A Prayer for My Daughter, On Her 1st Birthday


You entrusted me with Gabby, and you know her inside and out.  There was no mystery hidden from you when you wove her inside of me, fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps. 139).

For all the strength and empowerment I’ve found through being this girl’s mama–even during her birth–I praise you, God.

Thank you for Gabby.  Thank you for all that she has already been to us–a daughter, a sister, a friend.  Thank you for her sweet disposition, her goofy laugh, and her determination to go places as of yet uncharted by babies (probably for good reasons). Thank you for using my relationship with her for my sanctification and your glory in my life.

Thank you for the moments we’ve shared already.  For ever hour I’ve worked from home while snuggling her, for all the “firsts” we’ve witnessed (words, crawling, standing, steps, and more!).  For even the many sleepless nights we’ve soldiered through this year, holding our precious child, I am so thankful.

There are so many things I want for my daughter, God.  It seems like a lot to ask, especially considering that Gabby is, by virtue of her birth, more privileged than many children of the world. But these are, I think, the things that all children, all people, need and deserve. And I believe no request is too big or small for you.

Gabby and Mommy pic

Let her know her strength, God.  As her name, “Gabrielle,” implies, the source of all her strength is you, and so, even when her mortal flesh is failing, she can fall upon the Rock that is Christ and let his arms hold her. Let her know that, regardless of size or social status or office, she is great through the power that raised Jesus from the dead (Rom. 8:11).

Let her know her beauty, God.  It’s more than clear to me that my daughter is beautiful on the inside and the outside, too, but sometimes distortions can start to feel like reality . Let her know that she is created in your image, and that any messages contrary to that are flat-out lies (Gen. 1:27).

Let her find family, God.  I believe that one of the worst things we can do is walk through life alone–or believe that we are alone.  I trust that our family, our immediate family, will always be there for her, but I want her also to find “chosen family”–the people she can call at 3 AM on a Thursday night just because she needs a chat.

Help her be brave, God.  Let her be a person who sits by the one everyone else is leaving out. Let her be a person who speaks out of principle, not popularity.  Let her fearlessly tell of who she is and why her story matters.

Gabby happy scream

Let her be heard and seen, God, for who she really is. Remove the sicknesses of racism and sexism that have poisoned so many and kept them from witnessing the truth of those who are like my child.

And while she’s doing all that, being strong and beautiful and known and brave and heard and seen, just keep her safe, God. We do not live in a safe country for children, especially not ones like Gabby.  I worry for her with a mother’s heart, and yet I trust you, God.

Gabby pretty picture

In your powerful, strong name–which Gabby carries in her own name, in the fabric of her being–I pray.





Peace Between Polarities

I often myself in the crossfires of dueling polarities.  Here are a few.

  • I’m a working mother who stays at home with her kids as much as humanly possible.
  • I’m a feminist, LGBT-inclusive biblical scholar who usually worships at evangelical, nondenominational churches.
  • I’m a white suburbanite who has often found herself visiting family in an inner-city, black neighborhood.
  • I’m an academic who thinks first with her heart.
  • I’m a Democrat who’s deeply unnerved by the rhetoric that most of my party leaders have about abortion.
  • I’m a Christian whose piety has been deeply informed by time in the Muslim world.
  • I’m an introvert who often functions as an extrovert.
  • I’m a white mother to two little brown girls.
  • I’m a self-respecting woman who has also been known to watch The Bachelor(ette). (SHAME.)
  • I have strong and passionate opinions about many issues, but I hate debating.

Because I live within the crossfires of these polarities, sometimes I feel like a bit of a chameleon. For example, I’ve often avoided talking about my church attendance to my academic friends.  And I’ve often avoided explaining my academic work to my church friends. I think I’m pretty good at “passing” in whatever context I’m in.  I often internally cringe at myself in my chameleon moments, willing myself into a more “don’t-give-two-cents” stage of existence.

Sometimes, in my bolder moments, I feel like a bit of an interpreter.  I try to explain to my secular friends why I love the Bible and worship Jesus. I try to explain to my church friends why feminism helps me love Jesus and read the Bible.  I try to explain to my politically conservative friends why I oppose the death penalty.  I try to explain to my politically liberal friends why my views on abortion policy are complex.  I try to explain how I can relate to folks whose life experiences have led them to quite different positions than my own. Mostly, these efforts fall flat (as in the last point in the bulleted list, I really don’t enjoy debate).

Sometimes I wish that it were a little simpler to place myself in a box.  My fellow box-mates would be my people, and the people outside the box would be those people.  But I believe that there’s a gift to nuance, to being, at times, a flesh-and-blood contradiction to those polarities.  There’s a freedom in resistance to simple definition. There’s a freedom outside the box.

Maybe there’s a peace between the polarities.










“She Looks Just Like You.”

“She looks just like you.”

In nearly 2.5 years of motherhood, I had never heard those words before from a stranger.  Most people don’t see the resemblance.  They notice first the fact that my girls’ brown skin is many shades darker than my white skin.  And then the comments and questions often come. As I’ve written about before, they ask things like, “Is that baby yours?” “What is she mixed with?” “What’s her daddy?”  “Is she Indian?” or other queries, which run along the spectrum of simply tactless to downright offensive.

But never, never has a stranger (and only very rarely a friend or family member) said the words, “She looks just like you.” Until today.


The source was unexpected. We’ve been visiting a pretty small nondenominational church (I hail from Presbyterian origins, Will from African American Baptist traditions, and by mutual agreement, nondenominational churches with an orientation towards diversity have been where we have landed as a family) that is about 5 minutes from our new home.  It’s in a small town, and going in, I admit I was more than skeptical about the reception our interracial family–along with our political affiliation, perspectives on certain social issues, and educational backgrounds–would receive. But the comment of an older lady in her 70s undid my prejudices.  As Will and I carried our daughters out of the service, she stopped me and said something that changed everything:

“She looks just like you, doesn’t she?”

