Author: gabrielereplogle Page 2 of 3

I let my just turned nine year old shred some cheese and she took a little chunk out of her finger.  “How’s it going to heal?” she asks me, the one whom the children go to with all their medical questions. “Well,” I reply,” it will heal in time, but that was a ‘good one’ you really got yourself.”  “Why is it worse than a skinned knee?”she ponders. To which I answer,
“Because the cut is deeper, you damaged more layers of skin.”

I’ve had my share of skinned knee disagreements with church, but it feels like the wounds lately have ‘drawn blood’.  The inability of most Midwestern evangelical churches to follow simple health guidelines for the safety of our children and others- the unwillingness to inconvenience those who just don’t want to, or have little concern of safety, or understanding of their individual/communal actions which create a domino effect–is just a wound too deep to brush off.  I don’t want to hear one more time that they ‘care’, their faith without action is dead to me.

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of arguing. I’m tired of speaking to ears who don’t seem to hear.  What other choice do we have other than to pack up, bandage ourselves and let the scar form?

And today I got a call from the Red Cross, they need blood- to save lives- perhaps the very lives of those who are in need of life saving help due to a pandemic.  Patients who are now waiting more hours, some unable to be seen, some who are injured, or in surgery and in need of blood.  And I am asked to give my blood for theirs.  It seems fitting.

For most of my adult life I’ve been unable to give blood, my veins were too small, and then I was pregnant or breastfeeding for the last 10 years.  But not now. Sign me up. Take my blood.  I’m tired of cheap words, “what can I do to help?” MASK. Get vaccinated if you are able. Stop acting as if there isn’t a pandemic.  For me, I can give my actual blood.  In their facility I’ll be around other masked individuals who will take my health seriously and the well being of others as one of their number one priorities.  It might even feel like going to church.

Arguing with a five year old is usually futile.  Trust me.  There is only so much their little brains can handle, and sometimes you just have to shake your head and laugh, and know that one day they will grow up and you won’t have to argue with them anymore (well at least about that thing!).  Yesterday, my child assured me that I was not a woman, I was just a mom.  It was my identity and I couldn’t be both.  For some reason dad could also be ‘a man’, but not me. Just ‘a mom.’ 

For some people maybe that would be enough.  Motherhood subsists as their whole identity.  But I can assure you, there was a time before they were ‘mother’ and I promise, there are things that they can do beyond ‘motherhood.’  It is not my (or their) all encompassing identity.  Of course, for most of us we realize this truth. We find ways to nurture that aspect of our person- finding ways to give, serve, teach, lead, work, etc. apart from our children. And as our children grow, their brains mature, they understand their identities apart from themselves. And yet, in some tangible way until they go through parenting themselves, it is hard for them to understand the innate struggle of roles vs. personhood.

Which brings me to the point.  If God has revealed himself to us as Father, and as we know since God is not male (but spirit and both male and female were created in God’s image) then Father is not the entirety of God’s personhood God is Mother too.  God does things outside of parenting Her children. God is both nurturing and providing in ways that may or may not fit our gender norms that we know in our culture.  But needless to say whether or not we are comfortable calling God “Mother”, we can confidently say God is more than just a Father.  There was a point before anything was created, and God existed.  God probably did things, maybe lots of things, and is likely continuing to do ‘lots of things’ that are lost on our childlike finite brains.  

We truly cannot comprehend all that God is and does, it (as mere ‘children’) is beyond our scope of understanding.  But it does help to admit that we may not be able to fit God neatly in a box.  God is not “Just our Father in Heaven”, and while our relationship with Him (child to parent) is often the most fitting posture we take– God is also so many other things.  The breadth of Scripture is a story of 6,000 years of dealing with God’s children in various forms and stories.  Our understanding of who God is as creator, and artist, as lover, as nurturer, as the one who sees us is all beautiful and the more expansive our understanding the better.  With humility, we should also admit that there is more to God that can be discovered.  There is more to the Divine’s ways that will be made clear. We do God justice by admitting the lack of knowing, the desire to know, and the faith that there is an infinite more to discover.

