People Aren't Numbers: A Plea to Christianity Today

    Two days ago, leading Christian magazine Christianity Today published this article affirming their belief in one-man-one-woman marriage.
     Now, I truly believe that we must listen and learn from each other with humility and love. But I fear Mark Galli's article only serves to alienate - because despite his declared intention "treat with charity and respect those with whom we disagree," his article does nothing of the sort. Sweet words do not necessarily mean one is being respectful or charitable.

      First, despite the title, Galli cites no stats to back up his "2 Billion Christians" argument. This begs the question as to whether this estimate actually exists, or whether, once more, people's lives have been reduced to clickbait.

    Continuing with the title and lack of statistics, I really wonder how Galli intended the "Breaking News" part of the title as anything other than mockery. Again, that is neither respect nor charity. 

    Second, as I've argued before, we humans know so little about the universe and each other, that, when someone queer says "this is how I am, and God does not condemn me," perhaps it is best - the nonjudgmental, non-pharasaical way, in fact - to trust them, and let God handle the rest. To say that you know someone better than themselves is alienating, un-empathetic, and arrogant.

    Moreover, Galli claims that we who argue for LGBTQ+ inclusion are caving into culture. In this, he dismisses the work of Matthew Vines, my friend Derek, and any of the numerous scholarly Biblical interpretations that dispute Galli's opinion. 

    And, speaking of ostracism, Galli dismisses the suffering of the entire LGBTQ+ community in his implication that culture makes it easy to be queer. For many queer folk, coming out may cause ridicule, beatings, the rejection of friends and families. Coming out as LGBTQ+ poses a lot of risks, and facing those risks for the sake of justice and truth is hardly "caving into culture."

    As a Christian, I'd also like to point out that it's not caving into culture when the culture you grew up in is non-affirming (Rachel Held Evans once wrote an article articulating this in greater detail, but I can't find the link). Personally, as a straight ciswoman who could have easily blended in with non-affirming people, I spoke up because I felt I could not remain silent while any human suffered. I spoke up in spite of my culture, not because of it. 

    But Galli's dismissal doesn't stop there, and reveals something fundamentally broken in his argument. Galli claims "The church has been and remains overwhelming united," a statement that dismisses the opposing viewpoint as nearly nonexistent, mere noise created by American culture. Such a claim implies that because the opposing viewpoint has the smaller number, because these people are the minority, their voices are ultimately insignificant. The statistic that 48% of LGBTQ+ Americans are actually Christian doesn't matter. Only the majority, the privileged, the powerful, matter. 

     What Galli misses is that ignoring the small numbers only works for mathematical estimates, not for real people. Jesus, the Jesus Galli and Christianity Today and I myself claim to serve, stuck up for the marginalized. He treated every person like they mattered. 

    Ignoring the small but growing number of LGBTQ+ and affirming Christians contributes to the ostracism of this precious community. Respect and charity this is not, despite Galli's intentions. I have no doubt that he intended his article to be exactly as he claimed.
    Yet the problem is that when we aren't willing to hope the best in each other, we aren't loving each other as Jesus did. 
    The problem is that when we focus on the majority, we affirm that power, not the hurting minority, is what actually mattes. We dehumanize the minority in favor of a numbers game. 
    That's hardly respect and charity, and I hope Galli and all the non-affirming staff of Christianity Today learns this ASAP. Because this is real life, and all life matters.

      
Love,
Kelley

My Ghosts Dwell in Church

   I absolutely love churches.
   There's beautiful sculptures on the walls and quiet solitude and loud chatter (depending on denomination), and sometimes it's bright and cheerful, somethings dark and holy, but it's all beautiful. It's like God dwells among us. My heart swells.
   And then my guard leaps into action.
   Because I am haunted in the house of God.

    And your voice still rings out in my mind
    And the thorn still twists down in my side

    My ghosts eke their way out among the self-effacing lyrics in worship, between the emphasis on how wicked we all are, aboard the brief jokes about liberals.
    I didn't understand why I felt their presence here, in church. Sure, the shifting of my beliefs from "fairly fundamentalist" to "fairly liberal" was hard, but why would it traumatize me?
    Really, I was never abused in church. I love my fundamentalist and evangelical friends, and I know they love me. Or do I?
    Here I am, unable to attend a church without panic, without rage, without deep depression. Unable to read the Bible without shriveling up inside, without feeling driven to repeat prayers compulsively until I know I'm a good person.

    Maybe I'm broken, maybe it's the fate
    Maybe it's the moment you said I had changed

    Somehow my survival instincts overtook my life to the point that while I don't need these survival games any longer, I can't turn them off.
    And so I am haunted in church.

    I know all the Bible verses and the (usually evangelical) arguments, oh yes I do.
   "Do not forsake gathering together."
   "If you love God, why wouldn't you want to read His Word?" (Except the Word is actually Jesus, not the Bible, but that's another post).
    I know your arguments, but I can't. do. it.
    I do, however want to do what Jesus said. I want to love others, and I want to love God through learning about his creation and the marvelous people he's made. I want to spend time with people who agree and who disagree with me.
    I think Jesus said loving God and others was the fulfillment of the law, anyways.

    Because I'm moving on, letting go
    Forget the past, I'm giving up the ghost
    All we are is fading stars
    Life's too short to stay where we are

    So instead of experiencing the haunting, lately I've been exposing myself to the radiant sunshine spilling over creation (okay, okay, only in the last week - before that Boston's been a clouded depressing mess of ice). Lately I've been meeting friends of similar and different faiths; lately I've been spending Sunday morning cuddling with the glorious creatures known as cats. Lately I'm trying to make peace with the fact that God is good and that S/He exists despite the change drowning me.
    Lately I've adopted this addicting chorus as my mantra:
    Forgive and let live and move on, tell me that you're gonna make me stronger
    Forgive and let live and move on
    Forgive and let live and move on, tell me that you're gonna make me stronger
    Forgive and let live and move on

    Song below.

Love,
Kelley

This Is About Suicide. This is About People.

*trigger warning for a discussion of suicide*

    According to The Boston Globe, five people (four students and a professor) have committed suicide at my university this year.
    The latest, his name was Matthew. He was a freshman. He was a freshman and he did not deserve to die.
    I didn't know him. I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to give him a hug.
    I wish I could have told him I knew how he felt. And that I'm glad I stayed, even though I don't know why.
    Because, yeah, I've been there. I know.
 
