A love letter to the tension dwellers.

Dear you, dear me, dear us standing weary hand in hand together, 

I must confess, I know next to nothing about politics. I am 26 years old, and only registered to vote for the first time this year, so if you want to tune me out, I understand. But I'm not coming to you with political opinions. Instead, I'm coming to you with this heart and these ears and these hands and feet. They're all I've got, and honestly, they're kind of busted up. But the older I get, the more I learn that people don't need opinions or advice. They don't need perfection. What they need is to see the bruises. They need to know that you've seen enough of life and this world to know that the answers aren't always black and white. People need to see you living into the tension.

2017-01-16 02.39.30 1.jpg

I almost gave up last week. My social feeds were like a nasty car accident that I couldn't look away from, and I could feel my blood pressure climbing with each new post. I cried when Michelle Obama surprised people who were paying tribute to her on late night TV. I went on and on to my husband about my feelings about our new president and the choices he has made in the last 28 days. The marching and the not marching and the refugees and Planned Parenthood and the how dare you's and name calling. One guy I follow actually had to unfriend his mom on Facebook because she was harassing him and his friends because they had the audacity to express opinions that differed from her own. But I couldn't stop scrolling -- not until I sat straight up in bed at 3 AM after having a nightmare about ISIS and nuclear war.

I was on the fast track to throwing every piece of electronic equipment we own off of our third-floor balcony and spending an entire week in bed surrounded by snotty, tear-drenched tissues. I could feel the panic attacks coming, but I came here instead. To write us a love letter.

I have a lot of friends who are experiencing deeply personal pain -- friends who have watched their babies die, friends whose marriages have crumbled, friends who have siblings in mental hospitals, friends who have lost jobs or received harrowing diagnoses. Those things can feel like too much to survive, without the turmoil we see unfold in our world with each new day. And we're all silently questioning how we're going to wake up and face whatever tomorrow holds. Perhaps we're all wondering a little bit where God is, where the hell it all went so wrong, and how on earth we're going to find the strength to just stay here.

It's okay to ask those questions. We don't have to run from them or pretend they don't exist. It's okay to give names to the strange and terrible things we sometimes feel and think. We can lay it all out on the table without shame and feel free to let the grief wash over us the way that only grief does.

And then.

We can choose to push back when the darkness starts closing in.

We can choose to look back at the countless ways that God has proven himself to be faithful and tell the devil that we've got too much street cred to be worried about the tricks he's turning.

We can take a hard look at our own walls and decide that today is the day that they come down. We could find a neighbor and let them know they're not alone -- that we hurt, too. We could invite a college student over and talk Jesus and The Bible on the living room floor over Chinese takeout. We could call up the single mama for a Chick-fil-A playdate. We could be brave and send the text message that says "I miss you." Why would we wait until tomorrow?

Jesus rose so that his Bride could rise. The world is desperate and this is our moment

This isn't some wide-eyed idealism or wild theatrics. This is how the world changes. Person to person, allowing others to stick their hands in our wounds so that they can know they aren't the only ones who are a little bit bloody from the fight.

Jesus prayed that we would be known for our unity -- that our single-mindedness, our hard and fast pursuit of his upside down kingdom come to earth, would be so magnetic that the outside world would be unable to ignore it. He asked this of God on our behalf.

And then he gave us some armor, because he knew that this day was coming. He saw the headlines coming down the pipeline and said you're going to need some reinforcements. 

We carry around the fullness of God in jars of clay, and God knows we're tired. He knows we're pressed. He knows that we've stood gaping at the wide mouthed grave of our dream of how the story would read had the pen been in our hands.

The invitation is simple, but it isn't easy. Stay. Give. Dare to show up naked and vulnerable with your wide open wounds, because the place you are standing right now is holy ground. It's where the healing happens. It's where we get filled up and sent out. Not the place you were yesterday or the place you will be tomorrow, but this moment right here and now.

It's the only one we've got. 

And we can trust that he's here.

A love letter to the weary watchers this Advent.

Dear you, dear me, dear weary world, dear us standing together --

When I was growing up, I didn't know anything about the Liturgical Year. We attended a small Pentecostal church with rusty red carpet and green pews and a hefty pastor and my parents were not well versed in the church calendar. I knew about Daniel and the lion's den, Esther becoming queen, the prodigal son, and how one time Jesus made a cocktail of spit and dirt and rubbed it in the eyes of a blind man to give him back his sight.

