The Donning of Garb

Whoops. It's nearly midnight and I have very little brain at the moment. But here's a glimpse into my world.

I'm a Sunday School director, so Sunday is SHOWTIME. 

I tend to get to the church pretty early and make sure everything is ready, get the signs out, etc. While I'm going up and down and all over, I may wear an old pair of loafers--they've seen better days, but oh, they are comfortable.

About fifteen minutes before I expect the congregation to arrive, I take a couple of minutes to transition into nicer shoes, check my hair, and slip on my jacket/sweater/whatever. It's also a good time to remember to drink my coffee, to breathe, and to consider with love the people I serve and the good work we do together.

Of course, there have been days where I get distracted and spend the whole day in the loafers. Then I just hope no one's paying too much attention to my feet.

Seen at the #HoustonProtest this afternoon

This picture is over sized so you can see the club this officer carries. Gee, I assumed a standard club was issued and required.

I got to the demonstration quite late--the majority of folks had already headed out after making their stand at this intersection and within the Galleria for the die-in. 

In general, the police I saw were polite and even friendly.  Rather a lot of them, too. There were fourteen officers on my corner, and at least thirty around the intersection overall, plus additional officers on bikes traveling with a group of marchers, and mounted police across the way. 

Don't Garnish A Rotten Turkey

Last week friends and I discussed and debated the best way to prepare a turkey. Dry brine? Wet brine? High heat? Butter? The conversation could have gone on forever.  And, chances are that even with all our differences, each of us ended up with a delicious turkey.

But what if the turkey was rotten to start with? Would we even believe that the staple of our Thanksgiving could have come out of the bag somehow less than the product we assumed we would get?

Would we still argue over the best way to prepare it? Would we blithely do our best to wash away the odors and the slime, then cover up the issues with some melted butter and extra garlic? Just hope we don't poison our families and our guests?

Body cameras for police? Onions for the gravy. Grand jury reforms? A parsley garnish.

The turkey that is this country's culture is deeply contaminated. That line about "all men created equal"? It has yet to be embodied by these states we claim to be united. 

Black lives matter.
Lives. That's far more than 'not deaths'--it's people growing and learning and thriving and loving.


I'm still listening. And still praying.

(PS: The turkey is just a metaphor. Sometimes metaphors aren't vegan-friendly.)

No Quick Fix

The logical piece of my brain keeps trying to figure out some way for the state of this nation to make sense. But some things are too broken, too sick, to complicated, to be quickly and rationally explained. If they were, they would already by fixed.

I saw comments all over Twitter today--interviewers wanting to talk to the white people.
More than one protester asked that white allies hand over the megaphones.

I hear that. As a white woman in the 'burbs, I know this isn't my call.

So I listen and read.
I pray.
I do my best to be open and ready for what might come next.

And by trade I'm a religious educator, so of course I'll share some of what I've been reading-

The Twitter hashtags #AliveWhileBlack and #ICantBreathe and  #EricGarner and #BlackLivesMatter.

So many blog posts and articles- here are just an overflowing handful.
Kiese Laymon's essay of the 'safety' of a Vassar ID
Kai Wright's article on broken windows policing
Fania Davis on an authentic reconciliation process
Yolanda Pierce's Litany For Those Who Aren't Ready for Healing
Tristan D. Lalla's experience fitting a profile last month
This frightening piece on the statistics of deadly force
The science of our bigoted brains

"I Can't Breathe"

My sons are asthmatic. I know too well the cough, the wheezing. The panicky look in their eyes when they can't get enough air. 

Eric Garner was also an asthmatic--while I know little of his health history, I can imagine his mother Gwen Carr taking him to the pediatrician, the specialists, the ER, with shots and meds and puffers. Worried that every little bug is going to turn into bronchitis or pneumonia. More treatments, scary nights, missed school, missed work... 

But she raised him up. He became an adult, got a job, started a family--six beautiful grandchildren.

Then that horrible day in July. Gwen Carr's son was put in a chokehold by someone claiming to serve and protect. He gasped that he could not breathe... and medical personnel nearby did not help.

There was video. Hauntingly hard to watch. But surely, the whole world would know what had happened, and while her child could not be returned to her, there would be some measure of justice.

And now in this Advent week of hope? The grand jury decided not to indict Daniel Pantaleo, the officer who put this mother's son in a chokehold. Even though there was video of the event. Even though the medical examiner had declared the death a homicide.

Yes, I am taking this personally. A woman's son has been stolen from her, and we are told it is not a crime.

Justice feels very far away.

Bright Lights, Big Internet

I have been procrastinating mightily all evening.

No writing, no reading, no progress on jobs around the house.

But I have researched at least a dozen random things on the Google.
And played sudoku.
And commented on rather a lot of Facebook posts.

I fear I might never "grow up"...

What We All Need...

For ages now I've been claiming I need a wife. Someone to stay on top of the laundry and the shopping and the cleaning and salads and house appointments and whatnot--those things that two people working full-time don't necessarily get around to, at least, not without compromising our sleep and video game time...

These days I feel like that wife should be Pinterest crafty, coming up with clever solutions to our needs. Making the house all beautiful and efficient and whimsical. Especially around the holidays.

"Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow..." 
         - Hugh Martin, writer of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas