Rodeo

One of the drawbacks of living in the best city in the nation (no, I'm not biased) is that the entire country comes to your doorstep to vacation. This spring, as I walked home from the store, a tour bus shaped like a boat drove down our street honking duck callers, as the numbed tourists stared at me like I was in a fish bowl.

As hard as it can be to watch people turn their brains off and go into vacation mode (especially when they're driving in the bike lane), I admit that it is entertaining to play "Guess the Home-State". Occasionally, Chris & I enjoy going to a tourist trap like Fisherman's Warf and people watch, imagining where each family has come from. The tourists stand out like soar thumbs.

Lest I sound judgmental, I'll humble myself to share that I had the privilege of being on the flip side of that experience when a group of Californians left our conference for the day, and took a quick day trip up to Wyoming to attend the Cheyenne Rodeo.

Now, to my recollection, I had never been to a rodeo before (although my mom claims she took me as a kid), and I really wasn't sure of what to expect.

As about 20 of us filed up the bleacher seats, we were met with strange stares, and a stage whisper of "They ain't fru-um Wyoming" (yes, "From" was two syllables ). Most of the girls in our group were wearing sun dresses & flip-flops (although one wisely paired her cowgirl boots with her dress), and the guys wore surf T-shirts and baggy shorts. The rest of the entire audience had on tight jeans, long sleeved work shirts, cowboy hats and boots. We looked absolutely ridiculous.

Every time someone from our group got up, it seemed like the attention went from the rodeo to "the city folk". We passed messages back and forth, sounding absurd to the locals: "Okay, so I heard they're supposed to stay on the bull for 8 seconds", "Apparently, they tie a rope around the horse's privates to make him buck", "Does anyone know the point of this event?", and so on.

At one point in the rodeo, a horse went completely insane, diving over the stage with the announcer, landing (with rider in-tow) on it's head. Then, it got up and charged full speed into the rail, ramming it with it's head before passing out. Another horse sprang out of the gates, landed stiff as a board, then teetered over onto its rider like a tree, never moving again (it was hauled off in a horse ambulance, which we joked was sponsored by Purina). The spectacular finale was a rider that was pitched off his horse, but whose arm got stuck on the harness. He flailed around for an eternity, and literally had his chaps and jacket stripped off of him as he was tossed like a rag doll. I have never seen anything like it.

The rodeo reminded me of stories of the Coliseum under Caesar, and part of me expected lions and gladiators to come out after the bull riders. It felt a little morbid and wrong, watching people & animals get hurt like that... and yet it was thoroughly entertaining-- one of the best days I've had in a long time.

And I have to say, it was awesome being a tourist-- a completely ridiculous outsider who didn't get it and never would. Some of the highlights we heard at the rodeo:

(insert thick accent here)

• "That horse was chargin' like my wife at WalMart"
• "He was hotter than a two dollar gun"
• "He fell apart like a $19 suit"
• (my personal favorite) Tom Morrow... the name of one of the rodeo contestants (for real).

Whether it's Africa, London, Tijuana or Wyoming, it is such a wonderful experience to be immersed in (and stand out in) another culture. It was the best $9 I've spent in a long time (plus the $7 lemonade I bought in a commemorative Cheyenne Rodeo cup).

Aplogies

Rumor has it that, in my attempt to be challenging & thought provoking (because I personally felt challenged & thoughtful), my last post came across to some as offensive. I apologize-- that was not my intent at all.

I was not taking a stance or stating my opinion on the movie Milk, on Harvey Milk as an individual, on Prop 8, on Christianity, or on Gay Rights. I was simply challenged to love people that are different from myself, and it seems that in my attempt, it made people feel un-loved.

I would love to dialogue with anyone about these thoughts, and value your opinions & feedback.

We're All Bastards

I watched the movie Milk last night and it set off a chain of thoughts and emotions running through me.

It reminded me of a story I read about a Baptist minister and civil rights activist in the 1960's named Will Campbell:

On one of the Freedom Rides, Campbell was challenged by newspaper editor P.D. East to sum up the Christian faith in 10 words or less.

