One year ago today Judy went to be with Jesus. While Daniel and Hannah and I prepared for a four-night trip to New Orleans.
Two years ago Samuel and I hiked in the Grand Canyon.
Today the (latest) war in Iran is five days old and nearly 1,000 people have already died. One. Thousand.
The world is lovely, and death is always too near.
How are these simultaneously true? I am unsure. I can speculate, I can philosophize, I can theologize. But no answer suffices.
The world is so lovely – look at the sunrise colors layered upon this grand canyon, this sacred chasm on the earth’s surface. And death, it is always too near, brought by invisible cancerous cells, warring upon our own bodies….and brought by the foolish, greedy, reckless wickedness of men who create war.
Today, again, I sat by the Saluda River and listened to the water sing over the shoals, felt the warm early spring sunshine on my face, extended my sincere thanks to the akimbo limbs and branches of the gum tree that crisscrossed precisely to accommodate my body for a seat. Because the world is so, so lovely.
Meanwhile Hannah stayed home from class today because she couldn’t find her wallet.
It is one thing, and it is another. It is glory, and it is the whine of a dozen paper-cut situations every 24 hours. It is grief, missing my dear sweet friend Judy, and it is the warm fuzzy delight of recalling the cold windy narrow South Kaibab trail with my beloved Samuel.
No wonder the mind, the body, the spirit are all confused. No wonder I cling to Jesus, steady, steadfast, safe in every respect. No wonder, I cling to Jesus.
(Part I here.) What draws me to St. John’s Episcopal Church/the Episcopal church? I’ve been pondering this in my head for more than a year. • The symbolism of the liturgy. I like the thought and creativity of having one thing stand for another. It’s a reminder that we live on multiple planes, seen & unseen, and that even the most mundane objects can have meaning, if we’re paying attention, and if we cultivate it. Father Garrett explains that the liturgy both says and is what it says. o We hear & repeat back, “the peace of the Lord be with you,” and then we turn to those around us and speak the words: “God’s peace to you.” o For the gospel reading, the book is carried down from the altar to the center aisle, and all the people turn towards it. Jesus, the Living Word, came “down,” became flesh and dwelt among us. Now, physically as well as metaphorically, his people hold the story of him as their center. o We confess our sins every Sunday, on our knees, a physical act of penitence to accompany our words. o We kneel, with open hands outstretched, to receive the body and blood of Jesus. The work of Jesus is something we receive, not something we take. o When it’s time to intercede for others, we do it together, and on our knees. The words position us to care for others; the posture positions us to care in the name and strength of Jesus. o We say that the work of Jesus is the crux (get it?) of our faith, and lo and behold, every single week, the remembrance of that work is the crux of the service. We say the words: “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” • The rhythm and flow of the liturgy. This goes here, that goes there, here is our response. Kneel here, stand here, sit here, slight bow here, walk forward here. I know so many people grew up with it and it became meaningless, and I know people who didn’t grow up with it and so it has no appeal. That’s fine. But it is soothing and lovely to me. • The church calendar. This is the season of Lent, and we turn our hearts toward Gethsemane & Golgotha. This is the season of Pentecost, and we weekly give thanks for the gift of the indwelling Spirit. This is the season of Advent, and we prepare our hearts to receive Jesus. Year after year, you know where you are in the cycle of birth, life, death, resurrection, new growth. • The weight of history. A church that traces all the way back to Elizabeth I & Henry VIII? Nearly 500 years of Anglicanism undergirding this calendar, liturgy, & tradition. Evangelicalism (as a movement) is a toddler in comparison. The weight of the Episcopal & Anglican churches feels like a weighted blanket to my soul. I feel like I’m standing on a foundation. “We’re here. We’ve been here. We’re not going anywhere. We’re not still figuring out who we are. You’re in a solid structure here.” • The lack of frantic panic over the salvation of souls. It’s like they actually believe that saving souls is the work of the Spirit, gasp. Their role is to share the love of Jesus, the gospel, and invite people into the family of faith. They are not personally responsible for ushering people into salvation. There’s no rush, no manic, fitful striving to wring professions of faith out of people for more notches in an evangelical belt. It’s so refreshing to me – calm, trusting. • I don’t feel like a fresh cog for the Church Machine. Oh my, what a relief this is to my striving, busy, performance-driven church history (especially in the last 15 years). I’m not pulled aside & frisked for my spiritual gifts & then stuffed into the cold or empty slots that have to be greased & running to keep up all the programs. There are programs, and there are slots, but I don’t get the sense, at St. John’s anyway, that I’m gonna get the side-eye if I don’t get busy with something already. Again, there’s no sense of frenzy about church life. • Passing the peace instead of a forced cheery “good morning.” Yes, I will happily give and receive God’s peace; no, do not wave your pom-poms my direction & instruct me to tell the people around me, “You look great today!” Peace, though? Peace is always welcome. • The Eucharist is absolutely central. And this brings rest to my soul. It is not the preaching – so you don’t have to have a great and/or eloquent and/or charismatic preacher. Isn’t that a relief?? To the preachers and the congregation? It is not the music….and isn’t that a similar relief? It is not the vestments or the architecture or the myriad programs of the parish. It sure as hell isn’t the light show or the cool videos. The Eucharist is literally and metaphorically FRONT & CENTER of every service. And is this not as it should be? The work of Jesus IS the center of our faith. HIS sacrificial death, HIS resurrection. Not any thing any preacher or choir or institution could ever do. This feast is a weekly reminder, through touch, taste, sight, and sound, of the finished work of Jesus. I’m not naïve. I’ve been in church all my dang life; I know what’s happening behind the curtain; I know how much like Jesus churches can be….and how much unlike him they can be. I know no church is perfect. I know every denomination has its issues, often big ugly ones. I know if I hang around long enough I’ll see the Episcopal ones. I know church people can be crazy, & crazy-making. It doesn’t mean I must walk away forever. (Though I sure did for some years!) I also now see choices and commitments in the context of seasons. I have been Southern Baptist, low-grade charismatic, non-denominational. These were all good seasons. I’m especially grateful for the foundation my Baptist background gave me. But, bottom line: I’m following the person of Jesus, and no one & no thing else. He can lead me whenever and wherever he wants me to go next. He is good. I trust him. To put it in the plainest and simplest terms: where he leads, I wish to follow. So, Canterbury, with fear and trembling in my heart, here I come, Jesus gently leading me your direction. Let’s worship and walk and serve together for however long this season of my life is.
