Half Mast

Our flag has spent a lot of time at half mast the last several months, years. So much time, in fact, I can't always tell if it's meant to be there to symbolize a new loss or tragedy, or if we've just left it there as the new normal.

I don't know that I believe we live in more tragic times than in the past. Perhaps we're more aware of it all from the media. Our tragedies are different than those past, but we've always had tragedy in our midst. Well, not always, but almost.

Whose job is it to decide when our nation's flag should be lowered as an acknowledgement of tragedy? Who gets to decide what is "enough tragedy" to lower the flag. How many people have to die? What other countries do we show solidarity to, and for how big a tragedy? How long does the flag stay low? How do we decide we've "recovered," nationally, and can raise the flag high again? **

It's a rhetorical question. I know there are regional and local variations, and there really must be someone who gets to decide. I'm sure there are protocols and flow charts.

Flags, I know don't solve problems. They aren't even a particularly personal way of showing support or solidarity. But they've become a visible and public demonstration, and certainly aren't without meaning, either.

I wonder, if we each had our own flag to raise and lower, in demonstration of support and empathy, how would we each choose to do so? Maybe it isn't even an American flag, maybe a family flag, a Stefanie flag.

I suppose what I'm getting at is that it seems that we could easily find endless good reasons to always fly at half mast. There's more than enough tragedy out there to go around. I don't say that with a sense of depression, but simply out of truth. Life on earth is a bit like our half mast flag- simultaneously symbolic of greatness and tragedy. To fly high seems to discount the true and great hurt inside and around us. To lower our flag to the ground undervalues and dishonors the great hopes of freedom, love of neighbor, and fullness of life we strive for and get some real glimpses and tastes of in this country, world.

Whether our flag is flying high or lowered, I'm reminded that I'm not only a citizen of this country. I'm a citizen in God's kingdom. While He mourns and weeps better than any of us over the tragedy of this earth, He's able to fly his own flag of victory high, knowing that goodness and truth, beauty and honor, justice and peace, love of neighbor and life everlasting will win, have won, are winning. His flag flies high not out of nationalistic pride or the limits of his empathy, but out of power, love, and ultimate victory.

** I always feel a little awkward about showing pride in our American Flag, or really national pride at all. Maybe it's the post-WWII German in me who is has a healthy fear of nationalism. I love many parts of our country, but intense nationalism scares me a lot.

Live Where You Live

I walked to work one day last week, something I fantasize about doing regularly in the future. I walked behind a little boy and his grandmother. He was probably 5, maybe a tall 4. She was probably 40, maybe a young looking 45. He had a superman cape on and those shoes that light up when you stomp. He clutched some nondescript glazed pastry in one hand, the kind you can get for 1.99 at the check out counter of 7-11. His other hand was holding onto grandma. Grandma was holding him tight in one hand, and swinging his batman backpack in her other hand. They weren't rushing, but walked steadily, with purpose. I walked behind them for about 5 blocks until they reached his school and we parted ways. She let go at one point and told him to run ahead and get his energy out before school started. Off he darted, happy to have some freedom. Her newly unoccupied hand reached for a cigarette which she enjoyed over the next few blocks, still swinging batman with her other hand. She caught up to him, put out her cigarette and dropped him off at school. His batman backpack looked huge on his wirey frame, but he darted happily inside the brick building. You could tell life wasn't perfect, but grandma loved him and he loved batman.

It was only about 7 minutes in total, but it reminded me of how valuable it is for me to be present and to live life in the same geographical and social space as my patients (another life long fantasy). There's more information to be gotten from that morning observation than from 10 minutes of diligent question asking in an exam room.

I thought about that kiddo the rest of the day. I wondered if he was hungry after the sugar rush wore off? I wondered if he had asthma, and grandma's smoking made it worse? I wondered what his home life was like? I wondered what he learned in school, and what was inside that big batman backpack? I wondered if he would get mislabeled as ADHD, or if stomping his feet to make his shoes light up filled him with feelings of security and magic powers, like batman, to face an imperfect world every morning. Kids are resilient, people say. But are they? Really? Look how many people grow up to have physical, mental, relational difficulties because of their childhood. That's not resilience, it's incubation.

