Small Flashlights

“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

            --Frederick Buechner                   

  

Most days this is a nice quote in a book or a Twitter feed prompting thoughts demure and banal, “Yes it’s true isn’t it so very inspiring I must remember that.”

In a week like this one, we read with different eyes, eyes that see “…terrible things will happen,” and like vision acclimating to fog, perceive ghost ships everywhere we look.

In 1999 I saw Kevin Smith’s movie, Dogma, at Lincoln Center and walked through protesters for a post-screening panel that included the filmmaker. I’d lived in New York City for a year at that point but it was the first time I looked around a room and imagined where I would run if someone started shooting.

Two years later we boarded a plane ten days after 9/11 and when we landed, Mary Glen, all eleven years and big eyes looked up at me and said, “We didn’t crash.” It had taken all they had for my children to walk down a ramp and fly that day but it was a single pebble in an otherwise empty bucket that told them fear did not need to be their guide through life.

Do not fear.

It’s the command given more often than any other in the Bible and as teacher Beth Moore has said, “No one tells you, ‘Don’t be afraid,’ if there isn’t anything to be afraid of.” It was my awakening thought this morning and the one that seemed most to beg for words, I having no connection to the city of Boston or its storied race.

I’ve waited on doctor’s reports hopped up on fear so bad that I pulsated with it. I’ve been afraid to leave a room—much less the house. I’ve been afraid to start a conversation, answer the phone, reveal my heart, walk alone at night, walk alone through life. Afraid I would lose and terrified if I won.

And then the things I feared didn’t just exist in my mind; they started happening. Bogeymen knocked at the door like suitors. Waiting for the other shoe to drop became my resting state.

Here’s the thing about darkness—the worse it gets, the smaller light has to be to make a difference. 

I began to see beautiful things tiny as a pinprick. On dark and solitary paths, an unexpected hand would slip into mine; wisdom appeared in cookie fortunes, and strangers passed along road maps until I found myself in a new land, realized I was living the Bible verse that jolted me years ago and refused to let go, “Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day.”* 

The apostle John asserts that perfect love casts out fear. My guess is that the standard is much lower--that our forays into love require far less perfecting and far more “just doing” in order to be effective. 

So in spite of the fear that may be consuming you today, take one step and then another. Ask to find those who need you. Be bold and profess your love. Will yourself to vulnerability and rejoice that your fear will soon dissipate like mist. Hold an old hand; kiss a young face; look at a stranger and remember they were once somebody’s baby. Ask for help. Release your children. Be set free.

The beautiful and the terrible walk hand in hand. So should we.

*Psalm 139:12

Passover, the Gays, a Dodge Stratus and Easter

It was an inauspicious start to an auspicious week, the great migration from slavery to freedom out of the gate on a Monday night.  As some of us were battling commuter traffic and figuring out whether we could push that trip to the grocery store back just one more day, brothers and sisters gathered around the world to ask a question for the thousand millionth time, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

And though I was not in my building in New York, riding the elevator with unleavened dishes and unbreakable matzo, I felt a shift in the unconscious as some of our number stopped and took note of the journey. At which point I was reminded again of this passage from Walker Percy’s brilliant book, The Moviegoer—

Ever since Wednesday I have become acutely aware of Jews. There is a clue here, but of what I cannot say. When a man is in despair and does not in his heart of hearts allow that a search is possible and when such a man passes a Jew in the street, he notices nothing.

But when a man awakes to the possibility of a search and when such a man passes a Jew in the street for the first time, he is like Robinson Crusoe seeing the footprint on the beach.

This ritual is an unspooling thread, passing bitter herbs and salty tears from hand to hand across continents and centuries. An unwilling hero, a people in bondage to an unjust land, too many children and not enough time. The starter's gun firing before anyone was ready. How many of us, waiting waiting waiting, get to the end and balk—wishing to run back in for a sweater, a kiss, a last glimpse at a former life.

The first night ended, brisket was portioned into Tupperware, corners of matzo broken off and nibbled, though G_d knows we’ve all had enough and who really likes it anyway. Kitchens swept and falling into beds with sighs and laughing and dreaming of next year in Jerusalem.

Only to awake with the curtain already up on Act Two, as a people weary of Less Than found Equal Signs in unexpected places. I have a Love/Hate relationship with Facebook (it’s really mostly hate) but Tuesday all was forgiven. Like a thermometer rising, the town was painted red.

