Confessions of An Evangelical, White Girl To The Black Community; and Exhortations for The Human Experience to Anyone Who Will Hear

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I grew up cloistered in a pretty specific bubble in suburbia. The kind of bubble where you might have the cops called on you if you left junk in the front lawn, or let the grass get higher than two inches.

I saw the police up-close-and-personal only once a year, for National Night Out. One policeman would hand out badge stickers, and another would be dressed in the dog mascot costume.

I remember a coloring worksheet with the silhouette of a policemen and the caption that if ever I was in trouble, the police were my friends.

All the people in my neighborhood looked like me. 

I didn’t go to public school, so I never had friends from other backgrounds. Just me and all my evangelical, white brothers, and our evangelical, white friends from church.  By my late teens, I had a black friend, but because of the strong white influence, all his friends called him an “Oreo”: black on the outside, white on the inside.

I didn’t encounter black culture until my early twenties, when I moved to a predominately black neighborhood in Minneapolis.

And I didn’t encounter my own ingrained white privilege until the death of George Floyd on May 25, 2020.

I was the person, in response to the news of violence against blacks coming from other states, that wanted to be bipartisan–a “peacekeeper.” I wanted to have all the facts. Generally, I assume the good in all people, both those who fall victim and those who perpetrate, and when Ahmaud Arbery was shot in Georgia while jogging (Feb. 23), I tried to withhold judgment until I had all the facts.

Now I see that “having all the facts” is a form of hiding, hiding from the kind of injustice that my spirit knows I am inadvertently apart of, and demands the entirety of my heart to set right.

The truth is, I didn’t go on to find all the facts–nor the truth–but got sidetracked by my birthday the following day, and my own comfortability. The happenings of the racist south were far from my little bubble in (unbeknownst to me, racist) Northern Minnesota. I had to go look up the spelling of Arbery’s name and the details of the story in order to write this.

I suppose ignorance like mine is why the powerful motto emerged in the wake of George Floyd’s passing: “Say his name.”

Say it, Grace, so that his life becomes real to you, so that you don’t forget he was in the middle of his story when another man, one who might’ve handed out sticker badges to white kids, ripped out the pages in the second half of his book.

Say his name, like the mighty pushing of a snowball down a hill, that justice may be given the chance to write an epitaph for all the names you didn’t know–Eric Garner (2014), Michael Brown (2014), Laquan McDonald (2014), Tamir Rice (2014), Walter Scott (2015), Freddie Gray (2015), Jamar Clark (2015), Alton Sterling (2016), Philando Castile (2016), Stephon Clark (2018), Botham Jean (2018), Breonna Taylor (2020), and that justice may be given the chance to pen a revolutionary second half for the millions of stories of people of color in this world.

Waiting to “have all the facts” is the epitome of white privilege, that my bubble is so set up to shield me from the blatant racial profiling and prejudice of my neighbors and fellow man.

Waiting to “have all the facts” is part of why the black community has been waiting so long for social equality and justice. The longer I wait to engage the truth of my white circumstances, the longer my black neighbors wait out their own deaths in the streets, or in their beds.

The longer they wait to feel safe.

I can’t imagine the sensation of not feeling safe in my own home. The truth of my white circumstances is that I rarely feel unsafe. The truth of my white happenstance is that the world around me is created to pander to my pleasure, ego, and privilege. Why are the “nude” cosmetics at Target always in shades of beige? As beauty guru Christine says, “Nude is a concept, not a color.” For the black girl who also watches YouTube makeup tutorials, her “nude” is not beige, but a deeper tone that is rarely included in cosmetic marketing.

And why are the nude depictions of Adam and Eve always white-skinned? Or Santa Claus? White-haired, blue-eyed, rosy cheeked…. Did you know St. Nicholas was actually born in Turkey? It must’ve been a shock to his system to move from such a hot climate to the tundra of the North Pole, but all the Scandinavian children had to have their Christmas presents. It’s a tradition to honor their white Jesus getting gold, frankincense, and myrrh, you know.