2016-10-04 12.47.20 1.jpg

I knew about the highlights. Christmas and Good Friday and Easter and that one Sunday every year when people got really wild and waved palm branches around (that especially embarrassed me). Lent was a time when some people decided to give up chocolate for 40 days, but in the end they just felt like losers, because who could really make it 40 days without chocolate? I knew nothing of Epiphany or Advent or the strings of ordinary time that held them together.

As an adult, I grow more appreciative of the intricacy of the Liturgical calendar with each passing year. This year, Advent, in particular, has opened me up to a kind of awe and wonder that I've scarcely ever felt. And it has broken me wide open to an unbridled longing.

 

Aleppo.

Orlando.

Bombs, bullets, all the bullets.

"The gunman was..."

Riots.

Planes falling out of the clear blue sky.

Attacks.

"I moved on her like a bitch..."

Townville, South Carolina -- all of fifteen minutes away.

Haunted.

#BlackLivesMatter

Hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes.

 

The earth is quaking and we can't stand by any longer and pretend like the storms are happening somewhere out there. They're inside of us.

Job loss.

Financial crisis.

Crumbling marriages.

Addiction.

Loneliness.

Disease.

Numb the pain.

Gossip.

Betrayal.

All this loss.

 

And buried somewhere underneath the rubble -- the realization that this world is not our home. I knock unrelenting on heaven's door, pleading.

Where are you? 

Have you left us? 

 

My soul yearns.

And then.

A thrill of hope. 

At just the right time.

Our King has come. 

Immanuel, God with us.

 

The greatest gift of all time in the most unexpected package.

At some point, I remember learning that the people with the palm branches in The Bible had the wrong idea about Jesus. They thought he would save them from Caesar, when really, he came to save them from their sin.

Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother -- and in his name, all oppression shall cease. 

He weeps for them. 

Perhaps there are a handful who know, somehow, somewhere in their souls that nothing would ever be the same again.

He didn't come to make us comfortable. Rather, that in our brokenness, we could be comforted. A holy God saw brokenness as being such an integral part of the human experience that he could not go another moment without putting skin in the game. Jesus didn’t come so that we could climb some corporate ladder or hit it big or simply make ends meet or just do okay or feel high and mighty about our stance on gun control and who can use what bathroom. He didn't come for us to experience the same old stuff on a different day. He didn’t give his life so that we could walk around with the prerecorded response of fine. 

He came to become a casualty, to be cast aside, to be spit upon and mocked and denied and sold out and it didn't have to be this way. He took upon himself the punishment that we had coming to us -- rescuing us from what we surely deserved.

He came to make Love great again.

We know. We know. 

And then he asked us to give our lives as evidence.

"Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."

Whoever is willing to live in this holy, painful tension -- whoever is willing to take up his own cross, to let go of dreams and plans and security and bucket lists in order to be poured out alongside me. 

We are broken, and we are broken for each other. We are poured out, and we are poured out for each other. This is the way of the beloved, the way of being transformed to the image of Christ, whose body was broken and poured out for us.

We can be the Aaron's and Hur's, holding one another up. We can be a generation of Esther's who are willing to risk it all to tear down the wall so that all might come in. We can be the peacemakers, the prayer warriors, the 2:00 AM answer on the other end of the phone, the lasagna bringers, the roof rippers, the everyday superheroes, the second mile journeyers, the quiet revolutionaries going about the Father's business.

We can be poured out, because we know that he always gives more

We are the hearts preparing him room, the hearts who know that he doesn't come in alone, but rather with a host of broken hearts. He touched the sick, broke bread with whores, and called cheats and liars and back stabbers his best friends. He says they're with me. And when I begin to catch glimpses of my own heart in the folks he chose to spend his time with, it changes everything.

We're with him when we stand up for the least and loneliest and the left out -- we're the ones who know that when we give the shirts off our backs, we're giving to him.

We keep both eyes fixed, not in idle wait, but active watching for what we know is on the horizon.  And we must not grow weary. For at the proper time -- at just the right time, harvest season will come. The weary world will rejoice and all will be made well. 

Jesus, keep us until that day comes.

So be it.