“In deep disappointment, I have wept over the laxity of the church. Be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love… But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If today’s church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the church, it will lose it’s authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the 20th century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.” – Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. – Letter from a Birmingham Jail
I type the following in love (and disappointment) to the American Church:
In the last few months, more than ever before, I have questioned whether I still belong to you and whether you still belong to me. As I type these words, tears are streaming down my face.
Church, you have been such an integral part of my life. As a pastor’s kid and at times, a pastor’s wife, there have been moments when it seemed you were my whole life. You have been my community, my foundation, my habit, my compass, my caretaker, and my safe place. You have also been a source of wounding, pain, and confusion. I have wrestled with the fact that we, the church, have used theology to justify wars, slavery, oppression, and segregation. I have wrestled with how we have historically and presently excluded female and LGBTQ congregants and disenfranchised those inside and outside of our community of faith. I have wrestled with continuing to wrestle with so much but justified the continual struggle with the knowledge that I am human, you are human, and we are imperfectly trying to follow a perfect God. (And I’m not foolish enough to think that I can follow Jesus without a community of people to teach and support me in how to do that.)
But the last few months have shaken me to the core. This election season has felt like one continual wrestling match within my soul and amongst people I love.
Church, we claim to pray to the same God, in the name of the same Jesus, and yet some of us felt convicted to vote for one candidate, and others, the other, and very few others, the other. And afterward, some of us mourned and others of us rejoiced; deeply mourned and deeply rejoiced. I know that part of this mess is that Jesus was not an American, a Democrat, or a Republican, and we tend to forget that every 4 years. But for me, the wrestling goes deeper than blue and red and donkeys and elephants. The convictions behind our votes represent some significant divides in how we believe we should live.
If we claim to follow the same Jesus, how is it that our interpretation of following is so starkly different? If we are reading the same Bible, how is our comprehension so vastly different? I don’t believe that this election season has divided our country or the American church. I believe this election season has highlighted the divide that has long been there. But I also believe this election season is causing a lot of us to question how we can continue to be the church together when there is such a vast divide in our theology, interpretation, and praxis.
I don’t have answers, but I do know that I am not ready to give up on us, church. And here I am crying again.
I want desperately for this relationship to work because even though it’s so complicated, I still believe that we are good for each other. I want to belong to you and for you belong to me.
But I also want us to throw our doors wide open because I believe that Jesus is for all of us, not an elite bunch of us. This struggle I’m having with our relationship is bigger than just you and me.
I want us to be a people who are focused on welcoming others in, not keeping others out. I don’t want to practice fancy invitation-only pressed linen tablecloth dinner party hospitality. I want us to host radical, messy hospitality that look like the dining room table and the card table, and the tv trays are all set with mismatched dishes and chairs (including the camping chairs) because we ran out of room at the dinner table hospitality.
I want us to be people who champion the cause of people and not the cause of causes.
I want us to stop pretending that theology, life, and following Jesus is clear cut, black and white, and figure-out-able. I want us to be humble, to embrace the gray, and to hope for God to continually change our hearts so that with each year, we look more like Jesus.
I want us to see the image of God in every single person. And I want us to fight for others because we see the image of God in them, not because we deem them innocent or not. I don’t want us to be a voice for the voiceless; I want us to give up privilege so that those without a voice have the opportunity to speak for themselves. And then I want us to listen. I want us to be part of the liberation movement, not the condemnation movement.
I want us to do less service projects and do more listening projects. I want us to get out of our bubbles and learn from people who don’t look like, worship like, speak like, and vote like we do. And then I want us to question whether our theology applies to the people we just listened to. If our theology can’t be applied outside of our little church community, it isn’t God’s theology.
I want us to listen to the uncomfortable words from today’s prophetesses and prophets who are calling out forgetfulness, greed, and fixation with current culture. I want us to stop crying for peace and unity when there is no peace, and instead, embrace the tension that might lead us to the repentance we need.
I want us to turn over tables, like our Jesus did, when we see our fellow Christians becoming insular, uptight, and judgmental.
I want us to be known for our love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control.
I want us to be cities on a hill. We are not called to spread fear and scarcity, but to spread hope and light and generosity.