Recently I watched a news clip from CNN where the anchor interviews NFL player Benjamin Watson in a follow up on his essay about Michael Brown being shot by a police officer. In both the essay and the clip, Watson says that “ultimately, it’s not a skin problem but a sin problem,” and goes on to express his beliefs that the solution to social inequality and injustice is not education but the gospel of Jesus Christ. Unsurprisingly, CNN cuts him off before he can finish.

I agree with Watson. Education goes a long way, especially in bringing awareness to the ignorant (put your hand up with me). But only grace transforms a bad heart. Only love heals what is broken. Only the blood of a perfect man breaks the bonds of captivity to one’s own selfish reality. We are all guilty of assuming our experience is everybody else’s experience. It’s the nature of ego, of the inner narrative. A child, regardless of their skin color, thinks their reality is the only one. As expressed by a little boy to a little girl in an argument, “You’re not real, I’m real!” Interestingly, they are arguing about a difference of opinion bestowed by their mothers, showing that the truth of their reality is heavily influenced by what is instilled in them by educators. When they grow up, their language will shift from “real vs. not real” to “right vs. wrong.” But the heart-cry is still the same–validate my real-ness.

Like the CNN anchor, much of the West doesn’t want a “religious” solution. They put racial inequality/injustice on the shoulders of the government to fix, policy-making and reform, and there is a place for that–an enormous place. But it’s also on the shoulders of white, evangelical, 26-year-old girls like me, who don’t vote because they wanted to be bipartisan, and didn’t realize that their vote really does have power to effect change. Every day, I can vote against the tide of white supremacy trying to buoy me up, both in government and in my inner narrative. I can look for other realnesses beyond my own, and for fault lines in my reality.

One “realness” is that of spiritual powers. Our battle is not with flesh and blood; like Watson said, the battle is not over skin color. White supremacy is a spirit with its claws in the belief systems of people. It is the same spirit of evil that generated slavery and the dominance of the Aryan race during Hitler’s regime. It can be as overt as the KKK or as subtle as a white Santa Claus. Every human heart is susceptible to it, but it begins as a power external to you, and it takes the discernment of the Holy Spirit to know what is the truth of your heart-thoughts and what are the thoughts of this pervading principality.

When I first moved to Minneapolis and walked Penn Avenue to and from work, I would hear voices telling me to walk on the other side of the street. “Cross over from that black man–he might hurt you.”

Never in my life had any person told me such a thing. Never in my life had I questioned the value of a person with a different skin color–red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight–or doubted my love for them.

I had to fight those voices, stay the course, look the person in the eye, smile, say hello.

You and I are not the enemy here.

You can see how such a thought, hard to distinguish as not your own, would begin to build a culture of racial profiling. We begin to associate “burglar,” “rapist,” “thug” thoughts with people of color, those who wear hoodies, or who are loitering/walking in a certain locale, and generalize the entire population that way. Racial profiling is what happened in every case of police-person of color death listed above. As soon as I agree and say in my heart, “Yes, I should walk on the other side of the street in case he intends to rape me,” that thought of an evil spirit becomes belief, and belief is what my actions are built on; then what strengthens and spreads throughout a society. If a person has bad thinking, they will have bad actions. If a society has bad group-think, it will have bad actions.

These thoughts would become my own–flourish in the fertile soil of the unredeemed heart–if I did not believe Jesus is my claim to righteousness, or have the Holy Spirit regenerating me.

Just as every heart is susceptible to evil spirits, they are also susceptible to the Holy Spirit. Any love in my heart for the black community originates in Jesus, and because of him, I know these are true: I am not a white supremacist, and I am still susceptible to white supremacist thoughts/beliefs and must deconstruct the instilling of any such education.

I also know that I have never before questioned my love for people of color, but suddenly find myself doing so. If you identify with what I’m preaching, I want to give you a word of reminder and encouragement.

There is another spirit, equally manipulative and gross, working in tandem with the white supremacist spirit–the religious spirit. The religious spirit had me questioning my Holy Spirit-dwelling heart if I love black people.

Maybe I don’t, I thought in a panic. I don’t even have black friends right now, and I always want all the facts! I’m not racist, but maybe I’m not anti-racist either! Quick, post an anti-racist blurb on social media so they know I’m not racist, I’m ANTI-RACIST.