A few miles away from that morning walk, and two years ago, I remember sitting in my hospital's lobby. This time, I was a patient, waiting for lab work. I had decided I'd go to doctors and deliver my baby at the hospital in which I worked. On the one hand, it was convenient. I was an intern with no time, and proximity and inside connections were gold. On the other hand, I knew all too well the flaws and messiness of my hospital. Sitting there in the lobby, it was pretty clear I wasn't the typical patient.

Similar to being a neighbor in the neighborhood where I work, being a patient in my own healthcare system was probably the best medical education I ever got. I learned about long wait times, frustrating insurance, chaotic offices, an overwhelmed hospital, and being surrounded by people who didn't look much like me. I pushed a baby out in a hospital room that was less than luxurious, yet had everything I needed. I faced my own sense of entitlement that things should work better for me!

But it isn't the humble environment or semi-chaotic atmosphere that I remember. It's is the deeper joy and importance of having my vocational, social, health, and geographical worlds collide. It is the deeper meaning behind having my baby delivered by a Nigerian, washed by an Ethiopian, and handed to me by a Korean. There's a peace that comes with being fully present- it overcomes awkwardness and social or cultural barriers. I've since delivered a few other babies in that same room, and each time had heightened meaning because of my own relationship with that space.

Live where you live, I've learned. Work where you live. Be where you live. Don't just see patients, be one. Don't just treat patients, live with them. It makes me a better doctor, to be sure, but also a better neighbor. We're all just neighbors in the end, aren't we?

Street Cleaning, Solo-Parenting, and Margins

Tuesdays were my least favorite day of the week this year. 

Tuesday is street cleaning day on our street. (don't even get me started on how ridiculous street cleaning is) I'd guess that most of DC has felt the burn of waking up on "street cleaning morning" with a sharp pang of "argh. *&*$^&$^** I forgot to move the car." It might only be 7:01AM, but you probably already have one of those infuriating pink tickets. 

If you park before 6:30pm on Monday night you have to go out and move your car to the other side of the street before 7am on Tuesday. And then if you get home before 7pm on Tuesday night you have to move your car back to the normal side by 7am on Wednesday. I repeat, *@^&@&$*@!!. 

With Jonathan away in NYC during weekdays this year, street cleaning day has become particularly painful. Do I drag a newly bathed, ready-for-bed kiddo out to the car, strap him in, and drive around until I find a new parking spot? Do I wait until he's in bed, sneak out and hope he's ok and drive around alone to find a new spot? Sometimes I found a spot immediately, other times it was a 15 minute ordeal complicated by weather or traffic or other people's poor parking. 

It's such a simple thing, but each week it brought to surface the difficulties of solo-parenting.** 

If this year had a theme, it would be margins. I did a lot of living life in narrow margins. 

Margins provide extra space. Room to correct mistakes. Wiggle room. Cushion. Protection. 

Life without much margin feels tenuous, and perpetually vulnerable. Small deals become big deals. A kid with a cough becomes a potential day-care phone call that he needs to be picked up, which turns into leaving patients waiting or unseen. A patient close to her due date becomes a potential 2am phone call saying I need to go to the hospital and figure out what to do with my sound asleep kiddo. A night on call means planning weeks in advance about who can pick up munchkin from daycare, feed him, and be with him all night. Staying later at work means late dinner for munchkin means cranky-pants kid. Not being able to carry everything from the car to the apartment turns into worrying what item is least likely to be stolen while it sits in the backseat, and wondering if it’s ok to leave munchkin alone in his crib while bringing in groceries up 3 flights of stairs. Spending 2 glorious hours from 6-8pm feeding, bathing, and playing with legos means maybe my medical board scores won’t be as high.

I’ve never in my life spent so much time double and triple checking when I leave the house that I have everything- phone, keys, wallet, food, kid…etc. Forgetting those things becomes lots more complicated when you’re alone. I worried more about getting a flat tire or having the ER suck all the battery out of my phone and being unreachable more than ever before.

Small deals become big deals when life doesn’t have much margin. Distant worries become real fears. Potential snags in the day seem to become imminently possible and probable.

Were there friends to call? Sure. But this is DC. Everyone is busy. It’s hard to call for help at 2am when you have to go to the hospital no matter how good of a friend.

