The Gifts of Imperfection

That's the title of the book I've just started reading by Brene Brown, which has come at the perfect time (no pun intended). Lately, I have been very aware of my imperfections - my shortcomings at work, my failures as a friend, my inability to keep my house clean.

I'm not usually a self-critical person, but I've been noticing even stupid things like my hair growing out and the zit on my forehead, and I feel this frustration building up inside of me - of not being who I want to be, of not measuring up; in short, not being perfect.

It's funny, because I don't expect anyone else in my life to be perfect - not my friends, not my family, not the people I work with - because I know that we as human beings are not perfect; that's part of the human condition. However, I inexplicably seem to hold myself up to a different standard - an impossibly high one.

Even though I, too, am merely human, I expect myself to never mess up, to never make mistakes, to be successful in every part of my life - to immerse myself in my work and not leave the office until everything is done and done right; to be present with my friends, checking in regularly, listening and being supportive through all of life's joys and sorrows; to keep up with my housecleaning, laundry and cooking so that my home is a neat and hospitable place.

These seem like pretty basic "life" things to be able to do, so on the face of it it does not seem like an impossible standard. Which is why I feel like a failure when there are not enough hours in the work-day to complete everything on my to-do list; when weeks go by without catching up with friends who are really important to me; when my dishes pile up, I'm scrounging around for clean clothes and can't figure out what to cook for dinner. What should be simple and easy at times feels impossibly hard to accomplish...and I wonder if I will ever "succeed" at this thing called life. 

It's hard for me to accept that I'm not perfect - that it's not a matter of trying harder, being more organized, pushing through. I'm not perfect, and it's ok. I am human, and I will make mistakes; I will fall short, I will not be "enough". Yet, I will not be defined by my successes or my failures.

I think there's this myth that we can "have it all" - excel in our career, have a robust social life, stay on top of everything at home - and perhaps some people can. But there are trade-offs - if I pour more time and energy into one area of my life, the other areas are going to suffer.

I can always tell when it's been an intense week at work, because I come home with little energy for seeing people, and instead hibernate - watching Netflix before passing out, after eating what may or may not be a nutritious dinner. My dishes pile up and the laundry goes unfolded.

Now don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I am so grateful to have found a job that aligns so well with my passions and allows me to use my skills towards the greater good. There's no place I'd rather be, and nothing else I'd rather be doing. But when those intense weeks become the norm, I realize that there is a cost.

I was talking about this with a friend of mine recently, saying that if I had a significant other or even a roommate, I would probably not work as much as I do - because that person would feel the impact. But since it's just me, I said that by working late I'm not giving up anything on the other end. But she reminded me that I am - that I'm giving up my "me" time, my ability to spend time with friends and to care for my home and myself.

So part of my imperfection is that my life has been lopsided - and I haven't realized what it's been costing me. This realization comes at a good time, though, just as work will be returning to a more normal pace. I won't have the same pressures that have been present the past number of months, and I am looking forward to hitting the "reset" button to find a better balance.

I'm looking forward to intentionally spending more time with friends, and nurturing the relationships with those closest to me. The people who ground me, who support me, who challenge me, who love me and who make me laugh - they are my life-blood, and it's no wonder I've felt anemic without them.

I'm looking forward to taking more time to care for my home - because I feel so much better when my space is clean and organized, and can be a welcoming place for others. I can't wait to bring some order to the chaos, and get back into better rhythms for keeping it that way.

The beauty of this is that it's not a zero-sum game - all of these different pieces of my life are interconnected, so if I spend more time with friends I will feel more inspired at work - and when I am inspired at work I will have more energy to spend time with friends (or clean my house)! Each should flow into one another, not sap energy from the rest.

So this is my intent - yet I don't want to set up, again, impossible standards for myself and then beat myself up when I fall short. So I will try to hold these intentions with open hands - to seek them without striving too hard. I will try to see each step forward as a gift - and each step back as a reminder of my own, imperfect humanity.