But that wasn’t the point really. We all knew that there were allies without math symbols and plenty of Westboro Baptist church members still waiting in the wings. Logos don't solve problems. But how much joy does it give you to know that we have people in our midst who are finally being seen and loved just as they are? Are we not in a miraculous age when jocks tweet disdainful pictures of hateful protests and receive responses that promise a speedy arrival and righteous retribution? (I see you Sam Cooper and Hayden Murray)

Two times that day I opened Tweets to find writing so real and true – evangelicals willing to give up the old securities for new freedoms, though there is no doubt such efforts placed Rachel Held Evans and Tony Jones squarely in front of trigger happy firing squads. We are all passengers on this train witnessing a history-making course correction.

No short trip—this is an odyssey for us all, a recognition that we have not perhaps been our truest selves. Yet when we can see each other with new eyes, looking both ways past labels and preconceptions we see our wanderings and missteps for the gifts that they are, the time they gave us to walk and talk with someone new.

Wandering in the wilderness feels like second nature to me now.  Open spaces and unexpected detours such a part of the landscape that the only constant was the ever guiding hand to which I clung. So I was not thrown on Wednesday night when Mary Glen called at 12:30 am and said she’d had a blowout in the ever-faithful Dodge Stratus. I put on a coat, hopped in the car and headed north to meet her in the parking lot where that steady transport, battered and unbowed had said, “Thus far and no farther.”

We waited for AAA in the darkness, high-fiving once again the best service $100 can buy and headed home as our driver assured us he could drop the key in the box and leave the car with our favorite mechanic. We made plans to replace the tire, knowing it only needed to last until July when her commute to the Shakespeare Festival would end. Daniel its original owner now well-moved to Philly, she would close the show and head west to a land of public transportation.

Except that morning brought different news. A broken axle and other maladies meant $1500 worth of repair for a car that wouldn’t command half that in the open market. It was time to say goodbye—an unexpected departure and a sorrow that caught us all off guard. Even now I write with tears in my eyes of a car that cost so little and gave so much. For four years it traveled to Texas and back without complaint, took the hits of two uninsured drivers and carried hope and dreams to LA and back again.  There was no explanation but a spiritual one—God had our back and like manna in the wilderness, would provide a ride until the day we didn’t need one.

As I explained all of this to a colleague, refusing to feel foolish for the tears in my eyes, I knew in the depth of my soul that those two million stubborn Israelites were just like me—doubting and faithless and bitch bitch bitching until the moment when they weren’t. When they just gave in and said, It’s ok if I’m here forever as long as You’re here with me.

And then you take a step and the road is paved; food is plenty and street signs everywhere you look. It’s what you dreamed about, right? Longed for during that dark night of the soul when “What the fuck?” was the only prayer you could manage and you knew God could handle it just fine.

In that moment of testifying I saw the Promised Land with its dinner menus and health insurance and steady paychecks. And I saw the wisdom of the desert—hope rising from despair, the unlearning of rules and a trust daily brokered with a God who did not fail. That life, oh my goodness, it was so hard. It was so sweet.

It may seem as silly as a pile of rocks in the Jordan, but when we tell the story of how this life grew against the odds, we’ll illustrate it with a silver car.

And so today arrives with new white shoes and sinners trudging into churches with saints—Easter, in all its chocolate-covered American convoluted glory; Jesus emerging from that tomb every year, every day, every hour. Of all the uncertainty and doubt with which I have made peace in my life, one thing I will tell you and you can take it to the bank—this great Love is going nowhere but with you. 

A holy week indeed. 

A Day Like Any Other

“Things fall apart: the center cannot hold”

--W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

“There are no rules, but the center holds.”

                                    --me, a report from the field

                                   

5:30 am arrived with the news that Chinua Achebe, the great Nigerian writer, was dead. I know only a teaspoon of Achebe’s prolific writing ocean--his most famous book which also happens to be Hannah’s favorite, Things Fall Apart. Throughout the day the phrase ran through my head as I considered the unlikely literary hero, an educated Nigerian speaking truth to power at both ends of the spectrum when colonial became post-colonial and a country wrote its own, often painful story with the instruments left in a hastily emptied desk.