A couple of months ago I joined St. John’s Episcopal Church in Columbia. Nobody ever saw that coming. I am the daughter of a Southern Baptist pastor. I was involved up to my eyeballs with Baptist Student Union in college. I worked for the S.C. Baptist Convention for seven years, and for a Southern Baptist seminary for almost four years (including volunteer stints as a recruiter). Much of my freelance writing work has been for Southern Baptists. I’ve been on staff at a Baptist church. I was a Baptist student minister. We belonged to a Baptist church 18 of the first 20 years of my marriage. For the love, I hold a masters in theology from a Southern Baptist seminary, and aspired to serve as an international missionary for Southern Baptists for much of my life. And I’m Episcopal now?? Apparently. For now, anyway. It’s been a pilgrim journey, complete with zeal, betrayal, obstacles, moments of transcendence, and wilderness wandering. And it’s not over; if there’s one thing I’m learning, life is seasons, and you take the seasons as they come with full awareness that you don’t really know what’s around the corner next. But I want to reflect on the “why” of where I am right now. Herewith, this is My Canterbury Trail.
Part I The wounding In March 2019, we finally had enough. The church I’d loved more passionately than any other in my adult life – where we’d made such good friends, grown, learned, served, poured heart and soul into – had become an unsafe place of spiritual abuse. (People call this “church hurt,” but I prefer a more accurate name for our circumstances.) So we left. It was heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, deeply painful. We lost the rhythm, the comforting familiarity, the “our place” of belonging. We lost friends. We lost most of our community; we bonded quickly with others who also left, each of us wandering about dumbstruck and seeking familiar faces. We lost a spiritual home. Or so we thought.
Staying in the field Wounded, we took up residence in another nearby church, hoping it would come to feel like home. But I was too heartbroken and weary to do the work required for that. (And why is it so much work?? That’s a post for another day….) We’d always gone to church on Sunday morning; it was a habit too hard to break, so off we went. But my heart wasn’t there. As the months went by, and this church seemed to be just another version of the last (style of worship, preaching, ministry, general ethos), I emotionally withdrew more and more. By the seventh month, I couldn’t even make myself attend on Sunday morning. I was hurting, processing, reading, praying, questioning things I’d never questioned before, and just couldn’t keep up the pretense. Then Covid hit, and well, we all know what that was like.
Retreating into the wilderness For most of the next 4.5 years, I was in a wilderness. I withdrew from all corporate/institutional church settings. Instead, I worshipped from a bench by the Saluda River, or next to Silver Springs waterfall, or sitting on my back deck with the birds and the wind chimes as my choir, or toes in the sand at Edisto Beach. I read books. So. Many. Books. About church, faith, the wilderness, spiritual abuse. Memoirs, research, theology, Christian counseling. After I published a blog post about some of my journey, a group of us, all women, gathered together to read a book, and that launched a sisterhood of fellow sojourners that is now in its fourth year. That group has been, without question, the most meaningful small group I’ve been a part of in my life. My family held its own Easter morning services, dawn, by the river, Communion and Gospel transcendent in the midst of the ordinary. (Is anything more like Jesus than that?) I prayed. I read the Gospels. I journalled. Then I rinsed and repeated it all. Here’s what I experienced: There were tables in the wilderness, y’all. And fellow pilgrims, too. I was not alone. I may have been outside a corporate/institutional community, but I was in church, all the same. I spent my wilderness time holding on to Jesus, and looking for fellow wanderers, and Jesus answered. There is a not-insignificant truth that Jesus is in the wilderness, too. There is no place I can go that he is not there, too. And in the wilderness, without all the props of corporate faith, all I have to hold on to is him. All I have here is Jesus? Okay by me. He is enough. Even in those years, I conceded that, well, Jesus could lead me wherever he wanted. Back into whatever kind of church he thought would be best for me. Or no church. Or whatever. The thing I was learning? “Faith” means not knowing what the next specific season will be. “Following Jesus” is about following a person, not a plan, not a principle. So when a friend of my daughter’s invited us to her church (to hear her sing), I shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?” Well. If you’d told 40-year-old Amanda that it would take her two and a half years to decide whether or not to join a church, and oh, also, it would be Episcopal, she would have guffawed. Yet here we are.....(part II next)
The Warhorses running drills on the warm green grass, a soundtrack of coach yells, cadence chants, and labored breathing.