Being Present

Being present was one of those things that I didn't realize that I was missing until I found it again. I knew that I was hurried, busy, stressed and tired - which I tried to compensate for by turning on Netflix, scrolling through Facebook and trying to withdraw from the hurried pace of my life for a few hours at night before starting all over again the next day.

But binge-watching Netflix and mindlessly "liking" the never-ending news feed are not ways of being present - in fact, they're the exact opposite. In my attempt to disengage from that which was stressful, I went to the extreme of disengaging from that which was life-giving as well.

Without being present, it is impossible for me to know what it is I truly need - because I am not present even to myself. What I discovered, though, is that to truly be present to myself I must be present to those around me - those who love me, care for me and can remind me of what I need when I have forgotten.

This weekend came as a welcome reminder, as I got to spend time with many of those closest to me in celebrating my birthday. In the process, I received several gentle reminders - a "self-care package" from a thoughtful friend, and some pointed questions from another friend about how I was going to care for myself this week.

I was also finally able to be present at church this morning. Between blizzards, baptisms and staying in bed, it had been a full month since being at New Hope - and I felt a longing to return, to be present with these people and practice community together. From singing together and hearing a friend bring the sermon, to discussing budgetary challenges and catching up with people, community encompasses all of it - and I was so grateful to be back.

And I was reminded that being present to myself and being present to people go hand-in-hand. Spending time with close friends and church family brings me back to more of who I am. I cannot be my best and truest self by myself - it is in community, in sharing life with people, that I return to who I am and I continue to be molded into who I will be.

Part of being present is understanding how to simply BE. So many of my waking hours are focused on what I can DO - and what I must do, in order to accomplish the long list of tasks that greet me from my Outlook toolbar at the start of each work day. I produce, I accomplish, I direct, I lead - lots of action verbs keep me running throughout my days. So the temptation, then, when I finally get home is to convert to the passive - I consume, I veg, I lounge, I zonk out.

But isn't there something in between these two extremes - something to counterbalance the frantic, hectic pace of work and life, and the exhausted crash at the end of the day? I am reminded today that there is - it is simply BEING. In being present to myself, I can hear what it is that I really need - and allow that to direct how I spend my downtime.

This afternoon, I needed to sleep - so I took a 3-hour nap. My shoulders were in knots and my hip was sore, so I needed to do yoga. I needed to create an oasis before the week started - so I lit a scented candle, turned on some relaxing music and ate my dinner in contemplation. This contemplation led me to start writing this blog - so here I am.

Being present - to others and to myself - brings me back to my truest self, to the things that are most life-giving to me. Writing is one of those things - taking the time to connect the thoughts swirling around in my head in some coherent form so that I can share them.

I don't have it all figured out, but for today - for this moment - I am grateful for the people in my life who are present to me, and who remind me how to be present to myself.

Some of the contents of my "self-care package" - thank you, Megan! :)

Life Together

Perhaps it's the nip in the air, the sudden need for extra layers or the hot beverage in hand - but the brisk entry of fall this week has brought me back to this time two years ago, when I first felt the nudge to visit New Hope. I remember it being a chilly evening in October, but immediately feeling warmed and welcomed by the people I found there. Not one to make snap decisions, I nonetheless found myself being pulled quickly and completely into this community - and whole-heartedly embracing the life together that New Hope practices.

I remember that first Sunday feeling like, finally, I was being filled - that this was a place where God was present, and was pouring into me. As I deepened my relationships there, more and more I felt that I was being poured into by the people - the Body of Christ. And what is the difference, really? God works in and through God's people, the Church, and I have felt that in very real ways. These are people who know me deeply; who encourage and cheer me on when I am taking new steps; who support and pray for me when I'm having a rough time; who welcome me to their dinner tables and into their families; who laugh with me, cry with me, drink with me...who share life with me in all of the ups and downs. I am so grateful to be part of this life together at New Hope.

And I am grateful to experience community with people in different parts of my life. My Derry Street "crew" - although not all living on Derry Street anymore - makes me laugh more than anyone else in the world, and are like family to me - loving me, quirks and all. My closest friend, who I can text when I'm having a bad day and who will take a lunch break to let me vent - and make me feel better by the end of it. My longtime roommate who I don't see as often anymore, but with whom I can still pick up right where we left off. My boss and co-workers who keep me sane, and who I could not get through the hard days at work without. My community partners who have also become friends, as we share our passions and ideas and work to eliminate racism together.