In a 1994 interview with the Paris Review, Achebe noted that his love of stories led him to understand that they only reflected one point of view.

"There is that great proverb -- that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. ... Once I realized that, I had to be a writer. I had to be that historian," he said. "It's not one man's job. It's not one person's job. But it is something we have to do, so that the story of the hunt will also reflect the agony, the travail -- the bravery, even, of the lions."

                                      ********************

The morning was still dark when it carried such a story to my door--weighty with life and chronicle. Next to its deserving subject matter, Rustin Dodd’s profile of KU player Travis Releford is most notably marked by its animated, yet effortless prose.

With the evening’s game still three meals and a thousand nerves away, Travis Releford’s story reminded me that even high roads have unexpected left turns and occasional detours. I remember when he was in high school, all AAU swag and post-season honor, an anointed Jayhawk in a town where the bird is even more mythical than usual. Who knew there would be time on the bench and a redshirt season ahead? That the day would come when all that seasoning would produce an unexpected harvest of wisdom, a joy perhaps sweeter because of its delay?

These lessons are not for the faint of heart and seldom are they for the young—perhaps the reason I was so moved. Here is a young man who did not wither, rooted in local soil and standing tall in our midst. With gratitude for the witness, I headed in to work.

                                      ********************

Eight hours later, I left the office and drove through basketball fans to a stage just south with a slightly different performance scheduled. When I told a colleague I was going to the ballet, he shared that while he’d thoroughly enjoyed the program's first two pieces  - a Balanchine-esque modern composition and a psyche-busting pas de deux, he hadn’t much cared for the more traditional Midsummer Night’s Dream that comprised the second act. Willing myself to objectivity, I laughed my way through dinner and headed into the freezing night with a cleared head. Thank God.

I’ve never been a dancer and I saw my first ballet only 3 years ago so my reaction is typically that of a child—raw response to creativity, talent and beauty—the fury of gravity defied, paragraphs spoken in a glancing embrace. It’s a language all its own, yet oddly, not unlike the conversation happening just a few blocks away with four quarters of choreography and breathtaking moves. Such highly specialized skills—such unspoken dialects. Put a boombox on a street in Nairobi and watch the people talk without ever saying a word. Roll a ball onto a playground and walk away. Come back an hour later and every kid there will be speaking basketball.

Magic—it’s a universal language.

                                    *********************

And on a day when I thought I’d reached my enchantment limit, I got home and found a little more. Flipping through the channels in search of a KU game I knew was on (and never did find, thank you very much) I found something else instead—soccer in the snow. A World Cup Qualifier between the US and Costa Rica got caught in a blizzard in Denver and became yet another symbol of the surprises a day can bring. For the rest of my life I’ll remember with a smile the images of grown men playing a game they’ve known since they were children with a kind of joy I last saw in Riverside Park.

                                                         

                                    *********************

At the end, an hour into Saturday, there was one more gift, the best kind of all—one I got to give. Mary Glen got home from a 14-hour day and came upstairs cold and weary, landing on my bed in heap. The day before I’d listened to her dear friend Lizzie Quinlan’s band for the first time and knew that if anything could bridge the distance between Kansas and California, this might be it. I pressed play and watched her tearful cheeks mirror my own; familiar voices, notes and inspiration shimmering through the airwaves, love and gratitude sailing back. All I wanted was an anthem, somewhere to be from.

The People Who Don't Know I'll Name Them Today

It's late and I'm feeling reckless so I'm going to do something I never do--throw down an unedited blog post. This decision makes me want to toss back a couple shots of bourbon with a little xanax because I am the worst sort of hyper-editing perfectionist freak. I feel like that phrase YOLO was invented for way better stuff than this, but here goes.

Later today we will make our way over to the house of our friends Anne and Bob for dinner. About a million years ago when there were five children who were 9 and under, we moved to New Jersey and Anne's parents invited us to their home with their other five grown but not yet married children, cousins, aunts, grandmas and stray clergy members. For four years we did this and they were the most magical Thanksgivings you can imagine with wild soccer games and 4th grade musical performances and 20-somethings who played endless games of Tetris. I remember thinking that this gigantic celebration was exactly why I'd always wanted a big family. Drs. John and Yvonne Driscoll head up that clan and live in such a way that you always know there is an open seat at their table--smart and funny, kind but very real, these two raised Anne, John, Billy, Margaret, Kevin and Michael to be extraordinary human beings. For the years in which they made us feel that we were part of their clan and for the fact that I now serve Aunt Sheila's green beans every year, I am so very grateful.