By the grace of God, I haven’t had any big emergencies. No 2am hospital calls that didn’t work out in the end. No late dinners or early mornings or street cleaning days or chief resident emergencies or lack of groceries that had any lasting impact. Practically and tangibly, things worked out. But life still felt vulnerable, hanging in a delicate balance between “things working” and “system failure.” There didn’t seem to be any middle ground.

I’ve learned how much I love margins. I’ve thought deeply about individuals and groups who permanently live life without much margin. Single parents, unemployed, homeless, disempowered minorities, the chronically ill. Small things become big deals. Life is more delicate.

Everyone needs margins and help on their “street cleaning” days.

**I use term solo-parent rather than single parent because, well, I'm not single. Jonathan may have been away a lot, but we're still together, and we're only apart for a year. He was always there for a supportive text or call or email. Once he even rushed back from NYC on a train (I wouldn't let me him tell me how much last minute tickets cost) when I had to bring Theo to the hospital. We saw him for long weekends almost each week. We mutually agreed that this was the best plan for us this year. I'm not single, but I learned a lot about what single parenting might be like. 

Presence makes the heart grow fonder

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

But does it, really?

We drove up I-95 to Philly last weekend, and as the skyline began to peek up over the industrial graveyard that is the 20 miles between Wilmington and Philly, my heart had a few extra pitter patters. I love Philly; it feels like home, still. As we walked through the streets all weekend I felt comfortable- the way I feel when I pull off work clothes and step into running shorts and a sweatshirt. I suppose as I think about where I might want to live in the future, and feel absence from a city I love, I feel fondness. But it's nothing like being there, being present. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.

I went for a run today through DC. I've always enjoyed getting to know cities by running and walking through them. I've never loved DC the way I love Philly. It takes work to love DC. I don't think after or long for it when I'm away. Certain people and places, sure, but not the city as a whole. Today, running 9ish miles, I loved the city. The Ethiopian man who runs the corner store on my street waved hello. I passed the empty store front a block down which, after 7 years of emptiness, is showing a few signs of new life. I passed the Howard dorms- someone finally washed off the graffiti mourning the death of Trayvon Martin from the cracked bricks. The building looked empty without that spray paint memorial. I ran past Howard, Bread for the City, down through Chinatown onto the national mall, over to the Supreme Court, back down the mall and over to the White House, up 18th street, past Community of Hope, Christ House and the Potter's House, past Whitman Walker and Upper Cardozo and La Clinica Del Pueblo. I ran past playgrounds and schools, police and homeless folks. I didn't see anyone I recognized, and yet everyone seemed familiar. It's been 7 years, and I know this city. I've walked through almost every neighborhood, maybe even every street, at some point. I don't just know where things are. It's deeper than that. I know it the way good friends know each other- able to spend time together, anticipate each others thoughts and feelings, and move through life together in a sort of duet. The city has a rhythm, different neighborhoods with different beats, and I've become a part of it. Presence, being present, makes my heart grow with fondness for this city.

I've spent about 60-70% of this year with J living in NYC. Do I love and miss him when he's away? Sure. Solo-mommying is no joke, and deserves a blog post of its own. But it's his presence that makes my heart grow fonder, not absence. My favorite text of the week is, "my train's here, see you tonight!" I suppose the times of absence have grown my appreciation for his presence. But, when it's time for him to return to NYC for the week, I realize that it is actually his presence that grows my appreciation of his presence. Presence makes the heart grow fonder.

This has been an encouraging theme as I think about moving to a city for which I currently don't feel much fondness. I feel, well, mostly nothing about Tallahassee. Not good, not bad, just fact. It's a fact I'm moving there. But presence, being present, grows fondness. Maybe I'll grow to love this new city, too. Despite my introvert desires to move into our new big house, spend any extra time reading books and building a deck and growing gardens and having kids, and just living off the fondness I've stored up for Philly and DC, I know I can't. I need to be present. I'll always love those cities, but I suspect my fondness will dwindle the longer I'm away from them. They'll always be special, but I'll fall out of touch with that deep city rhythm that I feel a part of now. Maybe on my first day living in Tallahassee I'll go for a nice, long, run.

Presence makes the heart grow fonder. Being present in and with cities, neighborhoods, communities, families, friends grows my love for those places and people. Absence, perhaps, helps reveal the fondness. But presence? Presence grows the heart.

Walking Down the Aisle

I married a Republican*. I've always voted Democrat. I'm not a huge fan of those labels, but they're commonplace and simple to use.