I thought for sure she must be talking to Will, who was holding Debbie (our older daughter). But no, she was looking straight at me as I held Gabby (our younger daughter) in my arms.  And she was still talking:

“I didn’t notice at first. But then I saw Baby’s face as you were holding her hands to help her walk. Her expressions are just like yours…big ole smile. Big sister looks like Daddy, though. That’s fair…you each have one who looks like you.”

Frankly, I was floored. I didn’t know how much I’d wanted, need to hear those words until I heard them coming from the mouth of a white, rural, Southern person I’d honestly had expected to judge the heck out of us. Someone who, statistically, potentially might have voted for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

“Thank you so much,” I told her. “That means so much to me. No one has told me that before.”

Since church this morning, I’ve been trying to figure out why I was so moved by the comment.  Here’s what I’ve concluded. Hearing those words for me is an external affirmation of what I inwardly know to be true, that I “go with” my daughters, that I don’t have to share their skin color to be the mommy that God chose for them. That the beauty that shines through them originates partly from me, too. My soul had been aching to hear those words.

God, in the form of a person whom I now realize I have unfairly stereotyped, provided.

“Brown Like Me”

Recently, 2-year-old Debbie has gotten very interested in skin color.  Standing at the bathroom mirror, she’s liable to make the declaration, “I am brown!!!” This is used followed by observations about her parents: “Daddy, you are brown, too!  Mommy, are you white? I think you’re white! Are you sure?”

We never told Debbie that she is “brown” or that I’m “white.”  To avoid pinning labels on her that she didn’t need or want, when she initially asked, “What color is Debbie Joy? What color is Daddy? What color is Mommy?”  we responded, “What do you think?” She’s always been very certain she was “brown! Yay, Debbie Joy!” but she was very tentative in ascribing a color to me.  While she told us that she and Will were “brown,” she then announced, “Mommy, your name is Susannah!” instead of telling us what color I am.  Then, she suggested that my whiteness was “an accident, a mistake?”  to which I replied that God doesn’t make mistakes when he’s making people.  Finally, she concluded, “I think you’re white, Mommy!” but qualified, “It’s okay, Mommy.  One day you be brown like Debbie Joy.”

I may be reading too much into her toddler-speak, but it seemed like she was reluctant to label my color because she didn’t want to acknowledge any difference between her and myself.  Over the course of her life, she has identified primarily with me.  Much of her play imitates the housework and childcare that I do daily.  I think she was hesitant to introduce language to describe me that introduced any sense of gap, even if just semantic, between us.

To be honest, I’ve felt much the same way. Sometimes being the white mother of a brown child feels like a daunting task.  There’s so much that Will and I have to teach our daughter of which I have no personal experience.  How am I supposed to explain to her how to act if/when she gets pulled over by the police to increase the odds she’ll survive the encounter?  How am I am supposed to tell her what to do if someone yells the N-word at her from a car window?  Truth is, I can only teach her, in so far as I know, how to be a good person, fair, compassionate, brave, wise, and strong.  There are lessons that others will have teach her from their experience. Sometimes, that makes me feel a little inadequate.

Yesterday, we took a family trip to Bicentennial Park in downtown Nashville, where in the summer there’s a lovely splash pad where children shriek and romp.  While we were there, a pre-teen girl approached Debbie. “You mixed?” she asked Debbie, holding out her arm beside Debbie’s to compare their brown skin tones. “YOU’RE BROWN LIKE ME!” Debbie yelled, delighted.  She was so excited to have a “big friend” who shared her skin color.  The two girls played together for almost an hour. Debbie’s friend taught her how to jump clean through the fountains without getting scared.

This beautiful interaction reminded me the importance of finding mentors for Debbie, big sisters, really, who can model for her life as a woman of color, who can teach her the lessons where I will certainly fall far short.

And yet the interaction also reminded me that I don’t have to be afraid of being “found out” as a fraudulent mother for her because I am white.  At one point when the girls were playing together, Debbie slipped on the slick pavement and hit her head, hard. “MOMMY!!!” she yelled, and I came to her rescue.  Through God’s grace and mercy, he has seen fit to make me mother to children of a different skin color than my own, and I believe that, in spite of my personal limitations, I am enough for the path that is ahead of us.


In the Hebrew Bible, seven is a number of completion and/or perfection. For example, in the Yahwistic creation narrative of Genesis 1, creation takes place over seven days (6 days of God’s work making something, and 1 day of rest).  This week, my last (at least for the foreseeable future) as a resident of Nashville, I’ve thought about the perfection of seven a lot.

You see, I moved to Nashville just about 7 years ago.  I had a newly minted Bachelor of Arts degree and was about to start what would become my first masters degree at Vanderbilt Divinity School.  I thought I was a grown up then…but I wasn’t. At all. I was barely dipping a toe into the tumultuous waters we call adulthood.

Back in 2014 when we were dating. We were a lot younger and less sleep-deprived then.

Seven years later, I dare to call myself a grown up. I’ve learned what loss, parenthood, and marriage are like–kind of all at once.  The best moments and the worst moments of my life have all taken place here.  I’ve experienced exhilarating victories and painful rejections…all lumped together.  Death and birth have walked hand in hand.

In Nashville, I made far more friends than I’d ever hadbefore.  For the first time, ever, through a conglomeration of university and church communities, I felt like I met my people. I felt known and appreciated– by people who were in no way obligated to love me–in a way I never had by communities before.