    I honestly don't know why I haven't. I don't know why, after so many plans and fantasies, I am alive. The odds weren't exactly in my favor.
    I suppose I am always afraid of hurting people. I have no desire to cause pain by my death.
    But mostly, in high school I was afraid of hell, where an eating-disorder riddled perfectionist would surely go. And in college, after I embraced God again, I was afraid of making an irreversible decision. I didn't want to call attention to myself.
    That's it. Those two ignoble reasons are mostly why I'm here.

    Why would I consider killing myself?
    I don't know. I don't know.
    I can guess anxiety, depression, and PTSD have all played a role, but the truth is there isn't a straight answer for this.
    I don't know why I am not Matthew. In fact, in a way, I think I am.

    I know the stress and the pain and the worthlessness you feel. I know the rage and bitterness at the systems that prioritize perfection and intelligence like they're somehow moral (and, for the record: they're not). I know the desire to take vengeance against the pain by hurting yourself.
    I know the frantic desperation, the smothering blackness devoid of what the apparent mockers call hope. I know you probably don't want to die, but you want to stop the pain.
    I know people will consider you evil for thinking of going, will say you're selfish and going to hell.
    They're wrong. You're okay.
    It's not okay that you feel this way. Nope. But you yourself: you. are. okay.
    I love you. And Jesus loves you (and if you don't believe in God, he was still a pretty cool person who I'm sure would have loved you).
    And I still dream that there is hope, for us and for those five who've gone. For a resurrection in which we will all be made right, in which those who've damned us will rejoice to see how friggin' wrong they were.

    Can you stay another day? Can you see the sun or a smile and dare to imagine you deserve good, too?
    I want good for you. I imagine God does, too.
    You are loved.
    Take it day by day.
    Dare to tell someone. And if you're that someone, dare to hug, dare to listen, dare to understand.
    Dare to brave the phone and call a therapist. Then dare to tell them everything, even though it's scary, because it actually helps having everything in the open.
    Hug a cat. Or a dog (this is the part where I begrudgingly admit dog people are okay, too).
    Because we - we are not alone.

Love you, dear friend.
Kelley

Sushi, Patron of Loves, will always heart you, too.

The Monster in the Mirror? It Isn't You

    Every morning, I shuffle to the kitchen to feed the ever-exuberant kittens. Then I shuffle to the bathroom, where I dress and clean my face and brush my hair, where I decorate my sleep-filled eyes with makeup. Where I stare at my dim reflection in the mirror.
    Every morning, before breakfast, I also twist open a white-capped, translucent orange bottle and take out a green and blue pill.
    And every morning, I swallow it with water and a twinge of thanks.

    I need us to know, I need us to understand: there is no shame in being sick.
    There is no shame in crying curled up in a corner, in clawing at despair - and sometimes, yes, ourselves.
    There is no shame in losing yourself to the black depression, in collapsing under the loneliness, in trampling yourself with anxiety, in burning yourself down with mania. In losing another battle against the addictions that provide a fleeting reprieve. Whether you swallow down the panic attack or are ravaged full-force, there is no shame.
    There is no shame.

    It is okay to be sick.
    It is not okay that we're sick, oh no. We don't deserve the torment in our mind and whatever - genetics, trauma, sensitivity - triggered it. But we are not wrong for being sick.

    Maybe there's a part of you, and me, that hates ourselves.
    When I was younger I heard preachers say we can't truly hate ourselves. There was always a small part of me that scoffed at them.
    Because somewhere deep inside, I did hate myself. I knew I deserved the bad things, the pain and anguish and tears and shame.
    I. Hated. Myself.
    And in that grotesque, insidious piece I knew I could never be loved because I wasn't strong and I wasn't brave and I wasn't...I wasn't what I was supposed to be.
    It never stopped screaming, You are not loved!

   There was a part of me, you see, so sick and black I couldn't clean it out. Devotion to prayer and Bible studies, grades, and even inviting God Himself inside me, didn't clean it out. Hatred and denial, desperation and rage didn't bleed it out.
    So I took the blue and green pills, unsure if I was condemning myself deeper, unsure if I was just plain damned. Blue, the color of tears, met green, the color of life. My favorite colors, on a simple aromatic compound that would somehow regulate the chemicals in my brain.
 
   It's a fierce fiend, that demon. But the cleansing only started when I talked about it - in therapy, with friends who (surprisingly) did love me, on this blog.
   The shame fades and fades, because the more you open up and the more people and God come in. And the more we open, the more we are changed.
   It doesn't leave easily - it's still there. Oh yes. I got a B on a homework assignment recently, and oh, how the shame washed over me again (that's why I'm writing that here, I suppose). But it is fading in the light of grace, of God and of people.

   But first, I need you to know, I need you to understand: we are all loved, and more than that, we are all wanted.
   You're not the monster in the mirror.


 
 
 
 

I'd Risk A Thousand Shelobs For You

    Do you know, I'd cross the expanse of space-time to get you back?
    Do you know, when I say hello and you look everywhere but my face, I'd risk a thousand Shelobs to have you smile at me?
    Do you know I'm sorry I kept thinking I'd have time to talk on the phone to you, but it was always, always later? I'm so, so sorry.
    I'm so sorry.
    I'd sacrifice my own mental health if I could feel your tender arms around me, knowing who I am.
    I'd go through a hundred Odysseys, descend through a million circles of hell, to find your memory and relieve your suffering.

    I'm still praying for you. You've got me praying regularly again, of course you have.
    I know you always prayed for me, and honestly, I wonder if your prayers are the reason I survived this far.

    You seemed to recognize me for a little while, twenty minutes or so. You told me the story of when you were little and a hurricane blew your roof off.
    You grew up so different from me, an extroverted model, the second-youngest of seven siblings who married a wonderful Italian-American while she was still a teenager. I remember you telling me about your adventures with your sassy sister Phyllis, about your boyfriends and your ice cream job.
    I remember how you got your license even though you didn't need it, how you went to college when you were older,  how you worked until 82 because you liked it.
    When I was little I wanted to write a novel based on you. Sometimes I still entertain the idea.
 
    Do you know your house was my safe place when I was little? How I looked forward to our visits like vacation? The rhythmic rush of cars down the main street, Papa chasing us twins as the Big Bad Wolf, drinking "fizzy water" at your minibar and playing in the triangle-shaped tub, they were such soothing treats to my little soul.
    Your generosity, in true Italian family style, is still what I think of whenever I'm serving pasta or ice cream.
    It's only a slight exaggeration to say your fudge changed my life. And the bacon - my word, I got sick on too much bacon at your house once!