Ahhhhh, is it time for
Sleepy summer days
Lazy hammock breezy days
          Catching rays and catching waves
          Flying flags and big parades
               Crickets chirp and birds serenade
               Grills are lighted and friendships made

Busy nights, busy days
Busy bees with bills to pay
Holidays and dream vacas
          Boredom, doldrums, lemonade
          TV, TV, DVD me, catching up on all my streaming
               Nothing to do, nothing to say
               This break is too long the parents complain

Busy bees it’s time to rest
Nowhere to go, nothing to do
Hibernate til summer’s through
          Too hot to move, too hot to rest
          Summer summer at its best
               Sipping drinks and garden flowers
               Mowing neighbors wave and talk for hours

Cooler nights and cooler days
Back to school commercials rave
          Get your deals and get them fast
          Summer days won’t always last.
               Frenzied frantic, almost done
               Summer days, and exhausted fun.
               Summer’s here and summer’s gone.

Gabriele Replogle originally posted on Commonway Blog June 29.2019

I know God must also be a woman, because no man would listen to your same problems a hundred times without sending you a not so subtle “how to fix this” billboard after hearing it more than two times.

People warn you, nothing can prepare you for parenting. No book, no manual, no amount of babysitting.  This is because never in a hundred years would you imagine your bedtime routine would be watching your 5 year old son wrestle with the 20 snap buttons on the onesie pajamas (which you had to shop for in the baby department) on his stuffie Pooh-bear and if you touch any part of these pajamas during this exercise all buttons are undone because he can and must “do it himself.”  Bedtimes with children are pure insanity. The child who had no words for you all day, who wanted to never sit for a book, or play a game with you, now has UNTOLD hours to waste.  One more song. One more tuck.  One more stuffie to snuggle. One more drink.  All needs that have been apparently unmet from the day have come like a dump truck and offloaded onto your waning patience.  It is the same child who interrupted your sleep at 3 am, who wanted to sleep at your feet, on your floor, anywhere but his bed, that now feels the pains of ‘lack of parental attention’ at 8pm.And for some reason, at this point of your sleep deprived day, your “cup does not runneth over.”

Children are curious creatures. Stubborn, independent, yet needy and as sweet as soft and moldable as butter on a hot day and I love my little buttercups.  But what’s frustrating is how simple the command to be patient has shamed untold generations of people who have untold problems that are unsolved.  “Love is patient, love is kind.”  What if that passage was more a definitive statement about what love feels like, rather than a command on doing the right thing? I can assure you, I cannot command myself to be more patient.  Have you ever tried this on any human?  “Now be patient. Your time will come!”  As if the mere logic will subdue the anguish of unresolved anticipation!  Of course, it would be absolutely fabulous if my children (or myself) could learn greater patience, but I can assure, it will not be from me quoting a bible verse or shaming them into submission.

Children learn patience, when they know that you see their need and know their need will be met.  They learn patience, when they have trust in you, the provider, the parent to work all things for their good.  They do not learn patience when they feel unheard, unseen and belittled for their true and inner desires.

When wise grandparents assure you that “this too shall pass”, in the end it is never comforting because you are not looking for relief in the future, you are looking for guidance now.  You don’t care that your 13 year old will unlikely try to cut her hair with cat nail clippers. You are concerned that she will do so again at the age of 3 after already mutilating her goldilocks weeks before her preschool photos.  And of course if vanity weren’t your only concern, her lack of remorse or understanding that this isn’t allowed is a bit appalling. Can’t she do “all things through Christ who gives her strength?”  I jest.  

Parenting as they say, “is not for the faint of heart.”  Of course, you know all of this, but for me the reality didn’t set in until I looked in the mirror and my first time pregnant body wasn’t modelesque but looked more akin to batman’s rival “The Penguin ” all tummy and a distinct waddle. And then my water birth plan was thrown out the window.  Apparently, even my 15 years of babysitting and nannying couldn’t prepare my body for the onslaught of high blood pressure and the trauma of birthing a 4 lb baby who needed to be in a NICU for 9 days, and who was nearly impossible to teach how to breastfeed.  With constant weight check ins, and lactation consultant appointments, and an infant who showed no sleep signals, my intro to babydom was an initial four months of chronic sleep deprivation for both of us– we were fragile and nearing exhaustion. 

For most of us parenting patiently becomes what feels like a thousand deaths a day. This newborn insanity of needs upon needs that rolls in like the tide without concern if we are anchored or ready is the beginning of the storm that will onslaught our delicate sensibilities, our own needs for sleep and tests us to our core.  Add another needy child or toddler to the mix and you got the makings of sainthood. And so it is no wonder that Mother God is the most patient of people, for she has birthed millions, she has cared for us all hours of everyday and has raised us and sustained us all. She’s carried the weight of our worries, shushed us to sleep and granted us one more cup of water until we lay our heads down to our final rest

And somewhere along the way we too gather endurance we didn’t think possible, abilities to function without 7 uninterrupted hours of sleep. Our hearts start to grow with love for something other than ourselves.  We gain an inner strength- and a core that allows us to surf the never ending tide of parenting responsibilities and surf them with skills that on occasion, make it look like a cakewalk.  But that doesn’t mean we don’t crash off the board from time to time or feel the endless paddling with waves unending or tidal waves that we can’t surmount. 