As soon as I start agreeing that I’m neutral, I give power to neutrality.

As soon as I agree that I can never understand the black experience, I will never understand the black experience. (Who am I to limit what wisdom the Holy Spirit will give? It is in understanding that reconciliation begins to grow. It is my spirit-privilege to be privy to things impossible to the flesh.)

Rather, I should start agreeing that I’m anti-racist, because that agreement gives power to justice, and engages my heart in the black cause. The gap of their waiting narrows or widens with every agreement we make.

I say the burden of proof has always been on the one who asserts. If the spirit of white supremacy is accusing your heart of racism, let that spirit prove it. It has no power except that which you give, and if you are giving it power on the basis of mere accusation, you have need of some deep soul validation from your divine Creator (oh, look, something understandable to every other human experience on the planet!)

Similarly, if the spirit of religion asserts that you will never measure up to your part in reconciling people groups–to do better–you tell it that Jesus Christ finished the work of reconciliation on the cross, and you carry his ministry by the Holy Spirit. It is your destiny to reconcile heart-cries to their answers, whether through relationship, reform, or rearing the next generation that seeks to experience and celebrate the realities of others.

To myself, and my fellow Jesus-lovers: prove your assertions with a pure love.

It’s not enough to love people of color with reforms and policy-making, social media tirades or protesting. The basic needs of a human soul are not the right to vote or the right to own land, or the right to free speech or a fair trial–those are obvious “duh”s, and simply what makes a society flourish. The accomplishment of those things isn’t going to afford the black experience the dignity, safety, and honor that their human nature inherently deserves. Policy doesn’t validate human nature. Laws for equal treatment don’t validate a heart longing for intimacy and home.

Rather, human nature can validate human nature.

And in the deepest places, where a soul knows its existence is sacred and fears that it is not seen–there only divine nature validates human nature.

The God in you wants to validate the heart-cry in others.

To my friends with the white experience:

COVID-19 is giving a chance to go slower. Take the opportunity to find your heart and do the work of looking for the truth. Don’t be afraid of what you might find–you are loved; you are valid; you must grow. If you believe, you are covered in the blood of Jesus, and no one can condemn you.

Go slower, and go lower.

Go lower into humility. Beware the religious-spirit which serves the black community with a prideful heart. Pride/judgment is sibling to the supremacist.

Go lower until you find the bottom, where Jesus dwells.

To my neighbors with the colored experience:

To repent means to change your thinking. And when your thoughts change, your beliefs change, and when your beliefs change, your actions change.

I am repenting. Because I love the Lord, I am repenting. Because the Lord loves you, I am repenting.

Forgive me for living in my white-privilege bubble for so long. I’m trading it for my Jesus-privilege of sharing grace. I ask for your grace in this process of heart change, and patience for the fruit it will produce.

COVID-19 is a chance for your voices to be heard and amplified. We are responding to your call. Where our city is closed because of disease and rioting, my heart is opening to your suffering. You are loved; you are valid; you are growing. If you believe, you are covered in the blood of Jesus, and no one can condemn you, not even corrupt government. I desire to understand your suffering, to share in it as I share in Christ’s, and to see you get your full reward.

Now is your time.



Will We Ever Rise – The Brilliance


Overtaken – Molly Skaggs



Water wheel
Jon Uriah

I woke this morning to my heart bursting.

With ideas, dreams, desires.

Within half an hour, a little too much caffeine was added to the mix, making my insides reminisce about the peaceful days of early July, when fireworks exploded outside the body.

I’m not sure what happened.

Just that, when I went to sleep, I didn’t have the same capacity I experienced when I woke up.

Which is good, because there’s a wide selection to choose from on the To-Do list: three jobs notwithstanding, the lawn needs mowing, the garden weeding, the tomato plant (which is fruiting!!) needs support if I’m going to taste any of that fruit….

My heart feels a little like that tomato plant. Like desire has grown too quickly for the strength of my spine, and its weight is just…sort of pulling me over sideways.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about placemaking and sustainability.