Two-hand touch ball in the “side yard,” till it was dusk and Mom called us in for dinner and homework.
Friday night lights in Barnwell, ketchup squeezed in circles over the crinkle fries from the band booster concession stand, sitting with friends in the band, nodding to my favorite teachers, talking low with Neal in the cool dark beneath the bleachers, wondering if he would ever kiss me.
College ball all Saturday afternoon, on the console TV that had been banished to Dad’s workshop out back.
Ball talk in the churchyard Sunday, before and after the service.
Pro ball all Sunday afternoon, same cluttered workshop, Tessie the Irish setter flopped on the Clemson Tiger beanbag, oblivious to our cheers or groans.
Then ball talk all day Monday at school – about Friday’s game, Saturday’s games, Sunday’s games, every one of us expert armchair commentators and coaches, endless smack talk between Clemson and Carolina fans. So much ball talk.
Fall had (eventually) cooler weather, and Halloween, and (eventually) Thanksgiving break. Fall had light sweaters on Friday nights, shorts in the afternoon.
Fall had pecan pie from Mrs. Mary Jo, and Dad’s boiled peanuts wafting salty and nutty down the hall to all the bedrooms.
Fall had homecoming at church, which meant packed pews and tables groaning with hash and rice and homemade layer cakes at the dinner after service.
Fall had Uncle Bobby and his various hunting friends (including my crush, Mark the Firefighter) coming in from Greenville every other Friday so they could hunt deer Saturday and Sunday, and this meant a few hours out at “the old house,” Uncle Bobby’s hunting lodge (a generous term) out in the country.
Fall was settling in to a new school year – a thing which I relished far more than I let on, as being excited about new courses was decidedly uncool in my sports-crazy high school.
But clearly I was not immune. Because fall was for football. Plays, players, stats, trash talk, reviews, speculation, cheers, and wholly disproportionate letdowns considering that no one personally knew any football player beyond the high school level. No matter. These things were of utmost concern.
And now here I sit, 35 years a high school graduate, and I find myself once again convinced: Fall is for football.
The weather is finally reliably cooler. I’m buying apples and pears and baking them 35 different ways. I can hear the Irmo High School drum line from my house. I have a son at Clemson University, and in the time it takes to chant C-L-E-M-S-OOOOOO-N!, I have gone from two items of orange clothing in my wardrobe to six, including two dresses.
And when I sit outside, breathe in the nutty brown air, hear the drums, and close my eyes….I’m 16 again. Garren, Seth, Brandon, Clay, Britt, and Mr. Laverne are assembled in the side yard for a game of two-hand touch. There’s a home game tomorrow night, and I have a ride and $3 for concessions, and my band friends are happy because they took second place at a meet last weekend, and the Warhorses are 5-2 for the season, and Neal’s gonna be there. Uncle Bobby and Mark will be out at the old house by the time I’m back from the game, and I can drive out late Saturday morning and hear their stories of the morning’s hunt.
Dad will make boiled peanuts Saturday afternoon and we’ll snack on them while watching the Clemson night game. After church Sunday the hunters will join us for lunch and maybe Mark the Firefighter will watch some pro games with us out in the workshop, where the air always has sawdust in it, before returning to Greenville.
The grass in the side yard will smell fecund and rich. The crinkle fries from the concession stand will be crisp until they’re soggy with ketchup, and I’ll lick the red off my fingers.
Football. Deer hunting. Cool nights, warm days. Green grass and deer stands. Cigarette smoke under the bleachers. Dusk falling outside, yellow light in the workshop. Late season corn on the cob for supper.
There’s nothing poignant about leaving the house at 5:45, even if you do stop at Starbucks on the way out of the suburbs. I mean, why is there so much traffic on Dorchester Road at 6 freaking a.m.? And highways 700, 7, and 17 aren’t scenic routes, not the parts of them we were on – car dealerships, fast food chains, gas stations for every strata of the socioeconomic sediment, and the ubiquitous yellow Dollar Generals.
But taking a right on River Road and making our way towards the Atlantic under that two-lane tunnel of pines, oaks, and palmettoes…something in the spirit began to shift, two or three degrees towards the special.
There’s nothing obviously magical, though, about 5 or 6 acres of ho-hum-looking farmland, bordered by rutted farm roads and hedges of pine and underbrush.