Campbell replied, "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway."

Not long after, a good friend and fellow activist, Thomas Coleman, was shot & killed by a police officer named Jonathan Daniel. After the shooting, Campbell was devastated, but P.D. East wouldn't leave him alone, challenging him on his definition of Christianity. He demanded Campbell to answer whether both Thomas Coleman and Jonathan Daniel-- the victim and the murderer-- were bastards. Campbell feebly replied that they were.

"Which of those two bastards did God love the best?" asked P.D. East

This question changed the course of Campbell's life, when he realized that God loved the bigoted, wrong-doing Ku Klux Klan members just as much as He loved the victims of the bigotry. He left the civil rights movement, and began ministering to white supremacists, sharing God's love & hope to the very people he had been fighting against.

As I lay in bed last night, with scenes from the Gay Rights Movement still flashing through my mind, the story of Will Campbell returned to my memory. After watching Milk, I felt saddened, offended, heart-broken, inspired and confused. What stood out more than anything to me was the hurtful, defensive words coming from Christian's mouths, as they crusaded for morality.

This past year was an echo of the culture clash that happened during the movement of the 1970's in San Francisco, and I had an interesting vantage point from where I stood.

I grew up in a Christian home, in conservative Orange County, and yet I live in one of the most liberal post-Christian cities in the nation. I work for a conservative Evangelical Christian organization, yet the people I work with are much more passionate about justice and human rights than moral purity. During the elections, I walked on campus at SFSU and saw endless amounts of posters and campaigns calling out for people to "Vote No on Prop 8"; when I returned home, my inbox was filled with emails from Christians telling me God's will for the elections. It was interesting, standing with one foot in each world, listening to each group talk about the other.

After watching Milk last night, images replayed themselves like home movies. I thought of Christians picketing the funerals of gay men who had died of AIDS; of half-naked men on Easter posing for the Hunky Jesus contest; of the angry emails demanding that Christians stand up with God against "the gays", and angry gay men pouring hot coffee on Christian students; of teary-eyed gay students crumbling as I apologized for the church rejecting them, and wide-eyed youth group kids learning about sexual purity. I thought of Jesus speaking with compassion on prostitutes, and side-stepping political issues to get at the heart of the matter.

And I think Will Campbell was right: the real heart of the matter is that we're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I closed my eyes and saw a group of people on either side of me. On my left were the drag queens, celebrating the Hunky Jesus contest on Easter. On my right were the Christian activists demanding morality, without love. Tears came to my eyes as I saw myself taking a hand from both sides, feeling their skin against mine. We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I've never been one to be deeply involved in politics. I admit that a lot of it is simply over my head, and much too time-consuming to keep up with. But the anger & polarization are what really turn me off. The thought of reaching across both lines-- to the Christian world I am a part of, and to the gay community that I live in sounds dangerous, frightening... and beautiful.

After P.D. East heard Will Campbell's answer to his question, he responded, "You've got to be the biggest bastard of us all... because damned if you haven't made me a Christian, and I'm not sure I can stand it."

Campbell used to say, "I'm pro-Klansman because I'm pro-human being". He explained that being pro-Klansman is not the same as being pro-Klan, and being capable of making that distinction might be the only hope for civil discourse. So my goal is to be able to say that I am both pro-Gay, and pro-Fundamentalist. Taking sides is one thing, standing in the middle is another, but reaching across the line is something completely different.

Reconciliation-- both to God and to man-- was the purpose of Will Campbell's life & ministry, and I hope that someday, someone could say the same of me.

Culture Shock

Walking down the aisles of the grocery store, I felt a little bit like I was in the Twilight Zone. Every time I turned a corner, a smiling, friendly employee popped their head out, like a Jack in the Box asking, "How are you today? Are you finding everything alright?"