I did the obvious things in response to the cultural hype of zero-waste living: ditch-and-switch all things plastic for bamboo, single-use for reusable.

I must’ve spent close to a thousand dollars, renovating the externals of my lifestyle for long-term goals, and I’m happy I did that.

But now the Lord is taking sustainability into deeper regions of my soul, with a word over this season: guardianship.

Similar to stewardship, to investment. Guarding the good he continually brings to my life.

It also means, “leave no thing orphaned.”

All the parts of my soul should be mothered and fathered. And all the things I put my hand to I must claim responsibility for. It’s incomplete to jump on a gardening trend because growing your own vegetables is sustainable, but leave behind the parts of your own heart that need tending.

Here’s what I’m realizing: it’s not enough to participate in a lifestyle switch just to participate in a lifestyle switch.

You have to cultivate desire for it. You have to answer the why first, and then the how.

I want to stop buying bread because it comes in plastic packaging, which never biodegrades but pollutes our oceans, but how will I get bread, then? Am I ready to undertake making my own gluten-free loaves? Do I have the capacity and the desire to make this a sustainable switch? (Presently, all things cooking- and food-related are burdensome to me.)

Or will I burn out, because I’m also abandoning clothes shopping since I have a sewing machine (that I barely know how to use)?

The truth is, abandoning a convenient, consumerist lifestyle for intentional, sustainable living is more work, not less (whatever the minimalists propone!). It’s a lot of work to mix your own mayo and DIY your own lotion. Apply that same intentionally to your work, to your relationships, your dreams, and your future, and you could burn out quickly if you launch prematurely.

But if you walk with God, you might also wake to an exploding heart because maturity is coming quickly.

See, the best part about receiving a word from the Lord is that it always comes with the equipping intact. He didn’t say guardianship to me as the next thing to learn. He said it to me as the next thing to practice. 

He’s already equipped me with the ability to guard, cultivate, and steward through his Spirit.

Now, to the furthest reach of my desire, I get to participate with the sustainability of his heart. It’s less about making a list of all the switches I want to make and more about cultivating an unmanageable desire.

Because then he has to give me a capacity to match.

And, really, what’s more intimidating to our faint hearts? The stress over biting off more than we can chew?

Or the untameable growth of a desire that’s heaven-sized?

In the face of a God who will always outdo us in dreaming, we choose to belittle our desire until it’s more manageable. Which sidles up a little too closely to soul-killing duty.

I don’t want to cook meals because it’s my duty to sustainable living. I don’t even want to cook meals because it’s my duty to the earth, to my own convictions, or to the Lord who entrusts me.

I want to cook meals because it’s my joy. And if I don’t have joy there, something orphaned in my heart needs a guardian.

Good thing I have the best keeper–one who has promised never to leave me or forsake me. With him, everything is to my advantage, and every advantage is sustainable.





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Kitty Thievery

Think of the ones you love–whether persons, hopes, dreams–

reach down deep
into the recesses of your tenuous, tired heart
and see that you have the strength to keep going
simply because you care.

He longs to join the caring,
as the one who raised it in you,
like a breadmaker who works his hands into the dough.

Let the yeast permeate–
let him work his caring deeper into you.

And yet,
so often,
we feel alone in caring.

Rather than tasting
the sweet warmth of freshly-baked bread,
we feel the tearing of crust from flesh,
the scabs of our past caring that left wounds.

Because caring hurts.
In this world, to care is to risk everything.

Do you feel it?
The temptation to turn it off.
Switch to autopilot,
switch to obligation,
switch to apathy.

The heat is turning up.
Don’t turn it off, friend.

Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it cannot bear fruit (John 12:24).

Then grain must be threshed before it can be dough.
Bread must go through the fire before it can be eaten.

Death is promised–and you will feel it–but it’s not permanent.

Your portion
is his hands cupped around bread, the breaking;
and his hands cupped around blood, the pouring.

Your portion
is communion with him in the needing,
and connection with him in the kneading,
and resurrection with him in the rising.

Your portion
is his care for your life.

If we could get the perspective of this breadmaker-caregiver,
could it change the risk in caring?

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the Psalmist sings,
what is the son of man that you care for him? (8:3-4).