I am grateful for all of you - for the ways that you hold me up when I am falling, and cheer me on when I am striving. My people, my community is what makes my life full and meaningful. And really, isn't that what God desires for us? Isn't that what communion symbolizes? Jesus did not break the bread and pour the cup as a ritual divorced from the people around him - he shared this practice at a dinner table with those closest to him. This act symbolized how in his life, and soon in his death, he continually poured himself out for them; for us. And we are to do the same for one another. We practice communion not merely by replicating this ritual, but by practicing life together.

"And this is communion: Here, with friends, the food feeds our bodies - and the people who break the bread and share life, who pour the cup and pray with us, feed our spirits." Amen.

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Schmidt @beautyandbedlam.

No Peace Apart from Justice

Today is widely recognized in faith communities as Peace Sunday, and I had the privilege of delivering the sermon with a good friend of mine this morning at Slate Hill Mennonite Church. It's funny, because although as a Mennonite "peace" has always been a core value of mine, I don't often think of myself as a "peacemaker". In fact, I believe many times - in both our churches and our broader society - the pursuit of "peace" apart from justice makes us complicit in preserving unjust systems and allowing oppression to continue. 

We saw this during the Civil Rights Movement, when there were those who sought to preserve a fragile “peace” without addressing the gross injustices that were causing people to take to the streets, and at times, resort to violence. We see it today across the country, where people lament the “rioting” that has occurred in Ferguson, Baltimore and elsewhere – yet refuse to acknowledge the deep-seated injustices imbedded in our criminal justice system, and the ways that communities of color are systemically marginalized. We cannot hope for peace – nor should we – unless we first acknowledge the realities of systemic racism in our society, and take intentional, ongoing action to dismantle this system of oppression.

For many of us who are white, these are uncomfortable truths to hear. Yet these are the realities that the #BlackLivesMatter movement is calling attention to. Many white people question the name #BlackLivesMatter, asking don’t #AllLivesMatter? And of course, they do – but the purpose in adopting the #BlackLivesMatter slogan is to point out that although all lives should be equally valued, it is clear that black lives are not. There is a consistent pattern of unarmed black people being killed, which can no longer be ignored. This idea that “black” equals “dangerous” or “criminal” is so deeply ingrained in the psyche of our society and our criminal justice system that it has deadly results. #BlackLivesMatter does not exclude white lives - rather, it invites us to really listen to the hurt, anger and frustration that communities of color are expressing, and join together to call for racial justice.

We saw this during the Civil Rights Movement, when white people marched side-by-side with people of color. I would venture to say that the Civil Rights Movement was the original #BlackLivesMatter movement – advocating for black people to be equally valued under the law and by white Americans. When Dr. King led the sanitation workers on strike, they wore signs that said “I Am a Man” – directly challenging the status quo, in which a black man was not recognized as equal to a white man; where the basic humanity of people of color was denied.

Listening to the voices of #BlackLivesMatter, what many would say is today’s civil rights movement, can be challenging because it forces white people to acknowledge our own privilege. I often think about how I have the privilege of turning "off" when I leave the office. I don't have to think about racism once I’m off the clock - I don’t have to be aware of my race when I walk down the street. My whiteness will never have the same kind of negative impact on me that blackness or brownness has on people of color. Because of that, I must continually challenge myself to keep my awareness turned "on" - to critically observe, listen and engage even when I don't have to, or I don't want to.

As a white person, I must choose to be an ally every single day. It is not a word that I use lightly - and as my friends at the Women of Color Network recently reminded me, being an ally is not a state of being but something that I must continually aspire to. I must turn in my ally "card" each night, and earn it all over the again the next day. Racial justice work is a constant process of examining myself for those unconscious attitudes and behaviors that contribute to racism; educating myself by reading, talking with and listening to others; and taking opportunities to speak up and take action.