I want us to commit to the hard, complicated, long-term work of making peace rather than the easier, unholy work of keeping peace (or if we’re being honest, keeping privilege – because there’s too much conflict in our nation and world to claim there was peace to begin with).
I want us to care for the widow, the fatherless, and the orphan. I want us to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, care for the sick, and visit the prisoner. I want us to act justly and love mercy and walk humbly.
I want us to be kingdom people, church. I want to be in this with you. Is there hope for us?
The other night, after an-I-walked-three-miles-in-three-inch-heels, 14 hour kind of work day, I was fighting the urge to get takeout. Takeout was made for these kind of days. Takeout on Whole30 is Chipotle and since we don’t live in the suburbs, I knew that I could cook something faster than I could drive to grab a carnitas bowl and the thought of having to put on shoes again brought tears to my eyes.
I looked at the week’s menu and decided I “deserved” something tastier than lettuce wrapped tacos (yeah, I get that’s a mental food habit that I need to break – I’m doing Whole30, stop lecturing me).
But something magical happened in my oh-so-tired brain and a culinary genius idea was birthed. World, may I introduce to you:
Loaded Potachos (serves 2)
2 Large russet potatoes (sliced SUPER thin – if you have a mandoline, use it)
1lb Meat of choice (pictured here carnitas)
Homemade taco seasoning (I used to use a recipe, but now, I just throw in some chili, cumin, oregano, paprika, cayenne, red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper and we have a party)
Whatever toppings you fancy. I went with: chopped romaine, red onion, cilantro, green onion, Cholula hot sauce, and of course, guacamole.
Let’s get to business:
Preheat oven to 425 while you chop all the veggies. Place thinly sliced potatoes on a pan, brush with olive oil, and sprinkle with cracked sea salt. Bake for 15-16 minutes, turning once.
While potatoes are baking, cook the meat and add taco seasoning. And then make your guacamole. Guac isn’t an optional topping on these. Guac should never be optional.
When the potatoes are done, plate them and load them up. Go ahead and get a fork proactively. No need to get up again.
Y’all this is simple and so tasty. It was far better (and quicker) than getting takeout. The only downside is that there are dishes, but I have a cute dish fairy, so really, this was a total win for me.
I’ve decided to resurrect Food Day Friday blogs.
“Why are you doing this Allison?” You ask.
Thanks so much for asking! You always ask the best questions. I’m doing this for a few reasons:
- I’m hoping this will encourage me to write more often. I like writing, I have just gotten out of the habit.
- I love cooking. It’s like good therapy that I get to eat. And I do love eating my feelings. Which brings me to point 3:
- Go ahead and roll your eyes. Just do it preemptively. I’m doing Whole30 (along with the rest of America right now). Adam and I pioneered it for the first time in November and my body loved it. I’m not trying to be a Whole30Evangelist here, but seriously, my head, stomach, and sleep adored it. So, after Gorge30 (that’s December in case that reference was too obscure), we’re back on it. And since I’m cooking up all sorts of #fresh food (Fresh is my OneWord for 2017), I thought I might share it. Please share good things back with me. This is how the internet works (for better or for worse – here’s looking at you election season). I share, you share, we all share together.
I’m bad at mornings. Anyone who knows me, or who has shared a house with me knows this full well. I stay in bed until the last possible second (often later than the last possible second) and then rush around in a state of panic. I do this every day. Try as I may, I cannot fix this about myself. I love sleep and I hate mornings. That is my truth.
Because of morning chaos, I need breakfast that I can grab and go. This often looks like grabbing a Larabar or heating up a piece of egg bake. Real talk: egg bakes without cheese are not egg bakes I want to be part of. I’m still experimenting (this is a good place to insert your recipes for dairy-free egg bakes).
One Sunday in November, after a spinach-heavy gag bake, I mean egg bake disaster week, I was wracking my brain for something else I could eat for breakfast. I pieced together what I had in the pantry and holy smokes, this savory hash has become a Whole30 morning staple. It’s got so many holiday-esque flavors that I still feel like I’m getting to gorge while not feeling bad about or after eating it.
Holiday Breakfast Hash
2-3 large sweet potatoes peeled and diced
1 lb of brussels sprouts halved
½ red onion diced
Drizzle of extra virgin olive oil (or oil of choice)
Fresh cracked salt and pepper to taste
1 lb ground pork or turkey
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon dry sage
1 teaspoon dried thyme
¼ teaspoon dried rosemary
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon (or more depending on your heat preference) cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon (or more depending on your heat preference) red pepper flakes
Preheat oven to 425 while you dice your veggies. Place sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and red onion on a baking pan. Drizzle veggies with olive oil and top with fresh cracked salt and pepper. Roast for 20-30 minutes turning at least once. (Roast time depends on how big you’ve diced your potatoes and how crispy you like your veggies. I do a small dice but prefer my veggies to have a little crisp to them!)
While the veggies are baking, brown your meat. Then add all of the spices to make homemade sausage (shout out to this recipe). I’ve modified the recipe to use dried spices because it’s winter and I don’t have a growing herb garden in my backyard nor an unlimited herb budget. Dried herbs work great for this sausage!
If you’re doing this as part of your weekly food prep, let the veggies and sausage cool. Then, add half of the sausage to the veggie mix and put in a Tupperware container. (Freeze the other half of the sausage for another week unless you like a super sausage-heavy meal and then by all means, add all of it!).
Each day, I crack one egg into a frying pan. While the egg cooks, I scoop out about ¾ of a cup of the hash mixture into a bowl and heat it up for 1 minute. By the time the microwave beeps, my egg is perfectly sunny-side-up cooked. I place the egg atop my hash, stab it with a fork so I can watch the yolk run all over the other stuff, and then run out the door, breakfast in hand, to eat while I commute.
I hope you enjoy this dish as much as I do! What are your on-the-go, prep ahead breakfast staples?
Last January, for the first time in several Januarys, I set some goals for the year. I resolved to grow my bangs out (check with praise hands emoji), floss my teeth 5 times a week (hey, going from 2 times a year (i.e. the night before my semi-annual dentist appointment) to 4ish times a week is a success, right?), spend my commutes listening to audio books (gamechanger, y’all), and to read at least 22 books (check in large part thanks to the aforementioned audiobook resolution). Allison’s 2016 Book superlatives: Best nonfiction: The New Jim Crow – Michelle Alexander, Best novel: Homegoing – Yaa Gyasi, Best on Faith: Out of Sorts – Sarah Bessey, Best Audiobook reading: Americanah – Chimamanda Ngozi Andichie, Best Memoir – Between the World and Me – Ta-Nehisi Coates. Please nominate your best reads of 2016 as I am crafting my 2017 list now.
Goals that I did not quite hit were: make more lattes on weekends and blog about things other than cancer. Whoops. Perfection is overrated right?
For other highlights that weren’t necessarily on a goal list, please refer to my own personally curated #RealBest9 because no offense, your “likes” don’t determine what was the best about my year, I get to do that. (In order from left to right, top to bottom)
- I got back into the gym habit this year and fell in love with a few new workout classes.
- I read (sometimes with homemade lattes) more this year than in years past.
- We got a cat. I adore little Bluegrass Granger with my whole heart. Who am I?
- We sojourned to Asheville for a weekend and I fell in love with that little town.
- Adam kept healing. So much good news on the health front!
- Our little #CasaBuYARD veggie patch continues to be a source of joy (and produce).
- I had an incredible work year, brimming with learning, failing, and travels. I got to share about my work at a national conference in Pittsburgh, was accepted into a national fellowship and traveled to DC and Denver for that, and was able to go learn at a conference in Austin.
- We got to spend time with family and friends and enjoy it (and board games) thanks to good health.
- I love the 2 boys I get to do life with (yes, Bluegrass is a real boy).
Every year for the last few years, I’ve picked one word that will be the theme of my year. At the close of 2015, I was emerging out of the destruction of my husband’s cancer rubble and declared that 2016 would be a year of restoration. After over a year of watching my husband fight for his life and the months of recovery that followed, I was looking to 2016 to be a year of rebuilding after the wreckage. I knew (or I thought I knew) that life wouldn’t go back to just as it was before cancer, but I was hopeful that we could renovate the ruins and piece together some old and new into something that resembled the old life.