Grandview High School gave me many things - love of Funk, a newspaper that got me writing, and not insignificant street cred decades later. It also gave me friends like H. Clayton Thomas and Roger Denney, two of the finest men I know. Both were stalwart individualists in high school. One went East, the other South and neither returned, but the magic of the internet gave them back to us and every time I see their names, I relent a little on the grudge I have toward Facebook. They love their wives and it is evident, even from a distance that they have raised their children with care. They share their politics softly and their rock and roll loud and when they speak of old friends it is with the sort of encouragement that lets us know the thread which unspooled them, still connects. Both celebrated birthdays in the past week. My gratitude for their presence on this earth is as solid as they are.

Tonight Yessie and the girls came over for dinner. It's been three months since we met and two since Polo was deported and in that time we've become real friends. The story of her life is one that reads like a novel and yet she does not see herself as extraordinary. She just finished her GED, is working nights and raising daughters who are smart and sassy and so much fun, and every time we are together she wears her strength and peace like armor. Knowing her and getting to be a part of her life is the sort of privilege for which I feel severely unqualified.

Last month I traveled to the City of Brotherly Love and spent a week with the tribe that is Quintessence Theatre Group. The ten Brothellos, their fearless leader Alex Burns, Ellen & Al Brown and my sister wives Lisa and Mara Burns, received me with the openest of open arms and gave me a sense of belonging the likes of which I will carry with me for a long time. Would that they were here and I could feed them one and all today.

There are more, of course, whose lives move through the collective unconscious every day and who, tomorrow, will be in my heart as well. If you've ever told me you read this blog, you're on that list. The encouragement I've gotten from you has given me a voice, freed me up to tell the truth and made me want to be a writer. Your generosity is a gift.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Tribes and Lovers

I flew to New York on September 13, landed in Newark and was retrieved by Alicia who had to drop her groceries at the check-out counter and race to the airport because when I’d texted her my flight information the day before, I had in fact, texted Mary Glen’s Alicia instead. Upon landing I received this message, “Are you still coming? When do you arrive?” Yet rather than head into the guilt spiral that some folks might necessitate, I made one phone call and waited happily in the sunshine. The kindred who was headed my way would require no penance.

Some slightly thawed groceries and a missed exit later (Ah, Turnpike how I’ve missed you) we arrived at her home which is located in country so beautiful, no outsider would believe it was Jersey. The conversation began when I got in the car, ran into the wee hours and continued at the local diner over breakfast. After that was Torah class and except for the fact that I kept turning pages in the wrong direction, I felt at home in a way I hadn’t in a long time. She drove me to the train in Summit, kissed me goodbye and went home to sell her house, our thread as unbroken as the day I moved away 14 years ago.

Penn Station is the place I first met public transportation so it was fitting to arrive there. Rather than cab uptown to Hope’s, I elected to be that person on the C train, all BIG SUITCASE and awkward turnstile transfers. Back when I first rode the subway I’d never have attempted such a feat. But now I know what I didn’t know then, that New Yorkers are the world’s most generous hosts and so I asked one man to slide the big bag under the turnstile after he went through in the other direction. Another woman agreed to carry the small one out when she went through the gate. I climbed the steps and emerged at 88^th and Central Park West, moving as one in a dream to the place I would call home for the next 10 days.

The visit did not disappoint. Since leaving in 2001 my trips have been both brief and infrequent. This time I was handed the luxury of days stacked fatly, one upon another; time burning a hole in my pocket. I brought Boulevard Double Wide IPA and Dark Horse Moonshine, happily cooking the next two days for a dinner party we hosted on Sunday night.  As usual, our posse did not disappoint—we’ve seen nearly every sorrow that it’s possible to see together and so our joy has weight. Sitting at the table listening to lives fully engaged in a second act, I realized that while I have stunning people scattered across the country, nowhere is there a collective like this one—I was with my Tribe.