When I moved here, I hadn’t met my family.  I was dating someone whom I would not ultimately marry.  A year later, I met Will, and it was pretty apparent instantly that he and I had something incomparable to any relationship I’d ever had. Just a few years after that, Debbie came along, and then Gabby.  They were both born just a moment’s drive away from the library where Will and I met.

I’m leaving Nashville heavily laden with the gifts these seven years have given me.  And yet I feel that this chapter of our story here is done.  Seven really is the perfect number for me.



“What’s Your Dissertation About?” (In 400 words or Less)

The book of Lamentations is one of the most interesting but least talked about books in the Old Testament. It’s a series of poems that encapsulates the fear, trauma, and despair of warfare, of seeing one’s home completely destroyed by invaders and being taken into exile. In the first two chapters of Lamentations, the poem is written as if a woman named Daughter Zion is speaking it. She’s a personification of the city of Jerusalem and its people. She poignantly describes how she is raped, her children are murdered, and her people are dragged away. She insists that God must notice her suffering and answer for it, challenging the conventional notion that people suffer because they have sinned.

I’d never read Lamentations before I went to seminary, even though I’m a lifelong church-goer. And I’d never heard the voice of Daughter Zion remembered, even though I’m a feminist. My dissertation asks, “Why not? Why aren’t we all talking about Daughter Zion, given the ways her protest against injustice and against facile theology speaks to the pain of today’s world?”

The obvious answer is, “PATRIARCHY!!!” But I want to give a more nuanced account than that. Daughter Zion’s voice has disappeared because the tradition of Lamentations interpretation has stopped giving her credit for it. From the erasure of Daughter Zion’s protest in inner-biblical allusions to Lamentations, to the attribution of Lamentations’ authorship to the prophet Jeremiah, to the slut-shaming of Daughter Zion in commentaries, millennia of interpreters have done their best, consciously or unconsciously, to make sure she’s forgotten. Her protest goes unheard. Lamentations, which is set up dialogically, has become a one-sided conversation. The condemnatory voice within it that blames victims, especially women, for their suffering is the only voice that gets heard.

Without the courageous voice of Daughter Zion insisting that women’s rape isn’t a function of their sinfulness, and that helpless children don’t deserve to die for powerful adults’ sins, Lamentations just becomes another painful tract that falsely claims, “Bad things don’t happen to good people.” Lamentations becomes the last place people want to look for hope and encouragement when they’re suffering.
I want to change that. I want to give Daughter Zion’s voice back to her. And by doing that, I want to give Lamentations back to the world.

God Remembers: A Mother’s Day Sermon

My good friend Seonwoong invited me to preach a Mother’s Day sermon for the youth he pastors at Nashville Korean United Methodist Church. My texts were Isaiah 49:13-16 and Luke 23:39-43.