2016 was a year of restoration in many ways. In a lot of ways, a sense normalcy was restored to our home and schedule. Our days have been restored to routine things like working, exercising, cooking, cleaning, and doing yard work. And in some ways, my soul was restored. This was a very quiet, predictable, unhurried year. This year, I had the time and space for reflection, which was necessary. I was worn, ragged, and fragile and I needed a year to just be.
Last January, I wanted my life and soul to return back into something that resembled my picture of “normal”. I longed nostalgically for old routines, friendships, beliefs, and purpose. But nostalgia doesn’t operate well in present tense and it certainly doesn’t coexist with change. As it turns out, current me doesn’t actually want my mind, heart, and life to be restored to the old me.
This year, I’d rather have a remodel than a renovation.
I’m ready for 2017 to be fresh.
Fresh in expectations, relationships, beliefs, thinking, priorities, food… Lots and lots of fresh.
I’ve done enough fresh food kicks to know that fresh feels good, but fresh takes work. And so I will look expectantly, I will plan, and I will protect 2017.
I’ve seen a lot of people adding the words #LoveWins to comments about the recent violent atrocities in the United States. But as I read the headlines every day about more violence, more injustice, and more oppression in this country and world, I’m unconvinced. It doesn’t seem that love is winning at all; it seems that hatred is winning.
This week, as I read the headlines from North Miami (and Munich and Kabul and Baghdad and the Ukraine), I couldn’t think of any words to write other than #HateWins. I tried to pray but I couldn’t find any words for that either, so I went to the only place where everything feels right in the world; my garden. And as I watered and weeded and breathed in the smells and sights of creation, I was reminded of the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi:
“Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.
The line, “where there is hatred, let me sow love” was on repeat in my spirit, and as I gave pause to that phrase, I looked over at our newly bloomed sunflowers spotlighted by the setting sun.
This year, I planted a row of sunflowers behind our garden beds. I read the instructions on the back of the packet, before digging my little trowel into the hard, weedy, soil of our backyard and sowing 12 tiny seeds. I regularly watered the ground where I had sowed the seeds and I watched and waited. It took weeks to be able to distinguish the sunflower seedlings from the abundant weeds that grow in our backyard, and months for them to show any signs of flowers blooming. Now, the plants are 4 feet high and the flowers that have bloomed are gorgeous. But it took time and work for the seeds I had sown to bear any fruit.
This week, as I gaped at the golden blooms, I thought about what it means to sow love in this world where hatred has such deep roots. I thought about how fast the weeds grow in my garden, and how long it takes for the good things to bloom. And I thought about how gardening requires regular tending, watering, weeding, fertilizing, and learning.
I’ve been gardening for four years, but I still have so much to learn. Each year, I kill some plants, prune some too harshly, miss warning signs of mold and harmful insects until it’s too late, and sometimes, there are conditions outside of my control that make growing challenging. But I keep gardening, because it’s worthwhile work. I know the same is true about me planting love (and I’ll add hope and justice) amidst hate. This is a messy, complicated, nuanced conversation and I know still have so much to learn. I don’t always go about this work in the best way, I don’t always say the right words, I miss opportunities, and I still have so many biases to uncover. But I will keep planting these seeds and learning from my mistakes, because the world, my country, and my city are not as they should be.
I believe that sowing love amidst hate in our world is going to take work – not the flashy, wordsmithy, often publicly recognized kind of work – I think it’s going to take a lot of quiet, small, humble, routine work – well, a lot of quiet, humble work for those of us in dominant culture. And I think the work will look different for each of us. Every gardener I know has their own methods and practices and yet they help things grow.
For me, sowing seeds of love currently looks like:
- Tilling up the soil in my own heart: Doing a deep dive into unpacking the privilege that I have as a white, middle class, straight, cisgendered, Christian person. I’m slowly rooting out my white fragility and unearthing the ways that white dominant culture has benefitted me. I believe that this ongoing self-education piece is critical for those of us who want to be about the work of justice and equity, especially for white people.