I processed the revelation for the next 6 days as I moved through the city, reconnecting with old friends and amazedly meeting new ones. I say amazedly because I did not believe that the city would hold my future like it holds my past. Or perhaps, more truthfully, I did not believe that I had a future like I have a past.

And in the midst of that wonder, I saw two plays.

The first, “Lovers” by Brian Friel was in previews for its off-Broadway run. It is a product of TACT, The Actor’s Company Theatre, for which my friend, Scott Evans is the founder and artistic director. For seven years I've read rave reviews of this company online. The pleasure of seeing how well-deserved they were, was matched by the aching tenderness that moves through the play. It is connection and separation, miscommunication and perfect verse, longing and satisfaction, youth and middle age.

 The second ticket, “Tribes” by Nina Raine was gift-wrapped by Lee Roy Rogers whom I understudied at the Rep last year and who just stepped into one of the leads. This beautiful work is directed by the brilliant David Cromer, cranking up the volume and high def picture of a family desperate to be heard. Where do we fit in? Does the weight of DNA trump the choice of uniform we eventually wear? And how can it be that we do not speak the language of those with whom we shared a crib, yet understand without benefit of explanation a soul we just met?

On Friday I was at right angles. The week had been perfect. Each encounter had felt ordained and it was too late to call anyone else. What could finish this week, deep-set in the Days of Awe?  I wanted to be outside, downtown, to connect with people and walk the streets. And so Gina emailed and said that she would be at a TEDx salon at 5:30 in Soho. The topic was The Power of Connection. She and Jim and I could walk to get a drink when it was over. Of course.

And though I was late for the talk, I made it in time for the discussion, a circle of New Yorkers with accents ranging from the Grand Concourse to Brisbane, telling intimate stories, amidst timeless questions and holy confessions. I’d been pulled inexplicably to a chair at the front when I am strictly a back row gal. But when the man next to me started talking about story and community and tribe I knew I was in the right place. We spoke afterward, about all of these things, made a connection that each knew was meant to be and parted knowing this was just the beginning.

After drinks and tapas, Jim and Gina and I walked the streets of Soho, happening upon a restaurant we all loved and which none of us could have found if we tried—the memory of a shared meal there filling us all over again. I took the 1 train back uptown and walked the rest of the way, knowing for the first time that the city and I aren’t finished with each other yet.

The next morning the bus drove through the Lincoln Tunnel to Newark and dropped me off for a flight to Baltimore, transferring to a plane that took me back to a greeting—Mary Glen lifting me off the ground in a celebratory embrace—that was home itself, the arms of love and not the ground beneath them. And in that moment I recognized that no matter where we live, we are all nomads. My search for Tribe and Lover had finally come full circle.

Just before my freshman year, my parents and sisters moved to California and I spent my first college break in an unfamiliar place, lamenting the loss of community and intimacy, for is this not what Tribes and Lovers are? On Christmas Eve we celebrated with new friends and as I shared my longing heart, a woman then younger than I am now, said simply, “You know that song, ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’? Maybe that’s what you need to do.”

I’m sorry for the years it took that message to sink in, but oh so grateful to know the truth of it now. We are all a part of the diaspora—a people searching for shibboleths and eagle feathers, team colors and the  patois of home, familiar whispers and waiting arms—and when we find it, in the eyes of a beloved, on a city street or local gym, may we remember that in finding others we have found ourselves.

 “Out beyond ideas of right-thinking and wrong-thinking is a field.

            I’ll meet you there.”

                        -----Rumi

The Invisible Lives We Do Not See

                     

Update: The most important thing to do RIGHT NOW is sign this petition. Then come back and read the rest of the story. This family is being separated TOMORROW.

Last Thursday I ate a McDonald's Filet 'O Fish sandwich for lunch. And small fries. I haven't had fast food in ages because I tend to eat things like kale salad and other food that is healthier and more "white people" as my friend Babs said to me once. But today I was in the basement of the Jackson County Courthouse sitting with my new friend Yessie and her little daughters. It was the third courthouse we'd been to in our search for the courtroom where her husband Polo was supposed to be arraigned on a traffic violation. 

I'm a college educated woman with a good job and five (nearly) college educated children, but after being given bad information by no less than 10 different sources in three hours, I felt like I'd fallen down the rabbit hole and ceased to understand any of the rules by which we were playing. We were all exhausted and the girls who are four and two years old, were hungry, and while I had no big solutions for the day, McDonald's at least solved one of their problems. I needed to go alone in case Polo happened to arrive while I was gone. I got Happy Meals, of course, which came with the dinosaurs from Ice Age and when the girls saw them it didn't seem to matter that their dad was facing his second deportation or that their mom had emptied her bank account so that her Cricket phone could accept collect phone calls from jail. It only mattered that they now had something to do while they were waiting for a court appearance that had been scheduled and cancelled six different times.  And while we sat there eating our un-nutritious food and talking about how Yessie had scored a 12.9 on her GED placement test though she'd only needed a 7, a woman came out of the courtroom to lock up and asked us who we were waiting for. When Yessie told her she said, "Oh, the judge is actually doing it right now. It's a video arraignment." 

Every bit of heavenly wrath I wanted to call down on the system in that moment was swallowed up by her next words, "The judge is giving him credit for time served. You can pick him up at the jail."

We grabbed napkins and dinosaurs and children and Cokes (Godforgiveme) and ran to the car as fast as we could. But of course it was no use. Because if you've been deported before, as Polo has, no one but ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) is picking you up at the jail. Polo's record is completely clean (apart from driving without a license) and he is an entrepreneur who has worked hard and employed others and established such an honest reputation that his business comes to him word of mouth. He is not a criminal. But, because he was deported and then returned to his family in the US without papers, he is a felon. And so, on Wednesday August 29 he is scheduled to be deported back to Mexico, in spite of the fact that he's been living and working and keeping other people in this country working, for more than 18 years.

I didn't know any of this prior to last week. I just knew he showed up on time and called me back and did what I hired him to do. And so when he didn't show up, I didn't really think about it, I just assumed he'd been called to something urgent. That night I answered a knock on my door to find a young Hispanic woman, two toddlers, and a young man on my porch. 

"Are you Kate?" she asked, and when I answered in the affirmative she told me who she was. When Mary Glen and I invited them in she unleashed her story, of Polo being mistaken for another man and arrested at a Burger King. By the time they discovered he was not the man they were seeking, well, it was too late. Because they'd discovered his true identity. 

In her final quarter at Stanford, Mary Glen took a class called Printmaking and Social Justice, taught by a woman named Favianna Rodriguez. The class looked at how art can spur action on behalf of the oppressed, in particular the undocumented. It was there that Mary Glen learned that more than 5,000 children have been taken from their parents as a result of their arrest and deportation. Some have been left sitting in cars, put into the foster care system and adopted by American parents, in spite of the fact that their parents had no criminal records. Let me say that again so you understand me--people who are undocumented and have been picked up, have been taken from their young children, left alone by the side of the road. They have lost them to a court system that decided they were better off with American parents because they were citizens and their parents were not. And I don't care where you fall on the political spectrum, unless you are Kris Kobach who is trying to make a name for himself, the thought of children being taken from loving and hardworking parents should rend your heart.

I've learned a lot in the past two weeks. Spent time on the phone with lawyers and activists and heard stories I did not want to hear. This morning I arranged to drive Yessie and the girls to the deportation center in Kingston, Missouri so that we could take Polo some clothes and money. Yessie was also hoping I could take the girls in so they could see him and though I am willing to do whatever she needs, I confess that the thought of being privy to this meeting reduces me to tears every time I consider it. 

One thing I've learned is that the more well-known you are, the better chance you have of not being deported. Journalist Jose Antonio Vargas came out as undocumented in an essay for New York Times Magazine. Julio Salgado, an undocumented artist was on the cover of Time magazine. Polo isn't famous and neither are we, but while I was running last week I thought about Dr. King. I wondered how he looked a the problem of civil rights in all its presentations--access to voting, education, employment, housing--and kept his head above water, so vast was the sea of inequality. I look at this one life and feel overwhelmed by the systemic brokenness that has produced it. All I can do are a few small things. 

So I am asking for help. Here is a link to two very good articles about the trauma of families those who experience arrest and deportation: 

Young and Alone, Facing Court and Deportation

Parents deported, what happens to US-born kids?