I am mommy to two little girls. Debbie is two years old, and Gabby is eight months old. Being a mom has changed everything about my life. For example, it used to be that using a public restroom was no big deal. Now, that’s a different story. Over Christmas, my family was driving up to Wisconsin. We stopped at a Cracker Barrel for dinner, because they have one of the five foods my daughter Debbie likes to eat—mac and cheese. After dinner, I took her into the women’s restroom with me. I was washing my hands when Debbie darted away from me and poked her head under the door of one of the locked stalls. “Mommy,” she yelled, “People pooping in here!” I wanted to vanish from sheer embarrassment. And then, to make things even worse, a very dignified older lady walked out from the stall, tight-lipped and annoyed. “I can tell that one is a handful,” she said to me about Debbie, who was grinning ear-to-ear, so pleased with herself. Public restrooms will never be the same for me again.
Being a mom has also changed the way I see God. Being a mom—and knowing how I would do absolutely anything to serve my two little girls—has shown me how much God must really love us. I started thinking about how God is like a mother  one night when Debbie was little. You’ve probably heard from your parents or know yourself from having younger siblings that often, babies don’t sleep very well. Debbie had a habit of waking up at about 3 AM and refusing to go back to sleep. She would cry and cry if I set her back down, and often, I would just end up holding her all night. From a certain point of view, that was really not fun, because I love to sleep. On the other hand, though, it in those hours, spent rocking my sweet baby to sleep, that I began to encounter God’s love for me in a new way.
While I was sheltering my little girl in my arms, whispering, “It’s okay, Debbie, I’ve got you. I love you so much, and I’m never going to let you go,” it was like I could hear God whispering as well: “It’s okay, Susannah. I’ve got you. I love you so much, and I’m never going to let you go.”
Now, no mom is perfect. Moms are not the same as God. And sometimes moms are emotionally unhealthy and make bad choices that cause us pain. The Bible tells us that we shall have no other gods before him…and that includes making idols of our parents. Moms aren’t God…but the Bible tells us that there’s something about loving, good moms that can teach us about God’s heart for us. Let’s look again at our reading from the prophet Isaiah to find out more.
14 But Zion [that’s another name for the city of Jerusalem] said, ‘The Lord has forsaken me,
my Lord has forgotten me.’
15 Can a woman forget her nursing-child,
or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will not forget you.
Isaiah wrote these words during the exile. You might remember that the Israelites were God’s chosen people, bound to him with a covenantal love. But a lot of things happened to mess up that covenant. Long story short, Isaiah’s people ended up being taken over by a big powerful kingdom called Babylon. Many people were killed or taken into exile, away from their homeland, away from the land that God had promised them. It was during that awful, dark time in history that a lot of the books of the Bible were written. That’s because when bad things happen, people start to question everything. Many people asked, “Why is this happening to us? Where is God now?”
Have you ever asked questions like that? I know I have. The Bible is a great place to go when we’re asking those questions. Some biblical writers thought that their people were suffering because they sinned. Some thought that God was being unfair and allowing harm for no good reason. Some even got angry at God. And I want to take a minute here to say, all of those responses to pain are OK. Sometimes the bad choices we’ve made have played into our suffering. For example, if I cheated on a test, I deserve to fail that test, even though that consequence makes me unhappy. If I drive under the influence, I deserve to have my driver’s license taken away. But there are many other times when the suffering we face just doesn’t make sense. Bad things happen to good people. In the 9/11 terrorist attacks, good people died. They didn’t do anything to deserve what happened to them. Jesus himself rejects the idea that suffering just happens to people who sinned. In John, when he sees a man who was suffering from blindness, the disciples ask him whose fault it was that the man was blind…who sinned? Jesus says, “Neither this man sinned nor his parents.”
So sometimes we just don’t know why bad things happen to us. Sometimes the simple answers just don’t make sense. Then, it seems like God has forgotten us. That’s the moment we catch the prophet Isaiah in during our reading for today. Isaiah gives the city of Jerusalem a speaking role in the drama he is writing. The city, speaking like a woman, says, “The Lord has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.” In other words, this woman is suffering, and she’s trying to figure out why. She believes that the reason for her pain is that God has forgotten about her. She thinks her struggles don’t matter to God any more.
The way that God responds to her is amazing. God compares himself to a mother. To the accusation that God has forgotten her, God insists that he still remembers because he is like a mother. For Isaiah, a mother is the best example of someone who isn’t going to forget you. I can relate to that. Ever since I became a mom, my children are the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. You know how they talk about mom-brain? It’s so real. I have mom-brain so bad, and I’m not sure it’s ever going to go away. I lose my car keys basically daily, I can’t remember acquaintances’ names, and I accidently stored the peanut butter in the freezer. But no matter how forgetful or disorganized I’ve gotten with my mom brain, I have never forgotten about my children.
Truthfully, though, I still mess up as a mom. Recently, I was taking my daughter Debbie out for a walk around our apartment complex. There are tons of stairs in the complex, and Debbie loves to go up and down them, over and over. She’s basically like my personal trainer. Now, up until this point, Debbie had gotten very confident going up and down stairs. So I stopped insisting that she hold my hand. On this particular occasion, we were about to walk down some stairs that were particularly steep and a little damp, and the railing was just a little out of her reach. But I wasn’t paying close attention to these things. I was distracted. I absentmindedly said, “Debbie, I think you should hold my hand going down those stairs,” and I reached out my hand to grab hers, but that wasn’t nearly enough. Debbie tripped on the top stair and fell, head over heels, down each one of the 15 concretes stairs. I know her fall probably took less than 3 seconds, but for me, those were probably the longest three seconds of my life. I stood frozen at the top of the stairs while my precious baby girl toppled down. She landed at the bottom of the stairs in a sad little heap. It took a few seconds before she started to cry. Her mouth opened first in a silent scream, and I knew what was coming. When she did start to cry, I felt like the sound was the condemnation of me as a mother. Fortunately and miraculously, Debbie was completely OK. But that’s probably the moment of being a mother that I’m most ashamed of.
The truth is, though, that I’m only human, just like every mother. I’m going to have moments that I wish I could redo. Beating myself up over my shortcomings is neither healthy nor helpful. And even though moms like me are imperfect, God honors us by comparing himself to us in Isaiah. Isaiah chooses mothers as the ultimate example of people who are least likely to forget. That makes sense to me. Imperfect though I am, I can’t forget my children, even when I make mistakes and my human failings show up.
In our Isaiah passage, God is saying that he is the perfect example of all the things that makes moms great—especially their inability to forget about their children. But all the parts of moms that are broken and sinful and imperfect are totally foreign to God. So God can love us perfectly and beautifully even if there are times when our moms fail to do so. As Psalm 27: 10 says, “If my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.”
We need a God who remembers us like that, because being a young person is incredibly hard. There can be so much pressure to succeed…to get into the right college, to have the perfect GPA, for the right person to “like” you. And there’s so much crazy, terrible stuff happening in the world. This week in Colorado, there was another school shooting. A brave young man named Kendrick, a high schooler, died because he rushed at one of the shooters. Kendrick was a hero, but he should never have to be. He should have been able to walk at his graduation. He should have been able to go to college or get a job. Get married, have kids, be a father. And you know what? I can’t stop thinking about his mother, because this week, she lost her baby, and Kendrick won’t be able to get her a mother’s day card or make her pancakes for breakfast. That is unfair. It’s all so unfair. I think adults have a tendency to downplay unfairness by saying, “Well, kids, life’s not fair.” That’s true…but saying that doesn’t make it right, or God’s vision for the world. This isn’t the way God wanted things to be when he made this big, beautiful, awesome world. God had better dreams than this nightmare.
Even in this crazy, messed up world, we can be sure that God remembers us. God doesn’t just remember you in a passive, “Oh, I’m so sorry you’re going through that” kind of way. God remembers in an empathetic kind of way. If you break down the word “empathy” into its roots, it literally means “feeling with.” God remembers you by feeling your pain with you—because God himself has experienced it in Jesus Christ. Betrayal by a friend? Peter betrayed Jesus before his death. Total humiliation in from of a crowd of onlookers? Jesus was kicked out of his hometown at the beginning of his ministry, and then later on, he was stripped and beaten. Loneliness? Jesus begged his friends to stay awake with him, but they couldn’t. Watching loved ones get sick and die? Jesus’ dear friend Lazarus died, and Jesus mourned for him. Fear of the future? Jesus asked God if there were any other way than for him to die.
Jesus’s experiences from birth to grave give him empathy for us, the ability to “feel with us.” Jesus remembers us because he’s gone through all the difficult things we go through. But the moment this becomes most clear is when Jesus is dying on the cross in our Gospel reading. He’s being crucified between two thieves. I think we’re so used to hearing the story of Jesus that we stop thinking about how plain unfair this is. Jesus had done nothing wrong; the Bible tells us he lived a completely sinless life, better than anyone else’s in the world. He had knowledge of the will of God in ways that are completely beyond the rest of us. He spent his whole life serving by teaching, healing, including, and breaking bread with the people around him. But it was like none of that mattered…he was still killed, treated like a criminal, and hung on a cross between two of them. All to redeem a bunch of sinners like us. How’s that for unfair?
And yet like the good mother God promises to be, Jesus still remembers us, down to his last dying breath. He even has a conversation with the thieves who are being crucified with him. One of them makes fun of him for being in this terrible situation. But the other thief gets real with Jesus. He’s scared, because he’s about to die, and he doesn’t know what’s coming next. Maybe he’s regretting the decisions that have led him to this point. Maybe if he had a second chance, he’d go back and change things. And so he has a question for Jesus. It’s a humble, embarrassing = question—the kind of question that shows insecurity, like a child asking a mother, “Mom, do you really love me even though I did that bad thing?” The thief pleads with Jesus, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
We all want to be remembered. In our last moments, I think we all, even if we haven’t thought about it yet, just to be loved, to be cared for. To have somebody there with us to hold our hands and whisper to us that we want to be loved. In our Gospel reading, that thief is probably pretty feeling pretty lonely, up high on the cross by himself. It’s often in those lonely moments, when we feel like the world has forgotten us, that we’re most open to God…a God who remembers us. And that’s exactly what Jesus promises to the thief to do. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed Jesus if he wasn’t in the mood for a Q and A session right then. He was in pain and couldn’t breath well. He was dying. And yet, as happened to Jesus throughout his life, people still wanted things from him. Kind of like a mom who doesn’t even have the privacy to go to the bathroom by herself without the kids banging on the door. If I were Jesus—and thank God I’m not—I might have just closed my eyes and pretended to be dead already, like an opossum playing dead or something, just so I wouldn’t have to waste my breath with talking.
But Jesus still remembered. Even as he was dying, he remembered the thief. The person who had actually done something wrong, something that, according to the law of the Roman empire, had actually earned him that position on the cross. Jesus replies with love to the thief. He says, “I’ll remember you, brother. Today you’ll be with me in paradise.”
Here’s what’s even more miraculous. The thief is like every single one of us in this room. We’ve all made mistakes in our lives. We’ve all done things that we regret. We all have hurts that are too deep for us to heal for ourselves. And just as Jesus saw the whole truth about the thief and loved him even so…Jesus sees us exactly as we are. All the mistakes in our lives that were our fault. All the painful things in our lives that aren’t our fault. And he says, to each one of us, “I remember you, too.”
Maybe today some of us are feeling like the thief who hung on a cross beside Jesus, stuck in a place that seems both hopeless and helpless. Maybe today the words in our Isaiah passage make sense to you: “The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.” Maybe today you’re feeling alone. Then today, God has a word of hope for you. God says to you, “I remember you. I have known you and loved you before you were even born. I rejoice over you with singing. You are my beloved, and I delight in you. I remember you.”
Isaiah tells us the truth, a truth that Jesus repeats back to the thief when he promises to remember that man. God hasn’t forgotten us. God remembers us. God has given us Jesus to show that God has never and will never forget us. Because that’s what a good mother does. And God is even more than that.