And for sure, there’s nothing transcendent about spraying yourself down with Deep Woods Off, or the unglamorous and non-rhythmic task of harvesting sweetgrass. I mean, there’s a temperature climbing along with the sun, sweat, a lot of trial and error, and sometimes a bush with a hornet’s nest, or mounds of fire ant beds with their tell-tale shade of light brown.
Really. It’s just 2 hours of manual labor on a Sea Island farm on a Friday in August, alongside 13 people you don’t know.
And yet.
The tree tunnel on River Road was a cool green canopy of welcome.
The sun peaked blue, then pink, then yellow as it lumbered leisurely over the pines and then washed, gentle, over the furrows.
The work was simultaneously ancient and present. And is there any better practice at being grounded? A task our ancestors have done for millennia, upon the literal ground, that this morning we voluntarily shoulder.
Best of all – oh! best of all!! – my Hannah was there, doing just what she’d asked for her birthday. Sipping matcha tea on the dawn drive. Donning her cowboy hat for the harvest. Wielding a small machete against the base of the sweetgrass bush like she was born for it. Carrying sheaves – literal sheaves! – to the tarp, & then plucking the brown grasses out of the bundles. Making new friends as the moments passed. Smiling, fulfilled, kind & generous, easy, wholesome in every respect, & so lovely, from the inside out, that I caught my breath every time I glanced at her.
So, as it turned out, the whole morning was magical.
I have homeschooled one child all the way to college now. Considering that I never saw myself homeschooling at all, I am daily amazed to find myself here. Naturally, I’ve been reflecting over this homeschool adventure. Naturally, I have thoughts. Naturally, I record my thoughts. Naturally, there are far too many reflections to enumerate.
But here are the top 10 moments/events/aspects anyway. Aside from the first, they are in no particular order.
1. The serendipitous introduction of Bryan into our lives. A chance encounter at the S.C. State Museum has led to a decade now of Bryan tutoring Samuel in math, physics, & astronomy. Bryan has been the single greatest godsend of our homeschool journey, without question. He’s not just a whiz at math & astronomy, he’s an excellent teacher: patient, kind, creative, generous, flexible with the unique needs and abilities of my kid. I am indebted beyond calculation – my ability to teach Samuel math expired before he was 10. The three years that Bryan lived in Pennsylvania, we employed four other tutors, and none of them held a candle to Bryan.
Bryan saw it as a privilege to be part of Samuel’s educational journey, and in turn, our family sees our friendship with Bryan as a privilege – from weekly dinner & math to joining our family vacation to Yellowstone. So much of his life – academic, career, & overall approach to life – has been a role model for Samuel. We are all of us forever grateful to God for bringing Bryan into our lives, and to Bryan for simply being himself and being our friend.
2. All things rockets!
Watching the first crewed SpaceX launch (2020). What a joy to be there, just me and my space-crazy kid, oohing and aahing with hundreds of others gathered on the banks of the St. John River.
Rocket launches at Crossroads Middle School – inviting friends, playing great music, having cookies afterwards at our house.
Rocket camp at the Challenger Learning Center when Samuel was 9.
A research project on the history of manned space flight.
Visiting Johnson Space Center in Houston.
Mom-son field trip to U.S. Space & Rocket Center, Huntsville.
The joy of all these was that I was there for every one of them. I got to see Samuel grow in knowledge and curiosity and social skills, let sink in the bonding between us as I, too, learned and grew alongside him in the same things.
3. The Big Trip Out West. Boy howdy I milked that adventure for school credit as much as I could. History, geology, geography, and the math of travel, all prior to the trip. Samuel’s own travel vlog afterwards. But the most wonderful thing? The delight of seeing the great West through the awed new eyes of my children: the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, the endless skies of Iowa & South Dakota, the mesmerizing alien features of the Badlands, the red rock of Wind River Reservation, Mt. Rushmore, the Grand Tetons, & of course the grandeur and awe of all things Yellowstone. What utter joy to see Samuel’s joy: “I can climb wherever I want?? I can plan the hikes myself?? I can explore alone around the Airbnb?? Look at this!!! You can see forever here!!!”
That trip opened Samuel’s eyes, in a way all the previous road trips had only hinted at. I could see his imagination expanding in front of me, opening as wide as the grasslands of the Dakotas: The world is enormous. The world is amazing. The world is open for exploring.I want to see it ALL.
4. In his junior year, we spent a day driving around downtown Columbia finding installation and mural art (culmination of the sculpture portion of his arts appreciation course). Tunnel Vision by Blue Sky (Taylor @ Marion); the sunflower mural in the alley on State Street; the Freedom from Cancer installation on Blossom Street; metal art scattered along Main Street; a tribute to first responders next to the Columbia Convention Center.
Samuel’s not into art, but he enjoyed that field trip. It showed him that art can be all kinds of things, all kinds of materials, all kinds of sizes. It showed him that even Columbia – not exactly known as a patron city for artists – is willing to fund and display and celebrate a showcase of its artistic talent, out for the public to enjoy, free of charge. It was me exposing Samuel to the art of sculpture in a manner that worked for him: larger than life, physical, on a field trip.