Lift your eyes a little higher than the heat.

(Jesus calls himself the “son of man,” remember?)

You have put him a little lower than God and crowned him with glory and honor. 
You have given him dominion over the works of your hands;
you have put all things under his feet (5-6).

Including discouragement, defeat, death.

Whether you are the one giving care or the one needing care,
or, like most of us, a little of both,
the man who was made perfect by the breaking, who was the first to do the raising,
is the one who wants to share in your suffering.

God wants to lend you his strength.
But let your hand be on the man of your right hand, the son of man whom you have made strong from yourself (Psalm 80:17).

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you…
And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you” (1 Peter 5:6, 7, 10).









watering can
PC: Glorin

I pass, for the first time, through the double-doors into the homemaker’s heaven:

Hobby Lobby.

Bright lights and long aisles and…instrumental Easter hymns playing over the loudspeaker?

Observing the 30-day devotionals and wall-hanging Bible inscriptions, I presume the owner is Christian.

Immediately overwhelmed by the size of the maze, I ask an employee to show me the chalkboard markers.

We pass rows of craft supplies, bolts of fabric, Easter bunnies and plants, picture frames and furniture.

I feel an unfamiliar conflict stirring up inside me, making it difficult to concentrate on the employee’s direction.

Excitement and inspiration (the endless possibilities of homed decorating!) colliding with something like…revulsion?

I pause briefly at an aisle that catches my interest, craning my neck to see to the top of shelving laid neatly with farmhouse-style goods. Serving platters and jars, kettles and bottles and baskets and spouts, all with distressed finishes, or that green/blue patina mimic of rusting copper.

My revulsion turns to anger. Someone is making a profit off somebody else’s insecurity and attempt to construct an identity through an aesthetic!

What someone would naturally achieve by living and laboring for generations on a real farm in the country is duplicated in a sweatshop in China for five dollars, then sold for quadruple to an American suburbanite who will change their theme in five years when the next trend emerges!

I’m all a righteous, red flush and rage.

Until I realize I am the one with the insecurity and constructed identity. I am the suburbanite, and the anger is the Lord’s.

Someone across the Sea is not making a fair wage in good working conditions so I can furnish a new house! This elusive home I’m trying to find and create, telling the Lord I will do it with him, but first not understanding what it is to be at home in his presence.

Not understanding the injustice done to others to fulfill my desire, which is a false identity in the first place. I’m compensating. A wooden chicken for the assurance that I belong.

Oh, Jesus, give me rest from this striving!

All that comes is vapor (Eccl. 11:8)…. And when we’re dead and gone, and the accumulation of our striving blown away with our last breath, all we’ve left is a crater-sized carbon footprint of the landfill junk that once constructed our worth.

What can I do against such reckless, pervasive sickness?

Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes. But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgement (11:9).

I pass, for the first time, through the double doors of the Earth Maker’s heart, and I find grief.

His grief over the system, my grief over missing his heart in all this. There is more of heaven’s will to be manifest on earth, in my life!

He’s preparing a place for me, the truest home. It’s available to me right now, in his heart.

Will I exchange my perfectly-curated, white-picket-fence, Christian-American dream?

After all, it’s just an illusion.


When I Need to Get Back


I sit on the back step wrapped in a blanket, the steam from a coffee mug curling up my chin.

The sun is a happy smile strutting across the sky, looking this way and that, melting all winter blues with its cheery disposition.

Can I hang onto this sadness when spring is so pregnant with promise? 

The exhaust pipe at the back of the house emits an aroma of chicken and potatoes from Mom’s crockpot.

I’m suddenly twelve years old, cocooned in a nest on the dry portion of the steps, with piles of March snow still heaped in the backyard, and heaps of books and notepads and pens piled around me.

I’m filled with nostalgia, and an ache as deep as this year’s winter. A longing for home that is not of this world.

Jesus appears on the step below me, resting his head against my Afghan-covered knee, and I get the impression that the happy strutting smile is his. When I need to get back! That smile is the light left on….

I have so much to give you, he says–an observation, a promise, and an invitation all at once.