Exiting Survival Mode: 5 Things I’m Doing Daily

My husband Will suggested I write a blog about self care as a mom.  This feels a little more list-y and pragmatic than what I’m used to writing…which is probably not a bad thing. 

Since my first daughter was born until recently, I felt like I was in survival mode…simply trying to make it until we arrived at the mystical land of…I don’t know what. Complete sanity? Full health? Everybody sleeping through the night? Financial security? No one in grad school? I was successful in that, by the grace of God, I got everyone through the crazy season we found ourselves in alive.

Overwhelmed mom

I’m trying to get out of survival mode now. Not because we’ve arrived at that mystical land (can let’s not even talk about how ROUGH the sleep situation is right now), but because life is moving on. I don’t want to spend my whole life in survival mode. I want to be in thriving mode.

My New Year’s resolution in 2019 was to move towards more holistic living by caring for my own body, mind, and spirit better. I realized that I needed to start small; I don’t have much time to myself. I have at least one child attached to me most of the time; I’m trying to finish a PhD; I’m starting a 1 year teaching position while also applying for future full-time jobs. The things I do to care for myself need to be in little 15 minute chunks…or they just won’t happen. But what I’m finding is that those 15 minute chunks are doing huge things for my health.  I’m calmer and more present than I have been since before my oldest was born.

So, here they are: 5 things I’m doing daily to move from survival mode to thriving mode.