5. Multiple pre-dawn outings to watch meteor showers. Was it a pain in the ass to wake up at 3:50 a.m., rub the sleep from the eyes, warm up the pre-made hot chocolate, pile into the van, & make a quiet 20 minute-trek out of sleepy Irmo? Looking for a “dark sky” site? In hopes of seeing a handful of meteors streak across the sky? You betcha. I mean, we saw meteors shooting across the sky!! Not every time, and sometimes not very many. But it was a family affair. We laid on our backs on picnic blankets, the earth damp and cool beneath us. Our eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Our voices were low and soft and often laughing, an easy reverence. There was nothing to do but gaze and converse, and every now and then exclaim our wonder at a white chalky scratch on the firmament. So much bonding, all centered around Samuel’s obsession with space and our familial willingness to cultivate it. I will always be grateful for those sleepy-eyed hours.
6. Every science thing USC offered:
Astronomy & physics lectures offered to the general public, though sometimes Samuel asked the speaker a doctoral-level question.
Annual Science Day sponsored by the engineering school, numerous hands-on demonstrations, all those college students amused by and attentive to the students who came through.
Midway Physics Day at the S.C. State Fair: more physics demonstrations from USC students, followed by two hours of unlimited rides (data collecting app in hand).
Summer robotics camp.
7. In sub-Saharan Africa, women & girls spend a cumulative 250 million hours every day hauling clean water, walking an average of 6 kilometers & carrying 44 lbs. of it. In May 2021 we did a one-week focus on this issue. We analyzed our own use of water, discussed the need for clean water, and then built a “tippy tap” – a hands-free hand-washing station. This study opened our eyes to a specific need of others in far-off places, building empathy along with geography, science, & the intersections of politics, industry, culture, environment, development, & engineering.
I loved how wholly hands-on the activity was – the hot walk to the creek, the labor of hauling just one gallon of water one quarter of a mile up one mild slope, the hard work of digging, stringing, making the deceptively simple contraption actually work….and the realization, physical as it could be, that if any of us got thirsty or dirty all we had to do was walk inside to four indoor taps of clean cold OR hot water.
8. In April 2022 Samuel’s FIRST robotics team (shout-out to Bilfred & the Pandamaniacs, team 1293!!) qualified for the international championship in Houston, Texas. Nearly 50,000 people converged on the convention center for 3.5 days of qualifying & elimination rounds. FIRST competitions are sporting events for nerds, and this was their World Cup. Few things bring greater fulfillment to a parent than watching their kid in his absolute element, surrounded by like minds, encouraged & taught by excellent mentors. To see Samuel in this engineering geek heaven was heavenly for me.
9. We left swanky Harbor Town and chartered across the sound to Daufuskie Island, where we found another world: typical South Carolina Sea Island flora & fauna, sure, but a study in wealth disparity and time travel.
We rented a golf cart and took turns driving it. We sat out multiple thunderstorms in the half-shelter of our cart. We saw the schoolhouse where “Conrack” taught his precious heathen children and had his own life forever altered. We saw the beach where Yemassee Indians were massacred by white settlers. We strolled at length inside First Union African Baptist Church, the weight of history as palpable as the still humid air. We had extensive discussions about the ongoing legacy of America’s original sin – on full view as we traversed the potholed dirt roads – and the complexity & nuances of seeing, naming, and advocating for change that doesn’t just produce more problems.
Mostly, we just thoroughly enjoyed one another’s company: no itinerary, no academic agenda, no whining even when it rained and the mosquitoes found us, and a full day of island & ocean & conversation & laughing our way through mud puddles. It was a magical day.
10. Samuel’s garage lab: a homemade electrolysis setup, homemade distilling apparatuses, precise scales, lab glassware, jars of extracted elements, containers of raw materials (many sizes & sorts). Over the years, as his passion moved from space into chemistry, Samuel added one element (get it??) after another to his lab, buying second-hand and cheap, making as much from scratch as he could, setting up experiments & extractions & distillments that we only vaguely understood. We just checked in to make sure he was taking safety precautions, and then we stood back & appropriately oohed & aahed at the homemade explosive things; a mound of dirt now stands in our backyard that we affectionately refer to as the “missile testing site” (The Money Pit allusion). It all got more complex, more elemental, more precise, more impressive as his knowledge grew. What a joy to allow him the space, the supplies, the encouragement, & the freedom to take risks, explore, experiment, fail, try again. Few things say “homeschooled kid” like a hodgepodge garage lab that the parents both celebrate & avoid. (The old saw that “the Lord takes care of children & fools” fully applies.)
What a gift. What a delight. (Even those middle couple of years when I was sure I was going to shoot someone before Friday.) What a blessing. What a joy. What a privilege.
Okay, how I’d like to respond to the turmoil that is America, 2025. Work in progress. Like everything in my life.
What I want to resist, in myself:
Sputtering outrage. Anger, sure, but frothing at the mouth while clutching my pearls? Pass.
Despair. My hope is in Jesus. Now, as much as ever, I have to keep that intact. My hope has never been in political power, and it doesn’t need to start now. Getting Democrats back in power will just replace these monumental, existential problems with other (probably not existential!!) problems. Temporal power is not the answer, and I refuse to believe in it.