But our Mother God has shown us the way.  Parenting patiently doesn’t mean subduing our emotions and numbing them but in releasing them and learning to surf.  Patience isn’t the opposite of desire, it is the riding of a wave of desire to its final destination.  

This too shall pass isn’t patience, it’s grin your teeth and bare it– I want to ride it like the wave it is. I tally up some more daily deaths and I offer an ear, another cuddle, time for tucking in- sometimes with an eye roll or a sigh. I do my best to cut the toddlers hair into something resembling normal. Not ignoring the hard and the pure insanity of their needs or shaming my frustration. Maybe as a wise mother I too will put boundaries in place- this is your last request and then you’re on your own. Well not on your own, safe in the arms of your Mother God.

I’ve got this thing with strawberries.  This love/hate relationship.  I wait all year till they are “in season” and then I go slay me some strawberries and come home with the whole cardboard carrier each time.  I mean when they are good, they’re good. And luckily no one is allergic in our house and they freeze and everything is just groovy. 

Except when I get distracted or there’s that stinkin’ moldy one in the middle of the carton spreading it’s filth to the rest of them.  And you don’t know that as soon as you reach in to get a tasty red strawberry it’s going to implode on you and get it’s red guts all over the place.  Some of you might be concerned with my binging fruit purchasing habits (and don’t worry my husband is too), but I just can’t help myself. I have one kid who can plow through a whole carton in a morning.  And when they’re cheap, it’s like… why not?! Even if some go bad– it’s still worth it. They’re healthy and strawberry season comes once a year.

And don’t get me started on the whole fake strawberry industry.  Somehow they’ve genetically engineered some of the suckers to look like they’re ripe, but really they are completely white on the inside.  I call these “painted strawberries.”  You gotta test a few– see if they are actually real.  My mother, bless her, always kept her strawberries in the fridge, always.  Which means we probably never ate a ripe strawberry in our young life.  I REFUSE. Absolutely refuse to put any strawberry in the fridge. Is it ripe? Eat it or freeze it.  If it’s not, I’d rather let it ROT. 

Anyway, yesterday was one of the rotten days when time had gotten away from my strawberry sleuthing and practically a whole carton was worthless. What a disappointment. I like to think I’m somehow nourishing the soil by putting them down my garbage disposal since I gave up on composting, but I know better.

I feel like these last few weeks have been like that stinkin rotten strawberry carton. We’ve had some trauma, some disappointing heartache, and I’m just like- seriously?! This whole carton is wasted?  This whole thing– flippin- TRASH!?! It’s so disheartening and disillusioning.  

The sad part is our little trauma was like, perhaps the tip of the iceberg of someone else’s life altering trauma.  And I’m just MAD about it. I’m just fed up. Strawberries are supposed to be ripe, delicious and eaten.  Kids are supposed to be safe, loved, protected and cared for.  This moldy sneaky rotten whatevers that take what’s good and taint it. They make me mad. They make me fed up.  They make me disillusioned, helpless and just don’t even want to be reminded any more. 

Take the strawberries away and flush them down the sink. Take the trauma and stuff it. I don’t want it.  But I know I can’t do it.  My strawberries may not ruin the whole waterway system, but I can’t not deal with this hurt, this problem.  I can’t bury it.  I have to find its proper place. 

I have to go buy the flippin compost and stop wasting these fuzzy strawberries.  I have to use the destructors against themselves and bury it and then turn it over like 5 items. And then sift through it again and then use it to grow something new.  But it’s work, And I’m tired. And sometimes I just want to throw it in the plastic trash and pretend it’s not biodegradable.  

You know? “Do the work.” 

It feels so overwhelming. 

It’s so helpful when in trauma people throw you a life line. They say. Here, call this number#. Here talk to this person. I am HERE, if you need me.  You can do this. “I can do this.”  I can learn to compost. Someone send me the bucket. <I CAN DO HARD THINGS.>

My husband thinks most personality tests are a joke. Which to me is ironic because the man asks me to basically quote sources whenever I state something definitive. As a lover of science and facts, but also a true literalist, maybe he can’t appreciate how someone can be ‘like’ something in degrees but not in totality. Or he just thinks its akin to a horoscope or Chinese cookie where you find yourself in it no matter what. Either way, (despite my husband’s eyerolling) the Enneagram god’s would either classify me as a “7” with an 8 wing or an “8” with a 7 wing. In otherwords, I’m a little bit MUCH and I’ve always sought for new adventure and new experiences.