One of the most powerful articles I have read recently is "I, Racist" by John Metta. Published shortly after the Charleston massacre, the author writes about why it is difficult for him - as a black man - to talk with white people about race. Please read it. He closes the article with this challenge: “All the Black voices in the world speaking about racism all the time do not move White people to think about it – but one White John Stewart talking about Charleston has a whole lot of White people talking about it. That’s the world we live in. Black people can't change it while White people are silent and deaf to our words.... White people are in a position of power in this country because of racism. The question is: Are they brave enough to use that power to speak against the system that gave it to them?"

That is our challenge, my challenge. To speak up even when it is uncomfortable, unpopular or risky. To use my voice even when I am unsure of what to say or how to say it. To interrupt someone who is using their position of power to perpetuate racism. To challenge the ways that racism is imbedded in the institutions and systems that I am a part of. To not let my desire for preserving "peace" supercede my charge to eliminate racism.

The Fight to Eliminate Racism

It's been three years since I started working at the YWCA Greater Harrisburg, tasked with creating and implementing programs to "eliminate racism". Ever since, I have felt humbled - and at times overwhelmed - by the enormity of this task. And I'm sure many people have wondered how this young white woman ended up in a career working for racial justice. For me, there are many moments during my life that I can point to as the stepping stones which led me to embrace this passion for eliminating racism. My passion is rooted in a deep desire for justice - and an anger that rises in the core of who I am when confronted with injustice.

I recall one of those first turning points when I was on a youth group trip at age 16. We were at the airport about to the board the plane, and I remember one of the guys in my group - who was black - got pulled aside for an extra search. He came back really upset, and although I didn't completely understand what was happening, looking back that was one of the first moments when I realized that people are treated differently because of our race.

Fast forward to Messiah College, freshman year. I was taking Intro to Sociology and Intro to Social Work, and for the first time was reading statistics in our textbooks that painted a picture of vast racial disparities in the U.S. I had known that, individually, people weren't always treated equally, but being confronted with this hard data made it clear to me how systemic the inequality is, and the profound impact it has on communities of color in particular.

Fast forward again to my junior year, when I was at Temple for a semester at Messiah's Philly Campus. Two of the best classes I ever took were at Temple that semester - Institutional Racism and Urban Sociology. Through these classes, I learned about the history of racism in this country, how insidiously it is imbedded in our institutions and systems, and the current phenomenon of "color-blind" racism. But perhaps most impactful for me, I learned about how racism has played out in urban communities, through redlining, divestment and a long history of housing discrimination; as well as the stark realities of systematically under resourced schools which inevitably lead to vast educational inequalities.

It was a documentary on educational inequalities that pushed me to my tipping point, though. I remember seeing not just statistics, but the faces and stories of children who were smart, worked hard and excelled at school, but were trapped in a system set up to fail them. I remember leaving class that day with this deep anger burning inside of me, and felt like I had to do something. So, I ran. Now anyone who knows me knows that I am not a runner - not even a little, not even close. I hate running as a rule, but that day I put on my sneakers and took off around the neighborhood - pounding the pavement with all of this energy that felt like it was going to explode inside of me. Running did nothing to change the realities of unequal education, but it was an important outlet for me nonetheless. Since that time, I can count on one hand the number of times I've gone running, but I can still mark when I feel truly outraged about injustice because that is when this desire rises within me.

I had another moment like this last week. Again, it was not statistics but someone's story of injustice that profoundly impacted me. A story of how painful, racist words were used as they never should be, and how those using them were not brought to justice. I couldn't go running this time, so instead I found myself yelling inside my car as I drove. "Damn! This is why...this is why!" This is why I have a job with the task of "eliminating racism" - and this is why, no matter how hard it is sometimes, I won't walk away. There is so much work that must be done, and there are so many people being hurt daily by racism. I must continue to be an ally, and I must challenge myself to speak up - even and especially when it is hard. Because I will never experience the impact of racism that people of color do every single day.