I've become a little more Republican. He's become a little more Democrat. Heck, we've even talked about voting across the aisle depending on the year, the candidate, the issues at stake. 

Speaking of aisles, we walked down one. Together. Almost 6 years ago. 

We don't always agree, and there are times when we cut the conversation short, because arguing it out and getting in our talking points isn't worth going to bed feeling disconnected. 

Republican and Democrat aren't our most important labels or descriptors. Christian, wife, husband, mommy/daddy, son, daughter, sister, brother, economist, doctor, nerd. They're not the only descriptors, but they aren't un-important. They're part of a story that shapes how we see and interact with the world around us. 

I can't laugh quite as much as some anti-republican jokes on late night comedy, because I'm watching them sitting next to my favorite Republican. Jonathan can't write off Democrats as all being tree-hugging, non-profit founding, government dictators, because I'm sitting next to him when we watch Fox News. 

We agree on a lot, the vast majority. But sometimes we don't. And that's ok. At the end of the day, we trust that what each of us most desires is real, true, good life, for all people. Neither of us think that's found wholly, fully, perfectly in presidents or government. We both see, differently, how our leaders and government structures affect the world we live in in real ways. I tell stories about the injustice of healthcare and welfare. He tells stories about the injustices of bad economics. We both long for a country and world more full of life, peace, justice. My ability to think about life, peace, and justice is bigger, not smaller, because of our cross-political relationship. Isn't that the point? I've had the experience of getting frustrated about bad democratic policies. And...Jonathan has hugged a few trees since we've been married. 

We live life not reaching across the aisle, but walking down the aisle. 

We are at our best when we're in motion, walking together, not seated comfortable and holding hands across an ideological aisle. Walking means neither of us are fully comfortable, easily defined or contained, and that's a good thing.

The carpet in the aisles is a little more worn. You can't help but bump into people. And when the people from either side are trying to move in different directions? Forget it. Mass chaos, stepped on toes. No one gets anywhere fast. Aisles work best when people are moving in the same direction, even if at different speeds, with pit stops and side conversations.

Here's to hoping we can all spend a little more time in the aisle.

*Disclaimer, Jonathan said it was OK that I outed him as a Republican, and that he isn't really that Republican. 

Lent: Fasting or Feasting?

Like most seasons of spiritual life and discipline, I've found two sides to the Lenten coin.

I've always been fascinated at the relatively wide-spread practice of giving something up during Lent, even (particularly?) among those who don't engage much with faith life during most of the year. I figure, it's one thing to celebrate Christmas even if you're not really a follower of Christ. There are universally held messages in the Christmas story and season that resonate and lead many to gratitude, gift giving, and love of neighbor. But...Lent? Our culture is far from celebratory of repentance, sacrifice, and abstinence.

Still, I think as a culture we value independence, or, more specifically, lack of dependence on things, foods, and people. We don't like to think of ourselves as addicted, hooked, needy. We don't like being told, or challenged: "I bet you can't live without ___." And so, masses of people give up chocolate, carbs, facebook, coffee, alcohol. This list goes on. We like to prove to ourselves that, gosh darnit, we can do it! We can live without those things! We're not really that hooked. We still have self discipline and control. Go us!

I too have had a mix of Lenten traditions. There were younger years when I gave up sweets- it never seemed to phase me much beyond some annoyance when I really wanted ice cream after dinner. (man, I love ice cream). One year I tried (semi-successfully) to give up lying. Like, no lying at all. Ever. One year I gave up all work on Sundays, committing to a real, true Sabbath. One year I fasted once a week, or for a few days with a group of close friends. Then there have been a few years that rather than giving something up, I tried to add something meaningful to my life- more time for prayer, a community dinner once a week, saying hello and looking in the eye everyone I passed on the street.

All of these experiences been valuable, and some more so than others. There is value in disconnecting from addictive habits, from committing to live more faithfully, to becoming more connected to my community. But I've often ended Lent wondering: "Did I do it right?" I mean, those aren't things I need to wait for Lent to do. In fact, I should probably be doing them regularly, like, all the time. It's always seemed uncomfortable to end Lent with the celebration of Resurrection, only to go back the next day to being a little more selfish, a little more addicted, a little less sacrificial. Shouldn't the result be the opposite? Isn't the season of Lent really about needing and finding a little more of Jesus than what we had before, holding on to Him for dear life, and emerging a little fuller, a little more faith-filled, a little more faithful.