    And do you know your orange tabby, Terry, was the one who triggered my love for cats?

    I love you. I miss you.
    Mimi, I hope I'll see you again soon, in the hospital or (I hope) back home. And I hope this time you'll see me, too. There is so much love, you know, our days can never be enough, but I guess that's how love is.
    I guess you already knew that, though.

Love,
Kelley

We Celebrate a Wedding, We Celebrate Life

    I may be melodramatic, but, you know, the world is still falling apart.
    Instead of marrying his girlfriend, a man lies very, very sick with Ebola in Dallas.
    An aid worker had his head cut off by extremists who mistakenly believe that violence will fulfill them.
    And now another aid worker, who isn't that much older than me, will might be next.
    Justice has been reduced to a wisp of a word down in Missouri.
    All my concerns about exams and perpetual singleness, all my fascination with chemistry and atonement theories and fantasy stories, stories, stories - they feel very small indeed.
    No, in truth, they feel stupid. Shallow.
    When people are dying, when a psychopathic North Korean dictator imprisons people based on preposterous lies, how can I dream of romance and idealism and mystery? How can I smile, even?
    And yet what can I, what can we, do?
    People are dying, and I can't help them, and it is killing my soul.

    They tell me to pray. Why?
    It feels hopeless. What good will prayers do when a body is too weak, when a person is too brainwashed, when a person is too trapped to save themselves?
    And yet I remember that night, on my knees, screaming up at God.
    I remember crying when someone was saved from death.

    I remember not only that answered prayer, but also the epiphany of sorts I had afterwards: I can no longer give merit to the power of evil.
    This isn't a dismissal of evil. It exists, oh God! it exists.
    This is a choice, of sorts. A choice that says I am trying, desperately trying, not to let evil have credit in any more of my life. I don't want to cower before its blackness, to believe its caustic despair, to be enticed by its smiles.
    I just want good, whatever it is. And ultimately, I hope and put my faith in good being God.

    And so when I ask what point are our stories, what point are our hopes and dreams, what point are our smiles and laughter and weddings, I wonder if the point is the things themselves.
    Because they are life.
    Stories begin with creation, with life. Stories testify to life.
    Hope keeps you hanging on. Dreams inspire you forward. Smiles and laughter, they celebrate.  
    They're all life.
    And weddings - if even two people come together when everything else has fallen apart, death and evil have not won.
    And so we will celebrate a wedding (like the Weasleys during Voldemort's takeover), because maybe in a wedding, a small part of the holy grace of hope comes alive.

Kittens are life too. Don't deny it.

Love,

Kelley

P.S. Congratulations to the lovely cousin and her fantastic husband whose wedding inspired this post. :)

Round and Round: Me and My Body

***A very serious trigger warning for eating disorders, friends.***

    According to my medical reports, I've gained weight over the last year.
    I originally requested my doctor not to reveal my weight to me. But then last Friday happened.
    I frantically looked up my medical records online. I also searched how to lose 10 pounds in a week, and considered starving and dehydrating myself because, you know, water weight.

    I tend to use food as my comfort. Sugary food. Like frosting. I <3 frosting. Cake drowning in frosting.
    Well, apparently that, and not my refusal to starve myself, has led to me gaining 10 pounds this year.
    And I want it off. I'm tired of pinching my fat and wearing loose skirts and oversized pants because I can't look at myself in a mirror anymore.
    I'm tired of being terrified to wear a bathing suit.
   
    I'm disturbed that I still envy the anorexic girls I pass on the street, with their thigh gaps and frail arms.
    I know that weight is not sexy. But it always felt comfortable for me (even though I could probably lose half my body weight and never have a thigh gap).

    I thought I was done with this.

    It's easy to scream and blame the jerk who catcalled me for my "big booty" Friday night. But I have to admit these feelings - these feelings of self-revulsion and insecurity, the appeal of 1200 calories a day, and the fond memories of being stick skinny - were brewing for a while. I guess the sexist jerk just brought them to the surface quicker.
   
    At least I've learned to appreciate my reddish hair and blue eyes and even to like my face, which I never did before. I'm gaining a personality and I love chemistry and I love writing. I especially love people.
    It's a start. A good start, I hope.
    But it's not an end. Which means I'll have head to back to my counselor and have a conversation about something I thought was over and done.
    But this cycle needs to end like my neighbor's music. I don't want this, not really. I know the damage to my mind soul is a hefty price that will never be worth it.

    Yeah, there's no real point to this post. Other than honesty, which I hope is a bigger deal than I feel it is. Edit: yes, there is a point. Sometimes saying stuff, the hard and sticky secret stuff, aloud can reduce the secret's power. 

    So, no, old and new eating disorder temptations, you don't have absolute power over me. I prefer to give my power to Jesus and help others with it, not starve myself. Kthnxbye.

   Anyhow:
    Here's a hug for you all.
    And some kittens.

Love,
Kelley
   

Woman in a City

*Trigger warnings for language and discussions of sexual violence.

All women is not an exaggeration here, either, friends.

    I was shamelessly singing Mat Kearney to myself as I hurried back home. It was a crisp Sunday evening and Boston glowed behind me, sending a multitude of colors shimmering off the Charles River. I passed the campus I'd attend class early the next morning, sped up as I approached my apartment.
    In the day I take a shortcut through a side street, but at night I opted to take the "safer" main street.
    I was kinda lost in thought and song, in a mood as bright as the city.
    So when I heard his taunt, I didn't realize that the old man was yelling at me until I saw that his eyes were fixated on me.
    My heart sped up, my fists curled, and all I could think was I'm almost home.
    But what if he was following me?
    With a shiver, I whirled around. No old man.
    When I turned onto the side street, I passed two guys on their phones. Their mere presence typically only provokes the slightest unease, but now it provoked actual fear.

    If you don't think feminism is needed, you have never imagined being a woman in a city.
 
    The old man invited me to "do something" with him if I "have that feeling" while I was walking alone at night, sure.
    I've also been invited to fuck in broad daylight. While I was in a group.

    I've been hollered at by old men on benches dressed in one of my favorite skirts and feeling cute.
    I've also been heckled for my "fine ass" dressed in a oversized jacket and shorts, and invited to flash while I'm wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts (and no, I don't have long legs, so don't tell me shorts were the problem).