  1. Exercise. Long before I became a mother, I ran cross-country…not particularly well, but definitely persistently.  In 2015, which was probably my peak as a long distance runner (and non-coincidentally, when I wanted to be sure I fit in my wedding dress), I was running 9 miles with little difficulty. After I had my older daughter, I assumed I’d get right back into running, and tried to go all-out again just a few months postpartum. That, my friends, was a mistake. My body couldn’t handle the high impact nature of running after the ordeal of labor.  I despaired of being in shape again, because running was really the only form of exercise I knew…and I stopped exercising. Then I got pregnant again, gave birth again, and felt about 5,000 miles behind where I started pre-pregnancy.  I’m learning now that I need to love my body enough to choose forms of exercise that are kind to it…where it is today. I’m very hopeful that I’ll run again. I’m working up the courage to try again soon. But right now, I’m doing 15 minute exercise videos specifically for postpartum moms via a website called MommaStrong. I can do these workouts at home when my kids are around…or even sometimes when I’m holding a kid. The workouts don’t wreck my body and instead help me to heal myself from the long journey of two pregnancies and deliveries in quick succession.   I feel healthier, stronger, and happier than I have in a long time.
  2. Learning a new language. Learning languages is a fun game for me. It engages a part of my brain that makes me feel more like myself than almost anything else. So I’m currently picking up Italian in preparation for my academic trip to Italy this summer.  I’m using the app Duolingo, which makes learning the language feel even more like a game than it normally is.  Next I’d like to work on Arabic or modern Hebrew…because I really want to travel to the Middle East again when I have the chance.
  3. Reading a book…just for pleasure. I read (and write!) books for a living, and I’d gotten out of the habit of reading recreationally, I’m embarrassed to say.  I kicked off the year by reading Becoming, by Michelle Obama (she’s legit my hero), and I’m currently re-reading Jane Eyre for the first time since ninth grade. (Truth be told, that book choice is partially inspired by my academic work…I’m engaging feminist literary criticism significantly in my dissertation, and recently read Gilbert and Gubar’s The Madwoman in the Attic, which in turn made me want to read Jane Eyre. But I say it still counts.)
  4. Going outside to walk and see the sky.  I need to get outside daily to remember that the world is broader and more beautiful than the scope of my current problems.  I need to see the seasons change and remember that God is in the midst of all of them. I need to breathe deeply and calm myself at my core. Often, the physical act of walking guides me through the intellectual or emotional issues I’m trying to sort through.  I usually bring at least one kid and the dog with me for this self care exercise…fresh air helps everyone.
  5. Encountering God through Scripture and prayer.  At the beginning of 2019, I was reflecting that I’d spent more time in the last year writing about God than communing with God. That’s a problem for me.  I need to experience the nurturing, embracing, challenging love of God for myself before I can reflect that love in the work that God has called me to do as a mother, scholar, and teacher.  I need to create the space in my life for the grace and mercy of God, new every morning, to wash over me and change me utterly.  Like everything else in this list, I’m starting small. I’m almost done reading through a devotional by Ruth Chou Simons called GraceLaced: Discovering Timeless Truths Through Seasons of the Heart, studying the scriptures referenced therein, and journaling my own thoughts and prayers.  (If anyone has a recommendation for a daily devotional or Bible study to do after I finish this one, please let me know!)





This is another blog done in collaboration with my husband’s pop culture/psychoanalysis channel, Willarious.  Check out the link at the end of this blog for his psychological take on forgiveness. 

I used to date someone who was fond of asking, “What is your most pressing question about the universe right now?” While that boyfriend is now many years in my past, the question is still a good one.  For the last year, the biggest question I’ve had goes something like this:

What does it practically mean to forgive someone?  What if you’re angry for good, just, and holy reasons? Does forgiveness diminish the “wrongness” of the act that was committed?  How do you keep your self-respect when you’re releasing the anger that kept you sane and, sometimes, even alive?

I don’t claim to have all the answers to those questions.  But, after having conversations with several trusted folks in my corner, here’s where I am today.

Forgiveness for me has become the repeated, intentional release of feelings of anger and even hatred.  These feelings are often totally justifiable.  They shouldn’t be ignored; often our feelings tell us important realities about ourselves or our situations.  And yet when they’re held for long periods of time, these feelings erode our own wellbeing.  They hinder our ability to be in right relationship with the people we’re not actually angry with–like our kids. They can cut us off from the experiential knowledge that God loves us perfectly.  So even though our anger can often make perfect sense, I think God calls us to move towards a place where we can release it.

For me, that release is only possible because I believe that God bore the sinfulness and brokenness of the world in his own being. God dignifies us–even in our most hurt, angry state–by refusing to turn a blind eye to the sin that has broken us. God takes the wrongdoing that we have experienced and the pain that we’ve felt so seriously that God incarnate, Jesus Christ, has to die for it to be made right.  When we release our anger, God absorbs it and holds it in the divine being.  We don’t have to hold it with our fragile bodies and minds.  Our anger, then, is crucified with Christ. And because he lives, we can live, too.

Forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. Instead of forgetting the events that wounded us, it’s granting God’s grace permission to reshape the narrative in a transformative way. It’s also not the same thing as reconciliation.  God desires our shalom, our wholeness, too much to ask us to stay in destructive relationships–no matter the relationship. Sometimes, hopefully often, reconciliation can take place within the context of forgiveness. But let’s not forget that the road of reconciliation is never meant to be an easy one–Jesus died to reconcile the world to God.

Those are my (maybe half-baked) thoughts on forgiveness, written quickly during baby/toddler naptime…what are yours?

Click here to watch Willarious’ video on Therapeutic Forgiveness.

A Sermon: Dandelions in Concrete

I am honored to preach on occasion at various churches in the Nashville area. I delivered this sermon at Brookmeade Congregational Church on March 17, 2019.  My texts were Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18 and Luke 13:31-35.


I want to tell you about my good friend Josh. Josh was living a successful life with his wife and two beautiful children in Los Angeles. He was on the brink of a big breakthrough in his work as a Gospel music composer—he was close to releasing an album. And then he heard God call him to move, of all places, to Nashville, to launch a church that would bring together people of difference races to worship God. He’d gotten this idea from Jesus’ prayer right before his death in the Gospel of John—Jesus prays that his disciples may be as one as he and the Father are one…and so Josh imagined planting a church in Nashville where people of all races would become one body in ministry. It was a beautiful vision.
Well, Josh acted on faith and moved his whole family to Nashville. Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go awry. His wife just didn’t like Nashville as much as California. His kids were teased in their new school. And to make things even worse, well, his church launch didn’t go exactly the way he planned for it to go. He just couldn’t find enough people to keep the church going. Less that two years after Josh planted the church, it shut its doors for the last time.