Other despair. My kingdom is not of this world (ahem), my true citizenship is in another realm altogether. That kingdom will be perfect, will have no end, and will restore the heavens and the earth to a new glory – or, perhaps, the original glory.
Hate. Hate only breeds more hate, and hate will not solve this situation. I will not hate. I will not hate Trump, or Musk, or Republicans, or my fellow citizens who elected them. I may have to repeat this to myself like a mantra 4,538x a day, but I will not hate. At the least, that makes me like those who hate, eww. Also it’s ugly. Also it’s a rejection of the Imago Dei (image of God) that exists even in people who seem to have squashed it beyond all recovery. Also, I want to be like Jesus, and Jesus ain’t never hated nobody, not even his crucifiers. And, hate won’t solve the problems. Hate got us here; it won’t get us out. Cue the MLK Jr. quote.
Hate, specifically: I’m gonna try my gosh-darnedest not to bash. No belittling, slander, or ill wishes; no mocking of people. I will speak against policies, yes, even in anger. But I really don’t want to scorn people. See “Hate,” above.
Retreat. As much as I’d really like to stick my head in the sand, put a metaphorical palisade around my house, hunker down, and just hope to re-emerge in four years with as few scrapes and bruises as possible…..I can’t. The way of Jesus is not withdrawal, but engagement. (This will look different for different people, at different times/seasons/stages. There are no blanket instructions here.) As the Spirit leads me, I will stay engaged. As the Spirit leads me.
Apathy. I can’t turn away just because it hasn’t hit my own wallet yet. First of all, “yet” is the key word there. Second of all, see “Retreat,” above. I refuse to fall prey to the “As long as me & mine are fine” mentality that got us here.
Denial. Things are not fine in the body politic, in the culture, on the global stage. Things are terribly not fine for the planet herself. I won’t act like they are. This isn’t Disney World.
What I want to embrace, wholeheartedly:
Solidarity with those who are hurting. I want to see them, help them, advocate for them. “They” could/might easily be “me.” This is the way of Jesus.
Activism. Yeah, that. Make the calls, write the letters, join the protests, stay informed, vote, sign the petitions.
Love for every person in front of me. Even if I’m baffled at their choice of elected officials or, worse, their support of illegal and immoral policies. I still want to love. This, too, is the crazy hard way of Jesus. I will try.
Beauty. Every single place I can find it. Ten quiet minutes next to a river. My dog lying in the sun. Hannah saddling a horse. The Andrew Wyeth prints on my walls. Daniel kneeling next to me to receive the Eucharist. Trombone Shorty on the speaker while I read a book on the deck. A warm mug of tea in my hands. All beauty, large, small, or medium, fleeting or stationary, human, animal, vegetable, or mineral. “Beauty will save the world” (Dostoyevsky).
Hope. Hope in the eternal kingdom. Hope in the redemption of this earth and this heaven. Hope in the goodness that is in people. Hope, above all, in Jesus himself. Not wishful thinking, but honest-to-goodness hope.
Joy. Joy feels like the hardest part of resistance right now. (Outrage and despair take zero effort.) But I think joy is going to be revolutionary. So I’m chasing joy, full throttle. This isn’t minimizing or denying ugliness, but, rather, denying it the last word, denying it the privilege of being definitive. I will not be defined by the ugliness, even when it touches my life. (Says I in my as-yet comfortable position, I am aware.) I will chase joy, and I will, Jesus help me, carry joy with me. I will smile at people and laugh at babies and pat the doggies and say thank you and offer people my Aldi cart. I will giggle at funny cat videos. I will exclaim over my daughter’s art projects (even when I do not understand them). I will literally stop to smell the pretty flowers – because Beauty + Joy packs a powerful punch. Joy and hope are now subversive & revolutionary? Sign me up.
That’s where I want to land. Hope, joy, beauty, love….even as I call my legislators, even as I scroll the headlines, even as I weep, even as I march. Both/and….but landing, at the end of the day, when I lay my head on my pillow, on goodness. Because Love wins.
Published in: Uncategorized
on February 27, 2025 at 3:01 am
Comments (1)
Recently I’ve ever-so-slightly taken up some very beginner, very small step yoga – tacking it to the end of my rainy day/indoor workout routine.
Just a couple of minutes in, Adrienne, the YouTube instructor, gives the direction to move from the starting cross-legged position to being on all fours, folded blanket under the knees for padding. In the middle of this instruction she says, “Now, if at any point I’m moving too fast for your body, slow down. It’s important that you listen to your body and really honor that relationship.”
Well. Former Amanda would at a minimum roll her eyes at such language. “Um, how exactly do I have a relationship with my body, hello? Much less honor it? Pfft.”
Today Amanda just nods her head, because she’s learned that yes, listening to your body is a real thing, and yes, you do have a relationship with your body, and yes, just like any other relationship, it’s best lived out with honor and respect and kindness.
(Thank you Jesus that we can grow up.)