    I'm tired of being scared of men. Men are complex human beings with God's image.
    No, I'm not tired. "Tired" is too nice a word. I'm freaking sick of this.
    I'm freaking sick of having to take care that I'm walking in well-lit sections so I probably won't get raped.* And, as Sunday night showed, there's no avoiding harassment, none at all.
    I'm freaking sick of having to worry about sexual assault on my way home from work or a friend's house at, say, 7 or 8 pm.

    When the system enforces one gender to take precautions to avoid attacks by another gender, that is a huge problem. Why can't we be one united body of human beings? Different, we all are, man or woman or intersex, but why can't we all be understood as human beings? God made us! We're awesome! We're unique! We can celebrate without needing power! Please, let's love each other. Please.
     We need to love each other.

    Jesus have mercy. On all of us. Give us hope.

Love,
Kelley

*I realize sexual assault happens to men too, and I'm not trying to diminish that horror; I'm merely writing my own experiences here.

Reclaiming Innocence

    Last Friday night I enjoyed the company of one of my best friends, Rosalie Jiang. Somehow, in between our reminiscing over college and discussing our quarter-life crises, we landed on the topic of innocence.
    And she said something very wise and beautiful, especially for this very visual learner, so I thought I'd share it for you to see.
    Innocence, it's often thought of as fresh-fallen snow. And snow shines most brightly in the sun, which, you know, is exactly what can melt it. Innocence shines most brightly in the face of what might destroy it.
    I think of people like Anne Frank, who somehow kept optimism about humanity even as she hid from the people trying to destroy her family.
    I think of children, who have to ask questions like "what is war?" and "what is death?"
    I think of Jesus, who was God and saw everything, yet still wept at death.
    I also think of Adam and Eve, who ate from the tree of knowledge. As someone who loves learning, I'm always bothered by why knowledge was forbidden.
    Except, it wasn't simply "The Tree of Knowledge." It was "The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil."
    And so, perhaps, the Garden involves the loss of innocence - the deep knowing of evil.
    Fine, okay. But what is innocence?
    Well, I don't have a concrete answer, but that's okay because I prefer the abstract.
    I do think innocence is often shortchanged; we view it as either naiveté or virginity. However, if innocence is a virtue, I don't think it can be ignorant like naiveté. Nor can it be the rigid sexual 'rule' of virginity - Adam and Eve were married and innocent.
    Innocence, maybe, is an elusive essence, found in the unblemished love of mother for child, in the hope of a bride, and in the kindness of a small child offering you flowers. Maybe innocence is found the belief that God can use goodness and beauty to save the world.
    Whatever it is, innocence is subversive. When violence seems the easiest action, when bitter retorts the best response, maybe we reclaim a bit of that shining innocence when we choose peace and love.
    Maybe we reclaim innocence when we see the reality of our abuse and say no. When we leave because this is not how it should be. Maybe innocence is seeing things as they should be.
    Maybe truth is not condemnation. Maybe the truth is innocent.
    Innocence shines most brightly in the face of what might destroy it.
    Maybe innocence is in the image of God. Maybe it's still hidden in us tired seeking souls.
    Maybe we'll all shine our brightest in the face of what can destroy us.

What If I Lose My Mind?

    I'm starting grad school, and in between the excitement of new friends and teaching for the first time in my life, and the stress of not getting lost or forgetting what to do and when to do it, there's a shadow lurking in my heart.
   It beats harder and darker whenever I acknowledge it. I'm scared of this secret, so maybe if I sure it here, it will lose some of its power?
   I'm scared I'll lose my mind.
   Look, it's been what? Eight months since I started recovering from extreme depression and anxiety? I'm blown away and so grateful to my therapists, family and friends when I think of all that's happened since. I'm not the same avoidant, voiceless personality I was a year ago.
    But there's still that memory that haunts me, a wisp of a timid girl horror-struck by dangerous life. She shows up when I'm tired and hungry, when I have headaches or am overwhelmed at the disorienting orientations. And she locks me in my old habits, hijacks me in the fear that she's back and what if she returns for good?
    Now, recovery takes time, maybe a lifetime. That's helpful to know, sure, but it doesn't make the relapses any more tolerable.
    And now I'm entering the reportedly stressful first year of a PhD program in the compelling but dizzying subject of organic chemistry.
    I'd be lying to say I'm not terrified of screwing up. Not so much in terms of schoolwork - that'll happen, it happens to everyone - but in terms of personal issues. Will I return to my paralyzing fears, like a dog to its vomit?
    Probably. Not all of it is my choice, after all. Some is instinct.
    I suppose climbing back up, returning and trying to do better rather than accepting the status quo are what I have to aim for. Because aiming for perfection sucks. But aiming for recovery, that I think I can do.
    I follow a God who loves resurrection, after all. I honestly don't think I'd follow Him if He didn't.
    Obviously, I love the idea of resurrection.
    But practicing resurrection: it's hard. It's freaking hard to get back up when you've slipped and smashed around on the ground before everyone you know.
    Resurrection says pride has to go. Yes, I have a problem. I've crashed and burned, and now I rise by the power and love of God and the people in my life.
    Resurrection says it's time to escape the hiding habits I've developed (food and isolation and lying),; it's time to walk out of those tombs; it's time to show I'm alive.
    Resurrection says I love you so much I will conquer even the inevitable death for you.
    In the concrete, resurrection means walking up to the grad student I froze in front of and smiling.
    Resurrection.

    There's a song I listen to every August, when the first dry air and cool mornings appear and feel almost like hope. The quiet mornings, before the day heats back up, that tantalize the approach of autumn. Autumn, when the new begins and the school year resurrects.
    So I listen to The Rend Collective's Experiments "Desert Soul."
    I'm lost without Your create spark in me
    I'm dead inside unless Your resurrection speaks.

    Have a listen, if you wish. And whatever needs resurrection in your life, I pray it for you, reader and friend.

Love,
Kelley

A God Who Is Good

    God is Holy.
    Isn't that what the four creatures sing day and night before His throne?
    God is Holy.
    We are not. We are sinners.
    God is Holy. God is perfect, just, awesome.
    And, well, we aren't. Hence Jesus, who shed his blood because God couldn't forgive us or allow us into heaven otherwise.
    Such good news, isn't it, that God can't do certain things.
    God is Holy. 
    He might not want to condemn because love, but He can't make exceptions because holiness.We're all sinners, don't you see, and so those who persist in sin or never hear of Jesus must burn or be annihilated because holiness.
    God can't abide the homosexuals. The killers. The addicts. And before some of us, myself included, nod our heads in righteous anger, let's flip the tables: God can't abide the judgmental jerks who don't use their damn brains. Oops. 
    God can't, God can't, God can't.