And here is a link to a Change.org petition that I am asking people to sign in the hope that a very small act can help save a family:

Petition to Stop the Deportation of Polo

I know it's a big problem and with as many heads as the Hydra. I don't have time to worry about that today though. There are lives at stake. I am descended from Pilgrims who arrived on the Mayflower and none of them had papers either, yet here I am today, a "legal" citizen of this country. The countless men, women, and young people simply trying to survive in America today should not be torn from their families and expelled from this country by a harsh and broken system. Polo and his family deserve their right to life in America. If you believe in human rights for all, please sign the petition.

The Sacred and the Profane

Nearly three years ago when Here’s to the Village first saw the light of the Interwebs, I had no idea what I was doing. Blogging was a soapbox, an altar, a practicum, therapy and a thank you note all rolled up into amateur but bewildering technology. Some days I was desperate to share what I was thinking. On others, the knowledge that I could not figure out how the FUCK to make the coding stop double spacing was enough to derail a post. 

Life was a knife’s edge. Work ended. Community changed. The family I worked so hard to maintain was now the poster child for WHAT CAN GO WRONG. I felt alone and adrift on a rickety raft, free and terrified in a way I hadn’t been in years.

I came of age at the tail end of the Jesus people movement, traded beers for a Bible and made an even exchange of identity for belonging. I married young and had children fast. Moved five times in nine years, twice with a newborn in tow. And then one day a therapist in a small town in Michigan talked me into squinting just enough to see  the world outside my homeschooling, hard-judging, evangelical Republican door. I started telling the truth and learned how to ask for help.

We moved to New Jersey, God help us, where the two dog years were a straight up bargain for my dearest friend, a Jew who didn’t freak out when I talked about Jesus. I stopped going to church and we moved to a corner of New York City that is, to this day, the gold standard of community in all its intended annoyance and glory.  Hard times and great parties; uncertain theology and the surprise delivery of a dozen bags of groceries on a day I couldn’t afford to buy one.

And when I believed I could not love it any more, the grace ran out and in 2001 all roads led to Kansas, a place I most assuredly did not want to go. It was all well and good to be a Midwesterner in Manhattan where I didn’t have to look like everyone else, but I certainly couldn’t be one in Kansas. No one would understand why we didn’t go to church or lived in an empty house because we couldn’t afford to move our furniture from storage. We’d learned to drink and swear and stand up for ourselves; to find Jesus in drag queens and the pages of Tom Robbins novels, of all unlikely places. How in the world could we find our way in Oz?

I underestimated the Kansans.

They showed up with spare mattresses and loose change; opened their homes for dinner and life, and occasionally allowed their curiosity to overcome their politeness. “So are you heathen now?” asked one kindly when I said yet again, “We don’t go to church anywhere,” in answer to the question everyone asked.

God love her. I was actually grateful for the chance to explain my life to someone so different from me. My gratitude grew as I encountered further surprises. There were people with open minds on the homeschooling swim team; a Southern Baptist Texan with big hair and a wicked sense of humor whose teaching I devoured; the minister who'd married me and didn't bat an eyelash when I told him I was getting a divorce. 

Like a slow-growing plant, I fed on truth I couldn't see. I had no idea that leaving church was now a “thing” or that a new breed of heretical believers were roiling the waters of faith and philosophy. The lines were blurring for a lot of folks, but life was so fractured I had little knowledge of anything beyond the edges of our small and broken world.

Inch by inch we recovered and healed, some days with Psalms and some with Springsteen. I found a spiritual director in an old friend and career inspiration in the Port Fonda food truck. I read Patti Smith’s memoir of life with Robert Mapplethorpe and wept at the beloved provision in its pages. I learned that love doesn’t have to make sense to serve its purpose and felt the unique joy of giving after losing so much. I joined brilliant colleagues who could explain modern art, and then others who would wade into a bar brawl with anyone who disrespected me. Weeping through a white hot production of Titus Andronicus, I saw everything fall away except the holiness of creation—In the beginning was the word… And God created…And it was good.

And so today, as I survey the landscape and see harvest and hope, there is no life except the naked public square. From now on, Here’s to the Village will have to live in the same occasionally uncomfortable place I do. There will be days when I write about Jesus, that those of you who break out in hives will just have to close the page. Or grit your teeth and hang on. Because the next post will undoubtedly contain some pissed off rant or gleefully swearing review which polite company would never tolerate. The only constant will be the original one –the village and its people. Singing hymns or YMCA.

More and more I think they're all the same.