I began to wonder why everyone I passed looked me in the eye, or why total strangers talked to me as though I knew them. After less than an hour of being in public in the Mid-West, I started feeling uncomfortable "Why does everyone keep smiling at me? Why are you looking at me? Why are you so interested in how I'm doing today?" My thoughts raced as I gave threatening looks and fingered the mace in my purse.

I've always thought of Californians as being sunny, happy people-- tan & athletic, smiling as they drove with the top down on their convertible. I was wrong. We are all horrible, closed off, private people-- comparatively.

Apparently living in the city has done something to me. I have realized that I never look people in the eye when I pass them on the street. Something about living in a crowded city makes you covet the little space you have-- even mental space. When someone looks you in the eye, they are entering your world, your thoughts, even.

But Colorado is a place of open fields, impossibly huge mountains, and a sky that it somehow bigger & bluer than anything I have seen. With all that space comes a generosity that I'm not used to. People have room to look one another in the eye, to greet each other. They have the space in their lives to drive 30 miles per hour down the main city streets-- something that drives me absolutely insane. My ankle cramps up holding the gas pedal down at a steady 30mph, rather than breaking & gunning it, swerving around the slalom of San Francisco streets.

There is space for things like dish washers, spare bedrooms, basements & garages, and even *extra* cars (imagine!). There's space to live life at a slower pace-- even to talk a little slower.

As strange as it has been for me-- and even though I have almost thrown things with the sheer frustration of the pace of life (especially traffic)-- I have to admit that it has been therapeutic to slow down a bit. Having a regular rhythm to life (leave the house by 8 every morning, sit in the same classroom for 5-7 hrs, workout, eat dinner, do homework, go to bed...) has been hard to get used to. The variety of our jobs & our lives in San Francisco is wonderful, always keeping us on our toes. But I have to say that I haven't really missed it.

It's been great to be surrounded by friends, to not carry the stress of leadership, to simply show up and be taught. Don't get me wrong: it's been mentally & emotionally exhausting-- but in a completely different way than we're used to, and it's kind of nice.

The part I was most worried about was being surrounded by the army of conservative Christians, in khaki pants and polo shirts. And, for the first week or so, it was a little hard. But as I have gotten to know people on a deeper level & have seen their hearts, I can feel myself softening towards those backward country bumpkins (that was meant to be funny, by the way). I even noticed the other day that I had been singing Christian praise songs to myself. Weird [Promise me that if I get a mini-van or a Know Jesus, Know Peace; No Jesus, No Peace bumper sticker, you will intervene.]

As strange as it sounds, I really am having a great time. I might even say that I am sincerely enjoying myself in the Mid-West. I still don't know what to do when people look me in the eye-- I usually looks away awkwardly, pretending to see something interesting in the other direction-- but after a few more weeks, I might even be smiling that the Safeway employees. I have heard that generosity is contagious.

Fitting In

I woke up yesterday morning in a cold sweat, trying to convince myself that the world I had just been living in was only a dream. I had been in high school again, back in my old room at my Dad's house, desperately trying to remember the last time I had attended the math class whose final was happening that day. When did it meet? Did I own the book? Could I possibly cram enough to pass? I wracked my brain to remember my class schedule, and frantically tried to get ready for school that day. Then the alarm went off, and I woke up, dazed & confused.

Most of us know that feeling-- waking up from a dream of public nudity, a forgotten locker combination, showing up for work unprepared, or being chased by an unstoppable foe. I'm not much for elaborate dream interpretations, but it seemed pretty clear to me, as I woke up on my first day of "classes" that my dream came from some underlying stress & insecurities.

This summer, I am calling Fort Collins, Colorado, my Home and six weeks of training & conferences my Job. While I readily admit that I am looking forward to some [much-needed] leadership training, blue skies & sunshine, and not being in charge of anyone or anything, I do have a confession: I am afraid.

I show up to most of our ministry's conferences dragging my feet, making a half-hearted attempt at a good attitude, with the mild anxiety that comes from not fitting in. I usually spend the first day at a conference feeling closed off & cranky, the second talking to God & asking if something's wrong with me, and the third having a heart-to-heart with Chris wondering what in the world we're still doing here. Somewhere along the road, I remember that I love my job & my students, that every family is dysfunctional, and that there's really no place else I'd rather be.