    Perhaps - and I suggest this very tentatively since I'm no theologian - the concept of "can't" - does not apply to God.
    I don't want a God who can't. 
    I don't want a distant god, a god who's so repulsed by his own creations he can't stand our presence.
    I don't want a vengeful god, a god who abhors us and eagerly awaits our destruction. I have no desire for a god greedy for souls, who thinks the children deserve to be raped and beaten and slaughtered, that a woman deserves wasting away from cancer, that college student deserves to be so anxious over "success" he thinks suicide is the only option should he fail, because original sin.
    I don't want a god who is in any way tainted or contained by culture, by imagination. I don't want an American God, a Republican God or a Democrat God, a Catholic God or a Protestant God or an Orthodox God.
    I want a God Who is Good. Mind-blowingly, earth-shatteringly, soul-illuminatingly good. I want a God Who transcends my boundaries in the most gentle and stunning of ways, Who tastes our food and our pain. I want a God Who is so deeply intimate and personal He is everywhere around us, a God Who listens and grieves and laughs and dances against the wind, Who loves and loves and loveslovesloves.

    May I suggest that holiness isn't under such a threat that it requires the torture or destruction of its enemies?
    May I suggest that it's not holiness that's threatened at all, because if holiness is good, then it's part of God. And to God alone belongs the victory. Maybe, maybe I can dare to hope that all the shit of this world - the torture and pain and diseases and evil - are the things truly under threat.
    God is holy. When did that become a condemnation instead of a reason to celebrate?

    God is holy. And that's good.

Love,
Kelley

P.S. - For more into what has inspired this post, please read Slacktivist's "There Is No Such Thing as 'Holiness' Apart from Love."

Life for the Dry Bones

    I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. 

-Henry David Thoreau

    I'm back in Boston, friends. Jet-lagged, reverse culture shocked (like what is this thing called flushing toilet paper? And do I really see gluten-free bread?!), and happy to reunite with Sushi the Ninja Cat, and, oh, my family.
    Yet there's a tremble in my heart for a people and a place I knew for a very, very short amount of time (relatively speaking), and it's not easily ignored. A city of a spirit and culture stunningly different yet eerily familiar, and hauntingly unique, all in one. And the people ... did I mention the people?
    Sure, we didn't know each other for very long but, you see, we dove deep. Both on my team and the people I met in the city. Every one of us unique, intricate tapestries, woven by a vast God so creative He takes my breath away at night when I dream I'm back in that city with the people I know.
    And now I'm resurfacing and they're not here for me to smile at and talk with and listen to, and it's hard. Like, smack-your-head-against-a-metal-plate-and-see-stars-as-you-drop level hard.
    So: this might be a long post. Bear with me, friend.

***

    He brought me out in the Spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of the valley...

    It's cliche, but I've been lost for so long. Ill and exhausted.
    I'm not sure where I first heard the term "post-evangelical wilderness" to describe this place. All I know is I'd been inching closer to the city gates for years, then World Vision happened and I bolted, tripping and dizzy and falling on my knees in the desert dust, beaten down by the fists of the sun.
    And then I was like, oh, right, I decided to do a cultural exchange with a bunch of Christians in the Middle East. Even though so many things about church are triggering for me. This should be interesting.
    I never said it aloud, but what I secretly thirsted for was a rediscovery of God, the true God, whoever He is. To find peace again, the peace long since dried up as I fade to brittle bones in the desert.
    I wanted to stand in the dust and raise my hands up to the vast sky and the God watching me. I guess I wanted to feel Him smile.

***

    ...it was full of bones.

    It's not like I didn't have friends going on this trip. I do. I'm just afraid of them, afraid if they know how broken my heart is and how angry I am at Christians and how I panic at Christianese, afraid if they know my real opinions, they'll misunderstand me as someone disobedient to God, a liberal fool.

    It's day one and I'm excited, yet I melt in fear when I face the forty-one beautiful people who will be accompanying me. 

     Inside me I know: this trip might mean either the resurrection or end of my thinned spiritual life.

***

    And he led me around among them, and behold, there were very many on the surface of the valley, and behold, they were very dry.

    It's the first week and my heart is racing, racing. Why does God let people slip away? Why doesn't He answer? (Don't give me that "God's ways are higher than our ways" cop-out crap).

    I kinda want to stay in my room, curled up and ranting at God. Maybe letting my faith extinguish a little more. 

    But instead, for some reason or another, I get up. I walk downstairs and pause, fist raised to knock on my friends door.

    She's always said she's available. But I know people don't often mean what they say, oh boy do I know.

    She opens, she smiles and asks what is wrong. She listens and talks and by the end of the conversation I have no answers but a hope in my heart. A hope that sees someone who loves truly, like I wish God did.

 

***

    And he said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” 

    It's week two and I tell my story in all its ugly, raw detail. How open-ended, how incomplete and messy it is. How concerned they must be for me. How they must be judging me.

    But my heart was pounding and my nerves were tingling, I knew I had to say it.

    And they listen, and they pray, and they love me. Not one doubt, not one judgement proceeds from their mouths or their eyes.

***

    And I answered, “O Lord God, you know.” [No, that was Ezekiel. I said, "I don't think so, but You prove me wrong, okay?].

    Week four we will be discussing our family backgrounds. I've done this before and I don't want to do it again. I don't like to face the truth. You can't imagine how it hurts.

    In preparation, I zone out. I have nightmares and anxiety attacks and flashes of unwelcome memories days before. As we arise the morning of, tears build in my eyes, but I've long learned how to hide.

    And then someone comes up to me and asks how I am. She asks if she can pray for me and says our team is part of my family now, too. And I feel a glimpse of love and warm, warm hope.

***

     So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I prophesied, there was a sound, and behold, a rattling^, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.