Isn't Lent actually about Feasting?

The God I know doesn't want me to be empty, hungry, fasting. He wants me to be full, filled, stuffed, feasting. He's not thinking about chocolate or carbs. He's thinking about love and grace. He's not thinking about how long I can subsist on only water, or if I made it a whole week without swearing. He longs for obedience, trust, dependency. He's not a God who calls me to give things up simply to make the point that it's hard, or to acknowledge addiction. He calls me fill myself up with himself, and that generally requires some emptying of myself first. To make room to feel hungry for him, and then to be filled!

That emptying process, I think, is what we call repentance. Like a gardener weeds a garden before planting season, removing rocks and weeds and old dead brush, repentance lays bare the weeds and rocks of my heart and asks the great Gardener to remove them so new life can be planted.

So, is there fasting, giving up, emptying that Lent requires? Sure. Of me. I'm called to give up me. But that's not the end of the story. I'm equally called to hunger and thirst not for my old self (or chocolate, facebook, carbs, sin) but for Christ. For Christ in me.

Lent prepares me to arrive at Easter not starving and deprived, but so filled with need for and love of Christ that his Resurrection is absolutely the best news out there. To be filled with hunger is different than being hungry; it is to be filled with repentance and love and need for Jesus. It is to feast!

Being White on MLK Day

I debated whether or not it is "ok" to think and talk and write about being white on MLK day. I remember and know, personally, that power-filled majority cultures tend to make everything about them. About me, I mean. They, I mean we, I mean I, make our voices heard, find power, assert dominance, even on days and in places and with people where the focus isn't supposed to be us. We like to be "big deals."

I've always had trouble knowing what it means for me to celebrate MLK day. Of course, there's much King did and said that is more than worth celebrating. Still, I can't help but simultaneously think: I wish there weren't so many reasons to celebrate. I wish he hadn't needed to say so much, do so much, believe and hope and dream so much. There's tragedy mixed in with the celebration, and the extent of the celebration is commensurate with the extent of the tragedy. But, the opposite is true here as well. With the tragedy of racism and prejudice, subtle and not-subtle slavery, comes real and true and glorious celebration when bits and pieces of the darkness are chiseled away and we can see the light underneath.

MLK day is a celebration of King's birth. I wonder, what would I have been like had I been born that day in the south? Maybe in the same town as King. Unlikely we would have been at the same hospital. What would my childhood have been like? My adolescence? My young and mid-adulthood? King never got past that stage. I probably would have. I might still be alive. How different would my childhood have been compared to the one I did have in the 90s? I'd like to think hugely different, but I'm not sure. Could we have known each other? Would we have bumped into each other? On purpose, or by accident? What would I have thought about him? Would the strong call I hear in Scripture to love my neighbors, all my neighbors, to fight for injustice and for the weak and powerless, seem as strong when the question of racial injustice and white privilege were brought to surface? Would King's criticism of and plea to white Christians have applied to me? Probably. Does it still? Yes. Would I have marched? Would I have risked jail? Those Ivy Leagues, you know, they don't like criminal records on their admission applications. I wonder who they would have picked- me with record of jail due to protesting, or a black student with an impeccable record and grades. It's a real question- even in those "we're-above-race"ivory towers.

These are the things I think about on MLK day. These questions are what it means for me to be white on MLK day.

I'm tempted to avoid the day- to treat it as a holiday for rest and maybe some community service. To spend it feeling guilty- guilty for the fact that I'm part of a culture that made this day necessary to celebrate. That I probably would have been explicitly involved in the culture of slavery and overt discrimination. That I probably wouldn't have been as brave, as holy, as I would like to think I would have been. That I probably am not as brave or holy as I like to think I am.

But, guilt and shame and avoidance, or even Hallmark card quotations of King, aren't celebration. They are, in their own way, a part of my privilege. They are part of the problem.

I've never been a good celebrator. But that is what I need, we need, to do today. To celebrate a man who was needed, is needed, because of injustice and inequality that I probably would have perpetuated had I grown up with him. Celebration like that demands humility and confession and repentance and love of what is good and true and beautiful and right, rather than love of self. Now that's something worth celebrating.