No matter how many times I go through that cycle, I always have this low-grade panic in the pit of my stomach that someone is going to find out that I am not spiritual enough, that I don't do things by the book... and that I have a hard time understanding half of what's in "The Book" (especially all those models & acronyms-- I'm practically illiterate when it comes to all the insider lingo. It's like listening to people talk about Lost).

So when my alarm went off the morning of our first training class, I lay in bed confused about my dream, wondering where I was, and realized that the fear of failing a math class was really just the fear of the "kids" at school not liking me. Thankfully, no one beat me up & stole my lunch money. Even better, I learned that several other people felt insecure, out of place, and a little nervous about the summer. It's nice not to be alone.

It's true that seven hour long meetings are exhausting, that my brain feels like mush at the end of this first week, and that I have an incredible doodle collection on my notebook. But right now, as I sit on the porch, watching an amazing thunderstorm pass through the Colorado sky, I feel privileged. Maybe it's just because I made it to Friday afternoon and can sleep in tomorrow. But more than that, I'm actually looking forward to the Fall, being back on campus, starting a new year with those troubled, dysfunctional students that have wormed their way into the tender places of my heart. Lord love 'em.

Last night I had another vivid, incredibly real dream-- but this time, instead of feeling panic & confusion, I was left (and still carry) with a feeling that can only be described as the warm fuzzies. I was walking through the gates of Child Voice, our home in Uganda last summer, wondering how I got there. The women & children gathered to welcome us, singing their song of greeting, and a friend came out, giving me a huge hug that I can still feel against my chest. It felt like home, and I felt like I belonged there.

And maybe, just maybe I can even start to feel at home here, too.

Broken

A few days ago, I laid on the bed, staring out the window at the clouds taking shape & forming overhead. Although we have been looking forward to warm, sunny Southern California weather, since we left San Francisco, it's been nothing but gray, gloomy drizzle... with the exception of the day that I found myself watching the clouds.

It was stormy and the air seemed full, with giant thunderclouds moving across an impossibly blue sky (impossible, at least for LA-- the one great thing about the rain is that it scrapes away the layers of smog). I laid there and talked to God, thinking Big thoughts and asking Big questions as I watched him push the clouds across my panoramic view out the window.

Everything inside felt heavy, with the weight of the questions I was asking and the little drama that was unfolding. It was one of those times when we look into someone's life, at all the pain & brokenness, and wonder why it has to be that way.

The Question is, I think, the biggest mystery that we wrestle with, and sometimes I feel my chest filling with something that I cannot put words to, but in the simplest form is just sadness.

I don't mean that in a melodramatic, "get me a straight jacket & some meds" kind of way. But I think it's healthy & appropriate sometimes to grieve for the pain & brokenness around us, and even to ask God why things are the way they are.

There is someone that we care for whose life and mind are slipping, and we are in a position to help them. But these situations can be tricky & delicate, and my words and actions have been coming out cautiously-- cringing as I lay each one down, hoping that it won't topple everything over.

It has been a strange process, stretched out over the last several weeks, hanging heavily in the background, and stepping forward at unexpected moments. There is a sense of expectancy-- like tensing up before an accident, but in slow motion.

As I lay on the bed, watching the sky, I opened up all those feelings-- the questions of what to do & when to do it, and most of all Why?. The clouds rolled & took shape, sometimes swallowing up the blue patches, sometimes meeting and forming with others. I remembered Job's question of God: Why? Why did you let this happen? I thought of the other people I knew who had lived through similar situations, and thought about the millions of others that I didn't know. Mental illness is one of those things that is so difficult to understand & explain-- something that happens without anyone to blame or any explanation of Why.

The feelings and questions I had been wanting to avoid & numb were exposed, and none of my questions were answered. But as the clouds drifted & changed, I felt a sense of purpose behind it-- something bigger than myself that I couldn't understand. Instead of answers, I simply felt a Presence that didn't take away my feelings, but shared them with me.