Perhaps it is my genetic wiring- my desire to see the world like my Aunt Miriam who enjoyed traveling solo to Southeast Asia & my grandma Katie always talking to strangers with a desire to see new perspectives (unlike my other side of my family who found at times found it difficult to converse with their own kin and a trip ‘into town’ felt like ‘too much’). I’m a rainbow chaser and it’s hard not to dream of that next pot of gold of adventure waiting on the end of a journey.

Fortunately (and unfortunately), I’ve been to the end of enough rainbows to find a mud patch rather than a hidden treasure. I’ve traveled to both coasts solo and lived there several years. I’ve been to other countries, traveled across the US by train, I’ve hiked and climbed, and sea kayaked and sought a new experience whenever I could find it. And I know that for most of them, it’s the journey that makes the end worth it and not the other way around. Rarely is the ‘treasure’ at the end truly satisfying but rather it’s the messy middle. Often the people you are with that make an adventure worth it or deeply meaningful. Sometimes the best company is yourself on the journey. Other times your solo trip feels like a lonely island or a protective bubble keeping you from entering in to the ‘good life’.

I just got to watch the Wizard of OZ live last month. Man those tunes are in my bones. I’ve been a cast member, a pit member, and an audience member. I’ve read the kids book, watched the movie and even have a music box that plays ‘Somewhere, Over the Rainbow.’ I get that deep down feeling, that longing that somewhere things gotta be better, they’ve got to be brighter, there’s gotta be some place to live where your identity can shimmer like a raindrop on a flower pedal. Sometimes we look for the rainbow of relationships (partners, prodigy, parental acceptance) sometimes the love of our culture’s coveted accolades (career, cash, cred). But often we’re living under the rainbow- with our relationships sometimes on the rocks, our culture ignoring our capabilities and we’re left to find our treasure in something else.

I didn’t get a job I wanted (or thought I wanted) last month. A job that fit my capabilities and resume to a ‘t’. A job that could have fit like a hand to glove. And I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been morning that rainbow that led to a mud pie. I’ve grieved the loss of a career and paycheck that grants the nodding chins and smiling eyes of cultural worth. But alas. Despite this. And there have been tears. Rainbows only come after a rain you know. I knew immediately in my gut, that I’m still me. I’m still talented. I’m still worthy. I’m still capable. I’m OK. And it’s living here in between the bows, where we have to learn again and again what defines us isn’t what we think. Sometimes a rainbow was meant for someone else and sometimes we’re left to celebrate their moment to shine.

I get confused at the meaning of Easter and HOLY WEEK.  My days are not filled with somber reflection, but are actually filled with arguing with my 4 year old about whether or not he can have a treat from his egg hunt he got on Thursday at Pre-K, or from his sister’s egg hunt which came 2 days earlier. Or they are spent shaming that he ran and ate all the candy after I told him not to and his wrappers all over the house tell the tale.  My child has no sugar consumption control.  This should not surprise me, but it does seriously frustrate me.  Why has all of Easter (and every holiday in America) become associated with Candy CONSUMPTION?! It frustrates me to NO end.  I hate the battles, the arguments, the putting it on top of the fridge, which they just pull a tall stool up and indulge when I’m not in the room.

What happened to REAL eggs? DIPPED IN REAL DYE, laid out on the ground, rotting away in their tombs SMELLING LIKE DEATH!?  That might mean a bit more, you know?  Intead, we have an Easter SUGAR SURPRISE?! One that is unfulfilling, unsustaining, not real food, and leaves us with a giant pit in our stomach and a chemical imbalance in our brain asking for MORE. 

American Easter Traditions SUCK> I’m sorry, I’m just going to say it.   And I participate in it. I’m all for JOY and my kids liking me. For the first time I thought, I’ll buy the basket, I’ll buy the PEEPS (Heaven Help Me) and apparently I’ll also pay the Dentist in a few months.  It’s been a pandemic, don’t be Bunny Scrooge– (maybe the Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh?). And that’s not to say all of those hard working women and childcare workers who put them on Suck. They don’t.  They are loving on our kids and they can’t help my children have tall stools.

