One Heart at a Time

Here’s my unfortunate experience with church people: They are fake, judgmental hypocrites. The people who were most revered in my growing up church beat their kids, cheated on their wives, gossiped, judged, hated, and looked down on people. Ain’t nobody got time for those folks and their God.

At The Movement, I encountered different people. Loving, accepting Christians who had kind non-judgmental hearts. However, even some I thought of as my kind of Christians show me their humanness if I mention hot button topics such as: Brad and I drink alcohol, my brother committed suicide or my sister-in-law is a lesbian. They don’t judge me to my face. Honestly, if I weren’t observant of body language I might miss their judgment. See, it is so subtle: an averted glance, an uncomfortable shifting in their seat, a quick, “Excuse me,” as they hurry away from me.

Honestly, there is a part of me that kind of enjoys making people uncomfortable. Not because I’m sadistic, but because I much prefer those who are just right out in the open with their hate to those who pretend to be loving and accepting. So, when I tell you my feelings about homosexuality and suicide, I’m probably trying to gauge if we have any chance of being friends, and I’ll know very quickly based on your reaction.

I am an open book. If I’m mad at you, I will tell you. If I think I offended you, I will apologize. If you say something that I don’t agree with, I will listen to your point of view, but I probably won’t change my mind. If you say something outwardly hurtful to me, I will be hurt, but I would rather be attacked to my face than gossiped about behind my back.

I try every day to be kinder, to be more patient, not to say unkind things about anyone, but I’m a work in progress, and I mess up.

This weekend, people showed up in a church in a bar not knowing what to expect. People who might have felt judged or looked down upon in church because of their clothes, past, or sexual orientation. But I think they felt loved and accepted. I saw them smiling and sharing their stories with others that they may never have met if not for a church in a bar in downtown Warren.

Some people mock God, church, and me, but that is okay, they’re works in progress too. They might have been raised to believe that God is vengeful and punitive, and Christians are phony. We’re all works in progress. But, I’m super grateful to a crazy redheaded pastor who trusted God enough to trade good for a chance at great. I’m grateful to my pastor/brother-in-law, who is the first Christian I ever met who loved and didn’t judge. I’m grateful for my sister-in-law, who in her quiet unassuming way is gonna change the freaking world.

I’m outrageously blessed that I get to love and be loved by my beautiful family every moment. But today, I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to bring love to a community one heart at a time.

P.S. I don’t really know how to spell judgement or judgmental, so I have relied solely on spell check and apologize for what I’m sure is a lot of inconsistency. Also, I promise this isn’t a passive aggressive dig at any person. If you feel called out, it might be because God is telling you to check yourself.Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Peaches and Pain

It feels like fall today, which simultaneously makes me happy and sad. Happy because I love fall. Sad because winter follows, and I don’t like winter. I love so many things about fall: football, fires, pumpkin coffee, pumpkin everything, fresh apples, hoodies, snuggling under blankets. When I was little I loved going to the Harding football games with my dad. We usually left at halftime, after the bands performed,which was my favorite part. I held onto his pinky because my hands were little and his were big. We walked through an area of Warren, that most people probably wouldn’t walk through at night with their kids now, but I never felt afraid.

Yesterday, Chloe told me she missed my dad. I missed my dad too. It was funny–weird, not haha–though not really because Chloe and I are always eerily connected. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night really worried and uneasy. I prayed for about two hours and finally went back to sleep. She told me the next day that she had wandering through the streets of Pittsburgh at the time. Missing my dad is one of our few sad connections. Fortunately, Chloe hasn’t been dealt a lot of sadness since she carries so much of mine.

My bff lost her grandpa earlier this year, another dear friend lost her grandma last week, some of my closest friends lost their stepdad/father in law a month ago, a dear writer I adore and admire lost her mom yesterday, my mom lost two more friends in the last month. Often in empathizing with others, I’m drawn so far in that I relive my own sadness. A few months ago, I had a dream about my dad, and in it, he told me that my mom was going to die. I had longed to dream about my dad for quite some time, but this wasn’t exactly what I hoped for. In the dream, I wasn’t sad or upset and kind of fluctuated between dreaming and logic. Course, I guess that’s where I usually am: fluctuating between dreaming and logic.

For as long as I can remember, every time I went into my parents’ playroom, I sat on my dad’s lap. When I was little, when I was grown, when I was happy or sad. Sometimes I sat on his lap with one of my own babies on my lap. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we laughed, sometimes I cried and sometimes he did. When I was really little I used to do his hair. He sat patiently while I did. It was so hard to walk into that room after my dad wasn’t in his chair.

This morning, I ate a peach, and it reminded me of the peach trees and raspberry bushes in our yard growing up. I used to eat fruit until I was sick, coming into the house sticky and stained. My mom made delicious jam. Then one year, in an aggressive fertilization attempt gone awry, my dad killed the peach trees and the raspberry bushes. The bushes were a total loss, but the trees still grew, though they never again bore fruit. A few years ago, in a super romantic move, Brad bought me a peach tree. It died. Last week, I drove past my parents’ old house in downtown Warren, and the peach trees had been cut down. Guess I’ll stick with farm market peaches for now.

I think the point of all this is reminding and retraining myself to focus on the beauty, the memory, the what was and what is and what could and will be rather than the pain of the loss. Tomorrow isn’t promised, but part of the beauty in this life is the fleeting nature of everything we hold dear. So my sweet friends who are sad today, I am holding you close to my heart and lifting your cares to God.