Lately I’ve been learning to love my body, with clear eyes and a kind heart. Intentionally.
So here is my new-to-me take on self-care, body positivity, and how it all relates to walking with Jesus.
Why I love my body:
She is me. There’s no other me. I’m this whole package. She isn’t just a carrier for my soul and spirit, she is integral, and not just while I walk the earth. Scripture teaches that one day we’ll have restored bodies, so apparently my body (in some form) gets to live forever. Also, when Jesus came to teach us what it meant to be human, he came in a body, and when he rose from the dead all glorified and stuff, he was in a body, one that walked, talked, & ate fish. So my body, too, must be ME.
She is sacred and beloved and priceless. See above about Jesus coming in a body and rising again in a body. See also, oh I don’t know, maybe Genesis 1 where the Creator declared her “very good.” See the New Testament passages about my body being a temple of the Holy Spirit.
Um. She’s the only one I’ve got. No refunds, no returns, no fresh starts with a new one. This is, obviously, also, why I take care of her. (It’s a shame so many of us don’t realize this till we’re like 30+.)
She is where I meet Jesus. Without my body, I don’t know him, love him, engage with him. He soothes me with the smooth of a river, Chopin, or Miles Davis (takes ears for that). I know he’s calmed me because my body reacts: heart rate slows, breath slows, blood pressure comes down, shoulders relax. Jesus fires my imagination as surely as the synapses fire in this middle-aged grey matter. My body is where I know joy and delight and pleasure and goodness – have you ever sampled a warm, perfectly ripe South Carolina peach in July? That is the goodness of God, folks, delighting you by delighting your taste buds. I worship through my body – by walking my dog, mowing a friend’s grass, singing old hymns and new praises, welcoming refugees with Christmas dinner. Takes a body for all those things, and all those things are me walking with Jesus.
Because I love my body, I take care of her, like I would take care of my child. Sometimes this means I say yes to the slice of cheesecake, because I want to bless my body with the yumminess of it! Duh! And sometimes I say no to the cheesecake, because I love my body and she’s had enough refined sugar today for her health.
Either way, I’m acting out of love. Not guilt. Not pressure. Not keeping score.
I’m not basing my decision on whether or not I’ve “earned” the treat. I’m not a treat-motivated canine in training here.
My body is not a machine. She is a beloved.
My body doesn’t have to earn goodness. She is a beloved.
Why pursue a healthy diet and sleep and exercise and yada yada yada? Because I’m beloved.
I’m not proving anything to anybody – not the culture, my friends, my church, my family, or even myself. I live under the reign of grace, not the cutthroat culture of chits.
And I don’t have to remain physically productive & useful. I am not a cog in any wheel.
I pursue wellness, tenderness, and generosity toward my body because I love her. No other reason.
It might go without saying that all this is in theory, I’m afraid. I still keep tabs on whether or not I “deserve” an afternoon nap. I still mentally beat myself up if I don’t manage to cross off enough items on my daily To Do list. I still ponder how to “justify” a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch (argh, my junk food Achilles’ heel!).
I’m a work in progress on this issue, as in all other areas of growing up. But I do now recognize, in uber practical ways, that my body is sacred, precious, and beloved, and I want to love her well.
I want to love her like Jesus does: as beloved. As treasure. As a most sacred creation.
“So I have an offer for you. If you want it. No pressure. None. But…I’ve rented an Airbnb for four nights, and since it’s near the beach I’m having to force Kevin to go with me – he is such a weirdo, imagine not liking the beach!! – and I think the boys might be coming with him, probably just for one night, because you know why would you go out of town to a nice place on the water with your parents, ugh – but anyway I’m gonna be there for four nights, and the last two nights I’ll be by myself and that’s fine and all but maybe if you want you can come down for those last two nights.”
Quick breath, then: “And I know you’re an introvert, and you have, you know, a lot of things you’re dealing with and you’re kinda like Kevin and you need time alone and away and I’ll be there but I promise I will leave you as alone as you want to be. I won’t even be there much, honestly; I’ll be at the beach. I won’t even talk with you while we’re both there unless you want to talk. But I mean if you want to talk that’s fine.”
Longer pause, then: “I just want you to have some time away – if you can work it out with the kids and Daniel and all – I just want you to have some time to be alone and think and, well, you definitely should take a nap or two. What do you think?”
And that’s how I ended up at an Airbnb on the Cooper River in Hanahan, S.C. (not exactly a travel destination), in the heat of early September 2020, with my dear friend Tiffany Bennett.
She was golden true to her word, too. We talked, but only at my initiation. She spent her time at the beach; I spent my time in the hammock, and on the dock, and under the ceiling fan on the patio, and – excellent recommendation – napping.
This was Tiffany. Because she was a trusted friend, she knew how painful my year had been, especially that spring and summer. Because she knew me well, she knew that time away, and alone, in a lovely place, would sound like heaven to me. Because she was oh-so-generous, she offered precisely that – a getaway tailor-made for her friend.
I will forever be grateful for those two nights; they were a balm to my soul. And staying up late the second night, talking, hearing her long-winded, “only Tiffany” story of getting roped into helping an old pothead woman move furniture from her second floor apartment (REALLY???), laughing till I cried….so rich.