Mixed in with (or maybe I should say underneath) all the anxiety, the fear, the unknown is that calm Presence. I suppose in the religious world, it would be called faith, but I don't want to put a name to it, especially because Faith almost sounds like something I made myself, and this is something I can't claim.

There is a small ache inside, knowing that this is Reality-- that most of the world lives with some sort of wound like this, that there are no guarantees. At the same time, though, I have had moments over these last few weeks where I have felt swells of gratitude, of joy-- where I catch myself smiling over some small thing. It's hard to know how to hold these issues in balance: the reality of our brokenness and the goodness that's around us; how to mourn and celebrate at the same time.

I think, though, that as I stay in tune with these feelings and allow myself to ask these questions, that balance seems to work itself out naturally. It's when I close them up inside and try to hide from it all that I start to tip one way or the other. And as I expose those tender places, that Presence, which is such a mystery, makes me feel at home with myself, with my situation, with reality, and the Questions don't seem quite as big.

Spinach

I led a deprived childhood-- a tortured existence, if you will. Being cursed with an active mind, a talkative mouth, and a small appetite, I was always the last one at the dinner table... the martyr left alone to stare down the lonely vegetables, like some shoot-out scene in an old Western. Tumble weeds blew through the dining room, silence hung thick in the air, and still that slimy cooked spinach stared back at me with a look that could put a lump in my throat.

I don't know why I didn't just shovel those vegetables down first, or why I didn't disguise them in my mouth along with a bite of meat. I distinctly remember the gagging sensation that came from chugging down spinach with a glassful of milk. It was always long after everyone had left the table, and the memory of the rest of the meal had long since faded from my palette.

I've always been a hopeless procrastinator-- waiting to write papers until the last minute, saving the unsavory To Do's on my list until last, and cramming everything in at the end with a quick "Please, God, let that work". I know that turning a blind eye to the things I don't want to do does not simply make them disappear, but I admit that my first tendency is to stick my head in the sand and pretend everything's fine.

Not to push the metaphor too far, but I have definitely had a lot on my plate this year... and now that the school year is over, and things are winding down, all that is left on that big empty plate, staring back at me like a lump of spinach, is a fate worse than vegetables... Fund Raising.

Let me interject here that I LOVE my job. There really is nothing in the world that I would rather be doing than what I am allowed to do right now. However, there is one part of it that feels a little bit like being stuck at the table at the end of the meal, and that is raising my own funds. Ah, the joys of working for a non-profit.

Really, fund raising isn't that bad. For the most part, it is one of those faith-building, stretching, maturing experiences that I am grateful for, in hindsight. I don't think that I would have the same level of appreciation and gratitude if I simply received a paycheck from a company every month. In a lot of ways, fund raising is similar to the discipline of eating your veggies-- something that seems unattractive at the time, but builds you up over the long haul.

Today, I could feel the siren call of avoidance... and I could tell that Chris felt it too. We would each drift off into our own little distractions, waiting for the other to pull us back into reality and talk about the phone calls that needed to be made, the appointments that needed to be set up, and the money that needed to be raised. It's a humbling, uncomfortable process, and one that's difficult to dive into.

Finally, we took the dog to the park, and huddled together on a bench, hunched against the cold, San Francisco summer wind. After spending some time praying and bolstering each other up, preparing for the task at hand, we came home and gave it a first stab.

Alright, I admit it: we did all the easy things on our Fund Raising To Do list first-- but at least there is a list, and several items were crossed off today. I chose to rejoice in the little accomplishments. And the best part is that the ball is... ever so slowly... in motion.

Ironically, now that I am a "grown-up", and can choose ice cream or veggies for dinner, I [almost always] choose the vegetables. I love them, and I feel so much better when I eat healthy. I don't know if I will ever have those feelings towards fund raising (if I do, please check my temperature), but I'm at least taking steps towards health.