    As the weeks pass I feel myself set free. No weight of anxiety, no weight of feeling unknown, hold down my broken shoulders. Bolder and bolder, I can walk up to someone and ask either their life story or their thoughts on any of the many controversies eating my soul (which I suppose brings me one step closer to my dream, hurrah).
    I feel connected and - and I feel safe - with everyone on my team. Safe isn't a feeling I've ever really been able to have, but it's here now. And love is here, too.
    They say God is love. So maybe He is here as well.
    I don't feel Him like I'm used to. No otherworldly presence, no whispers in my soul. I simply feel Him through these friends who love me, uneven and unfinished me.
    And somehow, my faith, my dry bones faith, knits together, into something new. My doubts don't end - intellectually I remain a disillusioned skeptic (maybe I'll always be so). But somewhere else - maybe it's that spiritual soul I can't feel or think - a deeper faith settles. Because of the very, very diverse people who love me. I can't quite explain it, but I'm strangely okay with that.

    ***

     Behold, they say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are indeed cut off.’ Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I will open your graves and raise you from your graves, O my people.

    On waning days of our trip, the men on our team pick out one adjective for each of us women.
    Mine is brave, written in green marker. Green, my favorite color, the color of life.
    I'm not a crier. But I cried then. Do they know how I've chastised myself as coward for years? Fear has ruled me. It's only here it doesn't.
    But here they gave me a new word. Brave, in light of my ugly and unfinished story.
    It feels like a resurrection of sorts. 

***

     And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you in your own land. Then you shall know that I am the Lord; I have spoken, and I will do it, declares the Lord.”
   
    Now, my beautiful and strong adelasters, I'm glad to be back and I've missed publishing on a more regular basis. Love to you all; go live today.

Love,
Kelley

For the Ones Who've Fallen Again

    I know. I'm supposed to say "get back up!"
    I will. Later. Hold on a minute.
    Right now I'm going to sit down here, right beside you. Is that okay? (Because let's be real, I'll fall again real soon anyways. That's just how this life goes).
    Wanna take my hand? No? Okay, want a hug?
    If yes, here's a tight squeeze and lots of love. If no, here's more love, heaps upon heaps of it, overflowing, full love so rich we'll never know a smidgen of it.
    And that's okay. We weren't created to know everything, not yet.
    I do know you.
    Not all of you, not much of you by far, but I know what it feels like to fall again. To go crawling back into your cage, to exercise when you shouldn't have, to commence writing a prayer and instead scribble I'm fat, I'm fat, I'm fat over and over. To curse yourself, to curse your sin, to whimper and curl up in your weariness and in your weakness. To kiss the mud because hey, you've missed the ground from up high.
    Friend, we all have weaknesses. Please don't hide yours. No matter how gaping, no matter how tiny.
    Don't hide.
    I love you. I do. And so does God, I promise. Love's enough to fill our holes.
    Put your hand over your heart. Feel that beat?
    You're alive, and alive is how you were meant to be from the dawn of time. There's a lot of death and shit in this world, and believe me I know sometimes death is life and vice versa, but this isn't one of those cases.   
    You're alive. You breathe. You're supposed to be here.
    Not in the dirt, you say. That's true.
    But you're supposed to be here on Earth: alive. You're already doing something right, at least. Even if you want to die, you're still alive right now, and alive is where you're supposed to be.
    I'm here, and there's a God here too, Who's refilling this Earth with life (although I don't often see this life, and you don't either, it's a hope I will cling to).

    ***

    Want to get up now?
    I think this is the part where I'm supposed to encourage you to get back up. You should, we both know it (perhaps begrudgingly).
     But first I'll offer you my hand - and my back if you're tired - and my tears for cleansing if you're dirty. If you're scared, I'll walk by your side, and if you're ashamed, I'll walk right in front of you.
    As long as we keep holding hands, friend. Because I love you, I like you, and here's to those of us who've fallen in the mud. Not because of our actions, but who we are - in our corest core, heaven's image.
  
Love you, friend.
Kelley
   

Graduation, A Possible Hiatus, and a Series Announcement, All in One Post

    I finished my finals on almost two weeks ago.
    Really.
    I graduated - wait, what?! Hold up!
    How? When did life start happening?

Yes, this is Sushi. You knew I'd work him in this post somehow, right?

    I'm a ball of mixed-up emotions and I don't even know where to start untangling them.
    It's fine. I'm totally cool. I'll go to grad school, do a postdoc, then be a professor and NEVER LEAVE SCHOOL. So long, adult world.
     Just kidding. Life isn't so simple to fall into my plans.
     I started a pre-med biology major and halfway through my first year fell in love with chemistry. In fact, I wound up dropping pre-med in favor of research into that wonderful mystery called chemistry. 
     And now I'm going for a PhD in chemistry and I'm really excited and happy and, oh, I finally figured out the necessary details to write the story I've been working on. Only took me seven years (really).
    But, anyways, I graduated Saturday.
  

There's a rumor that you won't graduate on time if you step on the Marsh Chapel seal. So, of course, the first thing we did after receiving our diplomas was jump on it.

Freedom!

    Which means, besides freedom (until MIT?), I'm able to head over to the Middle East with a college organization. Basically we'll be doing work with refugees and learning about a different culture, interacting with Middle Eastern college students, and, well, a lot more. 

    I've heard we're headed to a very friendly culture, which both excites and scares little introverted me. I'm sure many interesting challenges lie ahead - and probably a few tears and anxiety issues. What a great way to celebrate the end of college - no, seriously. I'm hoping this is going to be a good way to squeeze outta my very narrow comfort zone.

    I suppose I'm also hoping for space away from crazy American Christian culture, space to water my faith- space for a new perspective to blossom - space for me to wrestle with God and crash into Him if need be. 

    But it's a six week long project, meaning ... I might not be posting too regularly, if at all, until the second week of July. Well, I'm currently composing one more post for the end of this week, but I'm not sure how often I'll be able to post in the Middle East.

    When I do return to regular blogging, I'm hoping to post detailed reviews of both Matthew Vines' God and the Gay Christian and Al Mohler's response to Matthew Vines. I've frequently mentioned how confused I am over the gay conflict, how I feel like my heart and my spirit are torn to shreds over this issue. So why not explore deeper, with a series of (hopefully objective and organized) reviews?

    And prayers and well-wishes in the meantime are appreciated. I love you guys!

Love,

Kelley

When God Speaks Through a Catholic Hymnal...Wait, What?!