She would have been 48 this weekend.
Big-hearted and long-winded, never on time and, er, directionally challenged, and unfailingly dramatic. (There’s a reason I keep using all-caps and italics to mimic her speech.)
Hesitant to initiate on her own behalf (though she was getting braver at this!), but trigger-happy to advocate for her friends. (To the server at Aristocrats: “But the kitchen can’t be closed! It’s Amanda’s birthday! You have to make her the bread pudding, she’s been looking forward to it all week. PLEASE??”)
She instinctively knew which people in the room (especially children) were on the fringe, and she was drawn to them, and they to her. She looked for, found, and opened her arms to those everyone else avoided. Is there any quality that sounds more like Jesus? I ask you.
She brought me tea & chocolate from Paris. She thanked me for a service with an Airbnb gift card (perfect). We met for coffee, for smoothies, for cookies, for just chilling on our back decks. We hung out at the Murraywood pool; she was always late, but really what does that even mean when you’re just hanging out at the pool? Besides, she usually brought me a frosted lemonade from Chick-fil-A. If she was in the neighborhood getting a drink from Loveland Coffee, I’d probably be getting a surprise chai tea latte delivery.
She listened to me. She confided in me. We encouraged one another. Our boys played together. We railed and grieved together when it all went belly-up at our church…and we helped each other process the loss and the new season – new kind – of faith.
She invited me into her life when her life was falling apart – such courage. And then she helped hold me up when my world became precarious – such love. We walked together through some hard things.
Tiffany was my dear, good, friend. And as Forrest Gump so wisely observed, “Even I know that’s not something you can find just around the corner.”
Tiffany, we miss you here. We’re glad you’re all safe and well and whole and content now.
“Where’s my Mama?” I asked, tapping on the grownup knee in front of me and looking up.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” said the adult I’d never seen before, looking at me like they’d never seen me before, either, which was weird but possible. Didn’t everybody know me, and my Mama?
Little like a hobbit, and therefore unnoticed as I wandered the hallway of the Education Building, I moved on to the next grownup knees, these in pants, so a man. But it didn’t matter to me whether I asked a grownup man or woman.
“Where’s my Mama?”
“Well she’s not here today,” he said, which wasn’t the least bit helpful, so I moved on before he could elaborate. Of course Mama was here. It was Sunday, and that meant church for everybody.
“Where’s my Mama?” I sounded like a variation of the little bird in P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother?
“You can’t find your Mama?” this woman in a bright floral sundress responded, and then, like I wasn’t there, turned to the adult next to her in line. “Isn’t that sweet? Child looking for Renee.”
Well I didn’t know who Renee was, but I did know I couldn’t find my Mama, and I was beginning to move from curiosity to consternation.
Also I couldn’t figure out why so many people were here, or why they were standing in line for a hot, hearty breakfast at church.
I was one flummoxed seven and a half year old.
Finally I bumped into a set of knees that led up to a familiar and soothing face: my next door neighbor and, at the time, grandfather figure.
“Mr. Laverne! Have you seen my Mama?” I tried to disguise the panic in my voice, but seven and a half year olds aren’t skilled at subtlety.
He smiled beatifically and leaned down a bit, placing a kind hand on my shoulder. “Your Mama is at the hospital with your new baby brother, remember?”
I drew in my breath. Oh. Right. New baby brother!
He smiled at my relief. “She’ll be back soon enough, don’t you worry.”
I nodded, breathing easy again. That crisis solved, I now had bandwidth for a regular curiosity, and probably Mr. Laverne could solve this one, too. I was hesitant, because every good kid knew you weren’t supposed to bother the adults with too many questions, but:
“Mr. Laverne?”
“Mmm?”
“Why are all these people here and why are we having breakfast at church?” Two questions in one! Maybe he wouldn’t notice!
His smile became that indulgent one grownups got when they were trying not to laugh.
“It’s Easter, Amanda, remember? Lots of people come to church on Easter, and we always have breakfast after Big Church and Sunday school.”
Oh. Right. Easter. Big Church super early, followed by Sunday school – a reversal of the usual schedule – followed by a big breakfast in the fellowship hall. Bacon, country ham, sausage, eggs, grits, biscuits, gravy, liver pudding (gag), some fruit, orange juice, milk, coffee, doughnuts.
Easter. Celebration of new life, and here was my Mama (well….not here, exactly), embodying the very joy of new life with the gift of a new baby brother.
(I sure hoped he was better than the little brother I already had! Sigh. Did I mention I was seven and a half?)
Was it a tiny, tiny taste of the story of Easter? I hadn’t lost someone dear to me to death, of course, and the delivery of a new baby was more a matter of biology than supernatural intervention over the grave…but when you’re seven and a half, every crisis is big.
I needed her, but she was off somewhere else doing something grand and magnificent, bringing a blessing I’d cherish all my life. And her people reassured me.
“She’ll be back soon enough, don’t you worry. It’s Easter, Amanda, remember?”
phiferblog 