I often think about how I have the option - the privilege - of "turning off" when I leave the office. I don't have to think about race and racism once I am off the clock - I do not have to be aware of my whiteness when I walk down the street, when I greet my neighbors, when I watch TV or run errands. My whiteness will never have the same kind of negative impact on my experience in these mundane situations that blackness or brownness has on people of color. So I must continually challenge myself to keep my awareness turned "on" - to critically observe, listen and engage even when I don't have to, or I don't want to. And to not let myself become paralyzed when I feel overwhelmed or exhausted.

The song that has been reverberating in my head ever since it came out is "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten. I love this song because after a long day, after a long week when I feel like all of the energy has been sucked out of me and "eliminating racism" is a pipe dream so far removed from reality, I can go back to these lyrics:

Like a small boat

On the ocean

Sending big waves

Into motion

Like how a single word

Can make a heart open

I might only have one match

But I can make an explosion

And all those things I didn't say

Wrecking balls inside my brain

I will scream them loud tonight

Can you hear my voice this time?

This is my fight song

Take back my life song

Prove I'm alright song

My power's turned on

Starting right now I'll be strong

I'll play my fight song

And I don't really care if nobody else believes

'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me

No I've still got a lot of fight left in me.

At the YWCA USA conference in June.

Why I Need Feminism

I walked out of the Midtown Cinema on a lovely Tuesday evening in August feeling energized and empowered. The YWCA and NOW had just screened an inspiring documentary, "She's Beautiful When She's Angry," which highlighted the dedicated and brilliant leaders of the women's movement from 1966 to 1971. Galvanized by this glimpse of the passionate and fearless feminists who had come before me, and exhilarated by the company of those working for change in Harrisburg today, I felt like I could do anything. Yet as I rounded the corner of the parking lot to go to my car, that familiar clench of fear returned as I checked the alley and reached for my keys. The many reasons why we need feminism were still spinning in my head, but in that moment I was reminded of why I need feminism.

I need feminism because I want to live in a world where being afraid is not synonymous with being a woman. Although sexism manifests itself in many ways - both subtle and overt - the most ever-present and jarring part for me is the fear. Fear of being harassed, attacked, raped, killed. Fear of both physical and sexual violence. For a long time I thought that it was just me - that I was just being anxious, and needed to get over it. But the more I have talked with other women and read articles like 34 Things Women Do to Stay Safe Show the Burden of 'Being Careful', the more I recognize that this is not a personal problem.

The second wave feminism of the 1960's and 70's was built upon the idea of "collective consciousness": that as we share the stories of our lives with one another, we realize that we are not alone; and what may have seemed like personal problems are recognized as societal problems that impact us all. Having named them as such, we are able to rise together to challenge the powers that be. The personal becomes the political.

Feminism has taught me that I am not alone in being afraid to walk by myself at night, not stopping to get gas after dark, checking around me before getting out of the car, and double-checking my locks before I go to bed. I am one woman, among many, living in a society where violence against women is the norm. I am one woman, among many, walking through rape culture everyday and trying not to become a statistic - all the while knowing how flawed the notion is that avoiding victimization is my responsibility to begin with.

Because statistics are not just numbers in a report - they are lives, women's lives that are forever altered after experiencing violence. They are the lives of my sisters, my friends, my co-workers - and these "statistics" invade even the most innocuous environments. This summer on a girls' getaway three of us had road tripped to visit a fourth girlfriend and her 18-month-old daughter, and we were all hanging out at the beach. Between playing in the waves and reapplying sunscreen, I had to wonder: Which one of us will be the 1 in 4 women to experience intimate partner violence? Which one of us will be the 1 in 5 women to be raped in our lifetime? And what kind of a world will this sweet, innocent little girl be growing up in?

So my message to all the women out there is: you are not alone, and you are not to blame. My message to all the men out there: you have to be part of creating a culture where violence against women is not the norm for your mothers, your daughters, your wives, your friends. We know that #NotAllMen are sexist, but #YesAllWomen experience sexism. This is the reality that we, as women, live with every single day.

I recognize, though, that women experience violence and the fear of violence differently depending on how our gender intersects with our other identities. I hold privileges as a white, cisgender woman that affords me a level of protection not available to women of color and trans women. So I am cognizant of the fact that although we all experience this, we do not all experience it the same.