   For all my theological musings, I don't do religion. At least, I haven't done religion.
    I used to see it as kind of mindless, pointless to an extent. Why follow what someone tells you, why perform fancy rituals when you can directly communicate with God (i.e. Protestant tradition)?
    Plus, religion was boring. All I remember of my time in St. Ann's Catholic Church as a four year old was eating cereal from baggies my mom had prepared and making up stories with my sister. I tried to follow the priest once when my mom said he was talking about Adam and Eve, but I lost interest after not more than five minutes.
    I was just fine in my nondenominational church, thank you very much, where pastors were funny and relatable, where people didn't expect me to repeat every other sentence.
    Thankfully, my views became much more nuanced over the years, as I realized many in my family were both Catholic and true Christians, and as I befriended Catholics/Orthodox Christians my own age. No, faith is alive in religious churches too; I was wrong to assume religious folk were legalists and nothing more.
    But given my history with compulsive rituals and legalism, a religious church has never appealed to me. Outside of Communion, I'm resistant to rituals, even (I'm troubled to admit) baptism. I was baptized as an infant, and I've considered but never been baptized again, because rituals are, for me, burdensome.

***

    Up until this week, I've been in Boston University's Marsh Chapel exactly five times.
    My first time honestly freaked me out. Coming from a fairly casual church back home, the dressy outfits embarrassed the T-shirt-clad me. The hymns overall bored me (although my roommate has a stunning voice), and the repetitions felt stiff and awkward. I'd rather it be simple, me and God and a pastor giving good advice, y'know?
    I couldn't leave fast enough.
    The second and third times two were insignificant as far as religion goes; I went once to see my friends' choir perform, once for Bible study.
    Then last month, my discipler (mentor) asked if I wanted to go into the chapel and pray. So in we went.
    There was maybe one other person there.  The air was hushed, but not deserted. Sitting in a wooden pew, with stained glass portrayal of Solomon's temple to my right and carvings of Jesus in the wood above the alter, I felt for the first time a glimpse of God in religious rituals.
     I felt more than thought of the people all over the world who have gone before, worshiping God over the ages.
     I thought more than felt the symbolism behind the artwork, creations used to worship God. And it struck me that, that maybe, religious churches might be worth visiting after all.

***

    My fifth visit to Marsh occurred Friday. Exhausted from Americanized Christianity, brokenhearted, I sought refuse inside the gentle atmosphere of Marsh again.
    For some reason I opened a Catholic hymnal.
    I don't remember the hymn I opened to, but it repeated the idea that God loves us over and over and over.
    God loves me? Me, who shrinks from baptism? Me, so compulsive I flee formalities lest I have a panic attack? Me, who doubts God at times more than I believe in Him?
    Yes.
    God's Presence? It's here. In Catholicism, in Orthodoxy, Protestant, nondenominational, and everything in between.
    God is here and He loves us.

Please Hold My Hand

    I've heard it so many times. Self-esteem is wicked, because don't you know your heart is desperately wicked.
    Don't trust yourself. Don't you dare.
    So whom do I trust when God is silent? And how can I be certain if God speaks, anyway? Because what if it's just, you know, my desperately wicked heart deceiving me? How do I know?
    I fear myself.
    The solution? I know. Trust God more.
    Read the Bible more. Read to the point you obsessively make sure you know every word - if you can't define it, you have to look it up and freaking read more and more.
     Pray more. Make sure you get on your knees and repeat the Lord's Prayer, in a closed room exactly as Jesus said. (Because, taking the Bible literally). Make prayer lists that grow ever longer. Beg and scream and negotiate and sob and throw the list away.
     Soon you can't stop obsessing. Over your dilapidated spiritual state - there's aways room for growth, so keep it up! Keep seeking! Don't rest for one second!
    Over your work. In school, in lab. Something's bound to go wrong and then it's time to freak out.
    Over your relationships. School and relationships are important, you know, and how else do you show the depths of care besides worry?
    OMG are you getting fat? Why do you eat so much? You dream about your family rejecting you because you're fat and so you awake with a new sense of purpose: losing those damn pounds.
    And you can't stop. Your mind keeps finding something to fear, even when you feel a fleeting hope for peace.
    Oh God, I'm so nasty, so worthless, a tangle of insecurities and panic attacks and fear, fear, fear.
    Wait - did I just take Your name in vain???!!!
    So, whom do I trust when God is silent?

***

    Culture tells us we're all good people, that we should tap into self-esteem and ignore our darker thoughts. Anxiety means you're busy, like you're actually making yourself useful. If your anxiety gets too much, you're weak. Grow up and talk to a professional, because you're making me uncomfortable. And we have no time for discomfort.
     The church says you're a worthless sinner. Your anxiety is from your inherent wickedness, which keeps you from trusting God enough. Although the word "enough" was rarely, if ever, spoken (because we're not about works-based salvation, oh no), it was always implied. Trust is partially a decision, yes, but when you're overly anxious, your ability to make decisions becomes nigh impossible.
    Funny how the church is supposed to be a safe place for the weak.
    When you're caught in the claws of anxiety (don't know why I just pictured an oversized spider here), cliches like "No Jesus, no peace; know Jesus, know peace!" are more harmful than helpful.
    Funny how that classic Bible verse: "Be anxious for nothing" was written as an encouragement - like, look people of Philippi, God loves you and He's got this! - yet now it's used to condemn. Encouragement has been amputated into another commandment.
    Don't you know that anxiety is a sin? He commands it in Philippians.
    Trust God more and yourself less!
    Doing more doesn't work for me, not when performance is my number one source of stress. I'm saturated with tries. Praying and trusting become just another item on my list of stuff I'm screwing up.
     What helps me, in the end, is friends and family and a professional who listen. They don't condemn you, tell you to grow up, tell you to just choose better. They listen, they affirm your worth as a human being with feelings and thoughts, made in the image of God. They hold your hand and hug you and send you an encouraging kitten video over Facebook.
     And perhaps, the healing begins not through your own strength but through relationships.
     Funny how I've heard God's into relationships, too.