I’m just so tired of things that don’t satisfy.  I don’t want the cute stories, I don’t want the sugar substituted version.  I want to know about the DEATH< the PAIN < the WAITING, the RESURRECTION!>  And I want my kids to know a little of it, what they can, the best they can.

I know, I’ve heard of resurrection rolls, and maybe I’ll try it. I mean, I’m lazy, I’m tired. It’s just me here you know, pulling the weight of our families traditions in meaningful ways (OK, yes my hubby is here, but he is not really a party planner).  I want parties planned for me. I want community and learning that doesn’t cost me. I want my house cleaned without it taking time from my internet scrolling. Do you know what I MEAN?

My new favorite phrase is “Toughen up Buttercup”  (Thanks Jen Hatmaker)  I use it at least once a day, usually against one of my children.  Although today, I’m telling myself. It goes right along with Glennon’s mantra “I CAN DO HARD THINGS.”

You want your kids to know more about Easter than where their headband bunny ears are in the house? Toughen up buttercup, It’s your job sista, I tell myself.   You wanna not hate your Easter existence because LEGOS are all over your dining space?– toughen up buttercup you can make your kiddos clean.  You want something other than candy to be their lasting toothache of a memory of Easter. Toughen up buttercup, start the water boiling. Teach them. If not now, when? If not this year, which?  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to make them wear a new(ish) outfit and smile for a spring photo. I’m still going to let them eat some sugar because I bought it and you know, OOPS. They will now know what a Cadbury egg tastes like (basically the sweetest, creamiest, nastiest thing on earth.)  But I hope they will also know that there was more.  There is something that satisfies something that actually brings LIFE and substance.  It’s a resurrection power.  It’s that death has been defeated and for that we celebrate and eat too much HAM, and hop around like bunnies and wear the fanciest thing in our house. No more sugar substitutes. I want an egg that somehow went through death and survived to be eaten and gives enough energy that it can take you on a day’s journey. Because Death has been DEFEATED and our Jesus is not dead.  He was not robbed from the grave, but the tomb is empty because he is ALIVE.

Fellowship of His Suffering

There are times of life–seasons, when gray clouds roll in and just stay. There are days when our weeping lasts more than a night, and the joy has not come in the morning. It is those days in which our faith in Jesus has a lot to say, but often our culture has very little. Sadly, even our cultural Christianity has taught us to despise or suppress these difficult emotions. Religious folk have wrapped them up quickly and labeled them as unfaith, unbelief, or just ‘wrong.’ Gratefully, this is not the story of life with the great Divine.

My first year of marriage was full of frustrating health problems. A year that I thought would be full of joy and fulfillment was instead full of tears and discouragement as we sought to find the sources of my pain. I found myself often crying at worship Sunday mornings, with questions of “Why?!” and “HELP” and of course the silent prayers of utter fatigue and “I can’t do this anymore!”

Our society at large despises suffering. Our American culture has fine-tuned us for comfort, comfort, and more comfort- teaching us to avoid pain at all costs, so that when we do experience pain and difficulties we numb it, ignore it, disregard it and shame ourselves for having it.  We repackage this pain so easily it becomes almost a reflex. Emotional discomfort? Grant me relief with a swipe on our screen. Conflict with friendship? Pour me a drink. Difficult relationship? AVOID IT AT ALL COSTS. Societal woes? Offer quick solutions, or let me write a check so that I can ease my guilt as I walk away. Sadly, the church often remains a reflection of those values, those in pain should remain silent, suffer quietly, and above all: Never complain.

Perhaps this is what makes this current day and age so difficult.  PAIN & suffering can no longer hide and be pushed to the corners. It has been laid bare. The wounds made clear. The makeup/veneer off. The fancy robes revealed to show a body that has many ills. As is typical, pain elicits many normal responses from us. We recoil, we look for answers, we search for healing and pain elimination, and at times are able to offer compassion and care for those hurting (including compassion for ourselves).

But what do we do when the begging and praying and the answer to removing your discouragement and difficulty is “no”? What then? Thankfully Jesus shows us how in his most trying time.

It is there, in the garden:  We see Jesus not numbing the pain, but staring it in the face. It is here, in the garden, where Jesus demonstrates his life with his Father is not out of sorts when one of the members is terrified to the point of sweating blood. Here in the garden, when despite his Father’s great love, the answer to avoiding suffering was “no,” there was not another way.  And in the same way, Jesus asks us, “Can you drink this cup?” It was his will to endure a cross, enduring the sin and the shame. This final week leading up to his crucifixion must have been excruciating! The mental anguish, the emotional uncertainty, the temptation to escape. The dark clouds were billowing and rolling in on Jesus and yet the only option was forward through the unknown, towards the pain. His triumphant entry summoned in him the knowledge that this was the last teaching, the last supper, the last time to be together, the last embrace. This was a triumphant march to death on a tree.