“What in the world, God?” Josh wondered. “Why did I have to move all the way out here from California, to a city my family doesn’t even like that much, away from the place that I loved and where I was successful, to plant a church that ultimately turned out to be kind of an embarrassing flop? Why was I faithful to the word I heard you say to me when you weren’t faithful to me in return?”

Josh’s story reminds of Abram’s. Abram has already acted on faith to leave his home and go to a land that God has promised him. What’s more, God has promised Abram to fill this land with Abram’s own descendants. In Genesis 13, God promised Abram, “I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth; so if one can count the dust of the earth, your offspring can also be counted.” In other words, Abram’s descendants will be plentiful enough to fill the entire land of Canaan; they’ll be innumerable. I can’t even count all the specks of dust on top of my ceiling fan…forget the dust of the earth! Abram has taken God’s promise seriously and has set out. He faithfully builds an altar and worships God, trusting that God’s promises will come true.

But there’s just one problem: Abram remains childless. Like he says in 15:2, if things don’t change, a slave in his house, who isn’t even related to him, will end up inheriting Abram’s land and everything else that belongs to him.

We know from later in the narrative that Abram will have to be reminded of God’s reliability. Abram will end up impregnating his wife’s slave, Hagar, and Hagar will bear a son, Ishmael, so Abram has a backup plan in case God doesn’t follow through. As a side note, I believe that it’s irresponsible to read these texts without a critical eye to the history of race relations in our country, from the Transatlantic slave trade until today. We have to be cognizant both of how slavery was part of the ideology of biblical writers and how more recent interpreters have shaped our own prejudices using biblical texts.
But for today, my point is that even after receiving God’s promise to him, Abram doubts. He tries to wrest control of his future from God. Honestly, I don’t blame him for doubting. Abram had to wait a long time for God’s promise that he would become a father by Sarah to be fulfilled—25 long years, in fact. I have trouble waiting at the DMV for 25 minutes…I can’t imagine having the patience to wait 25 years for God to fulfill a promise.
And I can empathize with the pain Abram must have experienced while he was waiting. I imagine he asked, much like my friend Josh, “Why God? Why did you bring me here to this strange land and tell me that I’d fill it with children, only to still be childless all these years later? Are you really a God who keeps promises? If you weren’t going to follow through, why did you get my hopes up in the first place? Do you care about me at all?”
Have you ever walked through a season like that, when you acted in faith in response to God’s promises, but God’s faithfulness didn’t seem to live up to your expectations? I know I have, and it’s one of the worst feelings in the world. Lost jobs, empty bank accounts, broken relationships, dashed dreams, debilitating illnesses, death too soon—I’m sure that every one of us has stared down at least one of these.
Sometimes I wish that God were like a vending machine. I would insert my prayers in the slot, and out my desires would come, fully formed, like a cold lemonade on a hot summer day. But we know that life often doesn’t go like that. God’s promises take time to unfold and often manifest themselves in ways quite different from what we could have imagined. Instead of dispensing our vending machine order, God gives us something else: God give us the Divine presence in every aspect of our lives. God shows up in ways different than we could possibly have imagined…in ways that we could never have chosen for ourselves.
I think that’s what’s going on in the weird scene that closes our Genesis reading. Now, I’m a recovering vegetarian, and frankly, the imagery of the animals sliced in half disturbs me. However, in ancient Israelite religion, this slicing of the animals came to be synonymous with God’s commitment to fulfill promises to us. In fact, while English Bibles usually say that God “makes” a covenant, a more literal translation of the Hebrew is that God “cuts” a covenant. This is the first instance in the Hebrew Bible where such a cutting of a covenant takes place. God meets Abram in his doubt, in this awkward season between promise and fulfillment. The text says that a “great fear” comes upon Abram. God’s very presence, the theophany, comes in this moment of deepest fear. Fire, synonymous with the spirit of God, rushes down the aisle of sliced animals to confirm for Abram that God will do as he has promised.
dandelion-729693_960_720The awkward, uncomfortable place between promise and fulfillment might be where we bloom this Lent season. When I was a small child, riding my tricycle up and down the driveway of our house, I used to stop and stare at the dandelions growing in the cracks of the cement. While everything else around it was hard and stagnant, somehow a little seed had the audacity to grow and bloom into a flower, and even make the cracks in the driveway even bigger by pressing out with its roots. Those dandelions used to drive my dad crazy. He’d recruit my three siblings and me to come to the driveway with him to pull up the weeds from the cracks. Frankly, I thought then and I still think today that he was fighting a losing battle. Because dandelions don’t give up easily. They find ways to thrive. They array themselves with such a majestic white puff for their seeds, that children can’t resist blowing them on the wind. “DON’T BLOW THE DANDELION SEEDS!” my dad would tell us every spring. “Then we’ll have dandelions all over our driveway again!” But, as children do, we didn’t listen to him.
We’re in the second Sunday of Lent, which also coincides this year with the transition from winter to spring. Flowers are just starting to embolden themselves enough to bloom, even while we’re still having some chilly days. This season of Lent, this time of self-searching, feels a lot to me like my parents’ old, cracked driveway. It’s a spiritual wilderness. It’s a time when we’re not yet sure if God’s promises to us are going to come true, in spite of how we feel we’ve planted all our faith in God’s mercies. I want to be like the dandelions that bloom in the driveway, but I don’t always know how. How do we bloom in this awkward desert season?