Love,
Kelley

These Dry Bones Yet Bleed

   I suppose it is strangely fitting, isn't it, that we've remembered Holy Week these last seven days.
   You see, I'm a (proud) Bostonian. And last week, well, last week was the one-year anniversary of the infamous Marathon bombings. Good Friday was the anniversary of Sean Collier's death, and yesterday
came the one-year anniversary of the lockdown.
    My God, has it really been a year? A year, a year since my roommate and I huddled in our dorm room, unable to do anything but stare at the news, a year since I walked into a lab looking for a solvent and saw everyone gathered around a computer with ghastly images? A year since four marvelous people walked among us, and died for - for what?
    For a young man who poured his passion into destruction and died? For his brother, who seems unrepentant and might face the death penalty? 
    And then I clicked on Google News and read stories of high schoolers trapped in a sinking ferry and wives shot by their husbands, people who have no more chances to live and love, even though they deserved more. The present reality is horrific, too, and I want to hide in my little college bubble, until -
    A student at my school died in his dorm room last Monday. His name was Kevin Lee, a sophomore engineer. I didn't know him. I wish I had. His friend said he was very quiet. I have a bond with quiet people, you see, moving stealthily through life in a loud, loud world, and so, Kevin, I wish I'd known you.

***

    You see, friend, I found myself whispering to God, what are You doing? I used to believe in hope. I used to smash cynicism with optimism and I fully believed in the power of life over death. And hatred? I'd come to the point where I no longer believed in hatred. Obviously, hatred itself exists, but the power of hatred seemed ashes compared to love.
    And then Good Friday came, and I wondered, what is so good about this day? We're commemorating the day Goodness Incarnate was betrayed and subjected to humiliation and pain before being executed like the traitor he wasn't. 
    How unfair. How hopeless. And, God, I'm giving up on my hope, like the disciples must have. The pain and the rage are tremendous; they shake my very soul.
    The writer of Ecclesiastes was wrong when he said all was vanity. No, this life means something. 
    Tragedy, tragedy, all is tragedy.
    I feel like the valley of dry bones, brittle and scavenged, yet drowning in pain like blood. I didn't realize it was possible for dry bones to yet bleed, but here they do. And by "here" I mean in my soul.
    Like dry bones, I am no longer able to scream. I must choose numbness or die of pain. But right now I lay my soul down to sob with  the parents whose children left for a ferry trip and won't ever be back. 

***

    Today is Easter. A Body is scarred and full of holes, but He is alive again.
    Death and tragedy ... they lost.
    That's not the reality I know. It's probably not the reality you know, either.
    Resurrection. There's so much behind that one word I wouldn't be able to unpack it in a year of blog posts. But it's a reminder, no matter how faint the hope, that death and tragedy cannot be the end.
   Maybe all Easter seems is a pretty egg or baby colors or a dull service. But eggs hatch and babies grow and dull services end and then you're free to flee into the sanctuary of sunshine if you so desire. New beginnings never end.
    So maybe, I wonder, there's a third option. Not numbness or pain, but belief. In Resurrection.
    Happy Easter, Kevin.

***

    Tomorrow is the Marathon. I've always loved the swelling population of my city, the buzz in the air, the brilliant sunshine of Marathon Monday (not to mention that my university closes for the day).

    I thought for a while I'd fear tomorrow, but despite my mourning I can't fear Marathon Monday.

    Especially this year. I've heard more people will be running than ever - including my amazing brother Mark, who raised over $7500 for Mass Eye and Ear (!!!).
    So many people running, and even more cheering them on. United. I suppose that's a resurrection of sorts, right?

    Yeah, a lot of crazy horrible you-know-what has and is happening. 

    But resurrection happens, too, and so hope's not over, not yet. Not ever - even in our hardened, unrepentant, imprisoned, torn, condemned, and broken hearts, and not even when the dead keep dying. This I cling to: Easter comes.

    Good luck to everyone tomorrow. You can do it! :)

    Here's to the Easter of a city.

Love,
Kelley

Shards of Good from the Circle of Evil

    Christian.
    There have been days I've been scared to call myself a Christian.
    There have been days I've been embarrassed to call myself a Christian, due to my inevitable pride and fallability.
    But ashamed? I've never been ashamed before Monday, before this whole World Vision debacle.
    These last few days have been the days, the days I - can I write it? - type, fingers! - the days I don't want to be associated with the name Christian.
    I mean, I love Jesus. I love being a Jesus-follower. But this week I was ashamed of the name Christian for the first time. 
    Now it's supposed to be over. World Vision reversed its decision and will not hire gay people after all. They presented their decision as reconciling themselves with God (though I do think it's fair to ask whether God or pressure convicted them. But it's not for me to judge further).
    So, I guess people are hoping it'll all blow over now. Because forgiveness. Because Christian.
    Except...I'm still reeling. These last days have changed me, changed my perspective, and not for the better. In short, I'm devastated.
    Like, I-want-to-cry-and-languish-in-a-corner-level devastated.
    I'm angrier than I've ever been. And I'm ashamed.
    It's disgusting to punish a child for what you deem the sins of a corporation. How can you call yourself Christian; how can you be so self-righteous -
    Oh, wait. By my accusation, by my judgements, by some of the comments I left on the original article, was I any better? I judged them for being judgmental. How can I call myself Christian?
    Obviously, I endorse calling out balderdash (like choosing to let a child suffer because of a policy) when we see it. But to do it in a judgmental way - you, callous you! Rawrrrr! - doesn't help people listen. And when people don't listen, we don't understand, and when we don't understand, reconciliation is never reached.
    Christian. 
    (Here's the part where I admit I'm honestly not okay with the tone of my last post, but I'm keeping it up because I don't like the idea of deleting a post. And I'm not changing my opinions, just how I go about sharing them).
     So, yeah. I don't know where I'm going with this, other than that there seems to by this cycle of evil I can't quite break free from.
    And then there's the label I can't escape: Christian.
    Both bind me. They're not dichotomies or anything of the sort, just two of the many situations I am in.
    But in the aftermath, in the devastation, maybe - dare I hope? - I see a glimmer of why I need the gospel. Why everyone needs this good news.* Because what else can "work all things together for good for those who love God?" (Romans 8:28). Even in evil things like letting children starve in the name of standing against sin, in telling the LGBTQ community they're abominable to us, in vitriolic judgements, in questionable decisions and reversals of those decisions, even in shame, where nothing on earth will make these evils better, there is hope.** Even in all this mess, some shard of good can emerge.
    Right now, I don't feel like good can emerge from this. Hence the devastation. But the gospel tells me I'm wrong. 
    I suppose now all I can pray is, with my fickle wisp of faith, God have mercy on us all. 
    If this is Christian, I will confess the label on my bloody knees, whispering from my broken heart.


Love,
Kelley


*If you don't agree with me, that's fine. But I think we can all agree that bring good out of evil ... is good. :)
**For the record, I'm not saying that all of these things are equal in magnitude. Just that they're all bad.