that's how it originally sounded to me). "How can you enjoy life without cupcakes?" It's as easy as enjoying life without stomachaches, daily afternoon exhaustion, aggressive cravings.

I may eat Ramen again, and I may not. But life is too large and wonderful to spend much mental energy here, apart from a flash of gratitude that I have food to eat daily, and the privilege of making choices about what I eat. Now if only I could find the silver lining in my current limitation of having no home air conditioning, a much more pressing matter of today.

Americanah and Book Sex

I read Americanah on a recommendation. I wouldn't have known to pick it up, with its brown-bag cover and an author whose name I didn't recognize. It can be difficult to choose a novel from its cover. The jacket summary of a non-fiction book gives a fairly clear idea of what's within. Less so with a fiction book. What a novel is about doesn't necessarily indicate much about the experience of reading it.

Americanah's jacket promised a story of reunited lovers. Most of the novel was backstory, narrative threads from the past and present are woven together. Beautifully written, relevant backstory, but memories nevertheless. The main character reflects on her time at east coast Ivy league school, her old boyfriends, and her adaptations from Nigeria to America and back again. She writes a blog, and we get to read some of the posts. The lovers didn't reunite until the very last chapters of the book. It's an intelligent book, and it doesn't have a fast-paced plot. The adventure unfolds in an everyday manner. Characters deal with money problems, work and school, family, relationships and marriages. Someone with an action bent would be less likely to appreciate the book.

Part of the reason I'm drawn to teen fiction is the absence of graphic sexuality; Americanah is not a teen book. To me, exploring sexuality on a deeper level than abstraction seems an intimate act, not something to be shared with an author I've never met and characters who aren't even real. Sometimes sex advances the plot, but detail usually isn't needed. The same goes for violence. In both cases, and whenever content doesn't seem to serve plot, it seems like selling out. Some other motive than art or storytelling has taken over. I read novels anyway, but I don't think it benefits me or my life to add these sexual vignettes to it. The sensation is jarring, like you're patting a beautiful, silky bearskin rug and suddenly your hand comes across a fleshy wart. The joy screeches to a halt and you wish you could scrub away the feeling, like you touched something private without wanting to and you can't take it back. It lingers in your head like the imagined wart germs linger on your fingers even later on after your hands are clean. You can't wash away the feeling with soap, and that's what you would be rid of. Only forgetting cures. I wonder why it was included, what I was supposed to gain from it.

Americanah reminded me of Free Food for Millionaires. The immigration-to-America angle, the tale of a woman of color, finding a place in a world split into old and new, America and elsewhere, mixing languages, customs, foods, East Coast Ivy League schools. Parents who just don't get it because their world was too different and they come from a different generation. Casual sex and infidelity, sometimes implied and sometimes depicted. The writing is confident, direct, spare, un-self-conscious.

Americanah's prose earns the description "lyrical." It's fascinating to read of America through another's eyes. Things we don't notice. What bothers Ifemelu as her own particular person as opposed to what bothers her as a Nigerian. Women in both cultures dissemble, but Ifemelu is blunt and open about her desires. It brings to light issues of race and culture from a perspective I'd never have, yet in my language. The world seems hostile. I remember again that my American passport brings unconscious and unimaginable privilege.

The book paints a bleak view of male-female relationships. Ifemelu's world includes a lot of trading sex for money, both directly and in more nuanced and socially acceptable ways.

Like a Russian novel, the names pose a problem. I wonder how these books would be different for me if they used names I could recognize for the characters. I wonder what nuances have been lost in my confusion and inability to determine a characters's gender by their name. This isn't a complaint, obviously, just an observation.

I heartily recommend it, with a caveat about its occasional sexual content, if you appreciate good writing for its own sake. I don't recommend it if you said of The Great Gatsby, "nothing happens."