- Consulting master gardeners: Listening to experts at sowing seeds of love and justice – being sure that I’m listening to people of color as the experts, not just white people who like to talk about this. There’s room for a lot of expertise in the libraries of my heart and home (I’ve linked to a few white authors in this post), but I’m being extra mindful of who I’m listening to and reading these days – being mindful of who is telling whose stories. (Some of my favorite writers: Ta-Nehisi Coats, Michelle Alexander, Bryan Stevenson, Christena Cleveland, and Austin Channing)
- Planting seeds of love in my everyday life: Because of the continued violence, there are plenty of opportunities to engage in marches and vigils and lectures. But in addition to joining in these large demonstrations, I want to be intentional to continue this work in my everyday life so that this work becomes as habitual as watering my garden everyday. Currently, this looks like calling out bias, discrimination, and privilege when I hear it among friends and family and inviting them to do the same when they hear it from me, convening a book club in which I can read and unpack some of the feels that come with understanding white privilege and white dominant culture, and incorporating these dialogues more deeply into my work with teachers.
Each season, I learn better, more effective methods to grow and sustain my garden plants. I hope the same is true about my learning to plant love amidst hate. I’m not a master gardener; I don’t think I will ever be, not with vegetables, and certainly not with fighting for equity.
But I’m going to keep gardening. I’m going to keep tilling up the soil in my heart, uprooting deep and unconscious, big and small biases, I’m going to keep listening to master gardeners about what this work is and how I can join, and I’m going to keep planting seeds in my everyday life. Because this isn’t a social justice hobby garden. This is urgent – it’s literally life and death. I have friends who are fearful for their own and for the children’s lives. If I’m honest, I’m afraid for them, too. Love won’t win on its own.There will be more #Hate Wins, more Orlandos, Altons and Philandos and Dallases and Baton Rouges and Charles if nothing changes. I want love to win and I know that won’t happen unless we all pick up our trowels and dig in.
For the last four Januarys, I’ve picked one word to hang as a banner over my year; one word to proclaim my hopes and dreams and resolutions for the three-hundred ish days to come. Most years, my words have come easily – birthed out of need for change or desire for growth. This year, however, I’ve wrestled with my word. I’ve wrestled because I’ve simultaneously given up on the idea that I can predict what a year will hold and I want this year to be a lot of things.
As I slowly emerge out of my husband’s dark cancer cave and my eyes adjust to the uncomfortably bright light of possibilities on the other side of survival, I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’m taking in colors and shapes and sounds that didn’t exist in the deep of the cave. I stare at my friend’s kiddos who I barely recognize after our extended friend-absence. I sit around full dinner tables and welcome chatter and laughter as a blissful reunion. I mount the spin bike at the gym as if I were reengaging with an estranged friend.
As I stare at normal life from a cautious distance, even still, while my senses adjust to fresh open air, I know that I want to reenter to normal life. The problem is that I’m afraid I won’t ever be “normal” again. Brene Brown writes, “Courage transforms the emotional structure of our being. This change often brings a deep sense of loss. During the process of rising, we sometimes find ourselves homesick for a place that no longer exists. We want to go back to the moment before we walked into the arena, but there’s nowhere to go back to.” And so I’m readjusting my expectations of normalcy and starting the process of reconciling what of pre-cancer life I get to keep and what I have to let go of. I think this is all part of recovery.
I recognize that the discomfort of healing is a gift – one that I assure you we don’t take for granted but one who’s emotional weight we couldn’t have predicted. As I wade through cancer-trauma rubble, I find myself getting more and more curious about what redemption and renewal and rebuilding will look like – in Adam’s life, in my life, and in our joint life.
In the last month, as I have pondered “my word” for 2016, I landed on a few that resonated; all of them starting with re: . Even as I wrote this post, so many re: words tumbled out. I toyed for a few weeks with picking a prefix for my word. But as a compulsive rule-follower, I just couldn’t go through with it.
So I waited and ran my favorite re: words through my brain; let them dance on my tongue until one stuck out enough to declare it “my word”. I think it’s the re: word that encompasses all of the other words that I was mulling over and one that encapsulates my hopes and longings for this fresh air year: Restore.
I know that there is no going back to life just as it was before cancer, and honestly, I don’t think I really want that anyway. But I do long for restoration –of new normalcy, of holistic health, and of my soul. So, this is me nailing up my banner with hopes and prayers this this year is a restoring year.
Did anyone else pick one word for their year? I’d love to hear about it!