Abram bloomed because he encountered God in a way he wasn’t expecting. Maybe the same can be true of us too. Maybe we can encounter God in ways we’re not used to or we hadn’t imagined. One of the many things I love about the Bible is the wide range of names and titles and images it gives us for God… Alpha and Omega, Creator, Healer, Potter, Lover, King, Shepherd, Father…just to name a few. We probably gravitate to a few images of God that make us feel safe and loved, metaphors that mend us in the places that we’re broken. Those metaphors are good and worthy and right…and yet they don’t sum up God all the way. As 1 Corinthians 13 says, “We know only in part.” Genesis tells us that we are all made “in the image of God”…but just as God created us, we create our own images of God as well. In those desert seasons when we’re struggling to bloom, we often bump against the edges, the limits of our metaphors. It may turn out that the concrete that’s limiting our growth is actually an image of God that we’ve allowed to turn into stone.
Sometimes, when we’re stuck in a spiritual slab of concrete, it might take some re-working of our images of God to start blooming again. We need something to help us broaden the crack in the concrete, so there’s space for us to stretch our roots and come to terms with a God who transcends all limits. It’s just such an image that Jesus offers in Luke 13. This passage is often called “Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem,” because in it, he’s looking at a city he loves so deeply but that is experiencing so much brokenness. Many scholars think that at the time of Luke’s writing, the Jerusalem temple, the epicenter of Jewish practice, had only recently been destroyed by the Romans. So the words of Jesus’ lament would have resonated deeply with his contemporary audience.

Jesus picks a strange self-characterization in the passage. Let’s listen to what he says one more time: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.”

Excuse me, what did you say? Jesus is comparing himself to a CHICKEN? Like a Chick-Fil-A, “eat more chicken” chicken? A mother hen, who pecks and scolds and keeps eggs warm under her posterior?


Yes, he is. A chicken. A mother hen. The Son of God, the light of the world, the Messiah, Immanuel, the Alpha and Omega, is like a mother hen. How’s that for an image to shake up your understanding of the Divine?

This isn’t the first time in the Bible that God is characterized in avian or maternal terms. Consider Genesis 1, right when God is starting to create the world. The story, translated into English, reads that the spirit of God is “hovering” or “brooding” over the waters. The word in Hebrew, merahefet, is the same word that’s used of the activities of mother birds! So from the beginning of the God-story all the way to Jesus’ ministry, we’re invited to think about God, and then God-in Christ, as a mother hen who pecks, scolds, and keeps eggs warm under her posterior.

Now, I’m not a mother hen, but I am a mother. I have two daughters. I was trying so hard to break the preacher stereotype and not talk about them today, but here it’s coming anyway. Two years ago, my older daughter Debbie was born. There I was, holding this helpless little bundle of joy that I had no idea what to do with. I told my husband, “WILL. I THINK WE’VE MADE A MISTAKE. WE’RE NEVER GOING TO MAKE IT.” But make it we have, so far…at least through two years and the addition of another baby. Here’s the crazy thing about motherhood: I will be the first to tell you that I don’t have my life all together and that I am an imperfect mother. Case in point: last Friday, I thought I’d lost my keys for good, until my daughter finally said, “MOMMY. YOUR KEYS ARE STILL IN THE CAR.” But in spite of that, the way I have managed to be reliable for my children frankly amazes me. My toddler has always gotten her dinner, taken her bath, put on PJs, and gone to bed. When I drop her off at preschool, I ask her, “Debbie, when will Mommy come get you?” and she confidently responds, “AFTER NAP!” When she falls down on the playground, loses her stuffed pig, or gets an imaginary boo-boo on her finger, her declaration is always the same, “MOMMY, I NEED TO HOLD YOU!” Somehow, even being the imperfect, scatter-brained, impatient human mother that I am, I have inspired confidence in my daughter that I will take care of her, no matter what. I often think of Matthew 7:11: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” I’m no perfect mother—but if even a mother as flawed as I am can show up for her babies—how much more will God show up for us?

Perhaps today the idea of Jesus as a mother, at least as a parent, is an image that can help us bloom. Like a mother, Jesus weeps over the hurts of those he loves. Like a mother, Jesus gathers us at the table. Like a mother, Jesus breaks his body to give us life. Like a mother, Jesus promises, “I will be with you, come what may.” Like a mother, blood and water flow out of Jesus as a he births us into new life at the cross.

I offer this image of God in Christ today—as a mother who births, sustains, and advocates for her children—in hopes that it may help some of us to bloom in the desert season of Lent. Perhaps for some of us, the image of Christ as a mother can remind of us of God’s great faithfulness to us. Perhaps it can remind of us of God’s gentleness towards us, and thus encourage us to be more gentle towards ourselves. Perhaps it can remind us, that, like a mother, Christ will spare no pain to give us life.

But maybe that image of God is painful or irrelevant for you. If that’s the case, I still invite you to consider the many images of God present in the Bible. If you are in a season of spiritual wilderness, ask God to reveal holy presence to you in new ways. Pray for the eyes to experience God-with-us, as you wait in the awkward season between promise and fulfillment.
Have you ever seen the cross-stitch patterns—or, for any millennials in the room, memes—that say, “Bloom where you’re planted?” It’s a cliché, but jaded millennial though I may be, I’m here today just to say, sometimes clichés have a point. This desert of Lent might be the time when we find out that even before the promise comes true, even before we get that breakthrough, that good news we’ve been waiting for, that relationship that brings us companionship, that scan that the cancer is in remission, we can still bloom. We can bloom because we can experience the presence of God in our lives…in new ways, in unexpected ways, in ways we hadn’t ever thought to ask. We can bloom like Abram, who is still waiting to be a father, but who can stumble along in faith until then. We can bloom in the knowledge that Jesus, that loving mother hen, is gathering us together under the shelter of God’s wings. When we bloom in this season, it’ll feel like we’re dandelions in concrete. We’re sending out roots and pushing against the cold hard walls of concrete instead of the warm, rich embrace of soil, but gosh darn it, we’re going to bloom in this season.