If we are going to make change like our sisters before us did, we must be allies for one another. Women must support other women, intentionally reaching across lines of race, class, sexuality and gender identity to create a stronger force for change that recognizes all of our experiences. And men must support women, standing side-by-side with us. Because a world free of violence against women is a better world for everyone.

I imagine sometimes what this world would look like; what it would feel like. I imagine walking outside with confidence, and not encountering the invasive looks, words and actions of men who feel entitled to me. I imagine reading PennLive or my Facebook feed and not seeing reports of girls and women who have been molested, raped, attacked, killed. I imagine seeing trailers for new blockbusters or reruns of CSI that do not feature women being victimized. That, for me, is what a world without violence against women would look like.

Often, that world seems so far removed from our current realities that it is tempting to give up hope. However, I go back to the metaphor at the end of "She's Beautiful When She's Angry" - that of social change always being on the horizon. As we know, the horizon is a point in the distance that recedes as you move towards it – so our challenge as feminists is to keep moving forward, keep pushing for progress, and claim the opportunity that each generation has to create a better world for the next.

The sun setting over the Susquehanna River.

Dear Church: Be a Place that Embraces

I entered Elizabethtown Mennonite Church with trepidation, unsure of how this process would unfold or how comfortable I would feel speaking to the question of whether Lancaster Mennonite Conference should leave Mennonite Church USA over the "issue" of homosexuality. Looking around the packed sanctuary to see a sea of white faces, gray hair and a smattering of coverings, I definitely felt out of my element.

As we began, however, I was surprised and impressed with the process for the listening session - the care taken to split several hundred people into small groups for discussion, and the sincere desire to get feedback from each person in attendance. I was the only woman in my group and definitely the youngest, and yet I was again surprised by the diversity of opinions shared. There were things that I agreed with and things that I did not, but it was an honest and respectful conversation, which I had not anticipated.

As each group leader went up to the mic to report on what was said, I was struck by a number of things. There was not at all a clear consensus - in fact, it seemed almost evenly split between those who wanted to leave and those who wanted to stay. However, I heard nearly everyone echo a commitment to Biblical values - code for defining "homosexuality" as a sin - which was the underlying assumption of those gathered. So it was not this most fundamental question that was being addressed, but rather the question of what Lancaster Conference should do to best uphold this particular Biblical understanding.

Listening to all of this, what it seemed to come down to was that those wanting to leave saw this "issue" in black and white, and felt a moral imperative to separate themselves from what they saw as a slippery slope leading them to accepting "sin". Whereas those who wanted to stay, while having this same Biblical understanding, also recognized that we will never agree on everything and in fact diversity and differences of opinion are a positive thing. They were willing to live in the tensions, and felt that there is value in holding onto unity amidst differences - focusing on what brings us together rather than what separates us.

On the question at hand - to leave or not to leave - I would fall in the latter category...as you might imagine, I am all about living in the tensions and seeing shades of gray. And as Pastor Tom has articulated so well in past sermons, harmony in the midst of differences is truly a powerful thing for a church to embody. However, to be honest I don't know what the best direction for Lancaster Conference is, because I take issue with the fundamental assumption that everyone in that room was operating on.

My vision for Church - not just Lancaster Conference or MC USA, but the Body of Christ - is to be a place that is openly accepting and affirming of LGBTQ people; that rejects a reading of Scripture which labels the identities people are born with as "sin," and instead holds to a Biblical understanding which embraces people of all sexual orientations and gender identities as created by God and equal in every way. 

I would venture to say that all of us long to be seen and embraced for who we are. If there is any place where that should be true, it is Church. Pastor Tom often says that "confession" is naming who we are and what we bring. None of us want to be defined solely by any one of our identities - we want to be seen as whole people. Yet neither do we want to feel that we must hide any piece of ourselves out of fear that we might be rejected. So please, Church, be the place where we can bring our whole selves - and be loved and embraced for all of who we are.

My "Love One Another" t-shirt from the Human Rights Campaign.