My year of pain led to a greater understanding about my body–and my lack of care for it. I learned more about nutrition and balance in areas of my life. It gave me a greater appreciation for different paths of health, more holistic methods, that addressed the root of my problems. It also gave me compassion knowing my perceived righteousness did not equal a reward of an easy life.

The Isaiah prophecies reveal that Jesus was a man of sorrows acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3).  This knowledge of Jesus was not lost on those who closely followed him. Paul, a man also no stranger to suffering, wrote, “I want to know Christ–yes, to participate in his resurrection and participate in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.” (Phil 3:10) Sometimes the only comfort in this pain-filled world is that Jesus suffered pain and his spirit can comfort us–not as one distant to it, but as one who has walked through the gray and knows the light on the other side.

(Part of the Commonway Lenten Series also found at www.commonwaychurch.com/fellowship_of_his_suffering/ )

My four year old eats an apple every morning for breakfast and sometimes another one for snack. It’s a bit much. I mean, I’m not saying this to brag, I would feed him pretty much anything to keep his ravenous hunger at bay. Luckily, an apple is not messy (if sliced) and other than an empty bowl left out, doesn’t leave a stream of sugary milk anywhere.

On occasion, there is a bad spot, a wormhole, a, I-don’t-know-what in the apple and try as I might I cut out the spot, slice it up and send it on its way to be eaten.  However, my kid knows something experientially, what I had to learn the hard way (finding bowls of uneaten apples and a new fresh apple bitten into).  One spot pretty much ruins the whole apple.  The smell, the taste, almost completely tainted by one small spot. It feels a bit ridiculous. A bit of melodrama coming from an apple.  Although, I might recall this is a fruit that has remained center stage in its association with evil (Garden of Eden & Snow White).  And at other times has tried to knock knowledge and sense into our lives and explain order out of chaos (thanks Newton #gravity).

It’s February, the month of candy hearts and Valentines and romantic gestures.  But it’s also Black History Month, a time to celebrate the great achievements of so many amazing leaders and revolutionaries in our culture who have been historically silenced and mistreated.  It’s a time for learning & humility, rather than misunderstanding and division.  Which is why, when this past summer, police brutality was described as merely a case of a few ‘bad apples,’ they clearly were misusing the intent of the saying.  It is not that one bad apple can be thrown out, it’s that one bad apple spoils the whole barrel.   Of course, we won’t throw police under the bus. This is the truth of sin anywhere- with anyone- and any system.  It’s not this neutral force waiting patiently to be rooted out.  No, it’s seeping beyond its bounds. Spreading. Growing.  Gaining strength and taking down innocents.  Which is why we can not approve of merely not being racist, the call is to be anti-racist.  And to do that, we must acknowledge we may have no idea what that entails.

So, we must learn. I must learn.  How do I participate in a society that continues to benefit certain people at the expense of others?  What actions can I take to change that?  What do I not know, that I need to know?  How can I humble myself and take the posture of a servant, rather than being the leader who calls the shots?

A favorite joke in our house is that “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”  A phrase we likely saw as some sort of cliché house gift, a pillow or wall hanging.  It always makes us laugh, because the exact opposite is the case.  Love means you say you’re sorry. Not only that, it means you are not merely sorrowful, you ask for forgiveness (admitting to real guilt) and produce repentance (changed behavior).

Just “sorry” sometimes is just being lazy.  It’s not the truth. As women we are programmed to say this even when things are not our fault, sorry. Sorry… sorry. Was I shopping here first and you cut me in line, sorry… I’m talking about something more than that. In fact, I’m asking for something opposite of that. We will not pretend we are to blame, we will not apologize for something we are afraid we might have done, or could be done, or what someone else thought we might have done… No we will take an honest to God look at ourselves, we will be brave, stare at our souls and do the real work of getting rid of the apples in our lives that are causing the whole barrel to go bad.  Not because we are ashamed, or BAD, but because it’s what must happen so that there is space for the GOOD.  We’ll show up. We’ll listen.  We’ll serve.  We’ll forgive, we’ll ask to be forgiven.  Because that’s what Love really does.