My sadness feels penetrable only by his sentiment–a lifting of the spirit–because it holds no condemnation for where I’m not, only hope and expectation for where I will be.

I want to receive all of it, I tell him in return, and I’m grieving because there is so much of my heart that would settle for a natural landscape, for a home in the physical. There is so much of me that doesn’t recognize the gift he is offering, that of himself.

My only promise for the spring.

To refuse him would be to continue in an internal winter. But how do I accept?

This conundrum: my connection to God the Father being Jesus, and my connection to Jesus being Holy Spirit, and my connection to Holy Spirit being my spirit, of which I am so unfamiliar!

A spiritual landscape planted invisibly in a natural one, and I would’ve settled for the natural one. How to see beyond the visible? 

I cannot escape this desperation for home, my own striving to work and earn and apply and secure and set up and maintain a rented house, when all he is looking at is my rest in him, so that I can become his resting place where, by his Spirit, he supplies all things.

I am the home.

He is the home.

We, together, belong.

How do I leave this effort in the natural to reside in the spiritual? How do I receive all Jesus wants to give me?

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Does it start with the recognition that I have nothing, if what I have is in the natural? That God wants to move me to a reality where all I have is him? That to lose my life for his sake is to find it?

Does it begin with internal emptied-ness? Embracing the emptying because it makes room to be filled with the kingdom of heaven, which is spirit.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. 

And this, the sadness.

The recognition that the process demands a mourning of many things, which may last  the long, dark night of the soul, but cannot swallow up the joy of the morning.

Night’s mourning, and joy’s morning.

It starts with the emptying of the sadness–my choice to lay down a mourning that has had its time–and begins with the filling of his happy, strutting smile–the choice to receive what he is waiting to give me.

Receive the comfort of his presence, by which I will encounter all the home I could ever conceive.

It’s starts–and continues to the end–with that childlike instinct, trust. Do I believe him, that his Spirit is in me and equips me to learn the kingdom of heaven.

He is infinitely patient, but the choice is ultimately mine: will I rest, and trust, even indefinitely, that the Lord will teach himself to me?

He’s gone away to prepare a home for me.

He’s promised to come back and get me.


Picture: Juha M. Kinnunen

In my spirit, everything is white.

Like clean bedsheets. Like freshly laundered blankets and sheets and pillowcases whispering on the line.

Like light pouring through the window onto bare walls—not sunlight, varying in its golden tints, but plain, white light.

As this morning: the winter sky is overcast, though not slate-gray, but salt-white; and snow falls in the lightest, tiniest grains.

It is white above and white below,

and white coming through every opening to reach my soul.

Is this what it is to be a young wife?

White. Space. Peace.



Like snowflakes, quietly, exquisitely in freefall. The white, the space, the clarity, the snow—they fall around me with purpose: a mercy-covering for the ground in the cold season, blanketing seeds long-sown that will emerge with life and color in the spring.

Mercy for the hibernation.

I am slumbering under a cloud of white blankets and sheets, stirring long enough to turn over and find your body next to mine—still a surprise.

I’m not yet used to the permanence of your presence, this home you have made in my deepest places… and at the same time,

the recollection of life before you is slipping away.

The Watching Tree

under the greenwood tree

-September 17, 2017-

I went out on the front stoop one Thursday afternoon to find they had cut down the big tree on the other side of the fence.

At first, I couldn’t figure out what was different about my yard and stared absently at the sprawling shadow of the volleyball net across the creeping Charlie, until the colossal gap between the neighbor’s pine and the elm across the street glared at me, like it was offended I failed to notice its haircut immediately.

They cut down the tree! Something painful seized my heart and wouldn’t desist in twisting. It’s just gone!

Riveted to the stump sticking out alongside a slab of concrete sidewalk, I started crying—big, fat tears of dismay and regret, because, although I had never considered myself a tree-hugger before, the fact remained that I would have liked to say goodbye to the old tree before the city felled her.

What was worse, I’d had the opportunity because it was I who answered the door the day before, when a scruffy, toothless city worker knocked to ask if mine was the car parked across the street.

“It’s not,” I’d told him, while six other men in orange vests watched from their tree-gobbling machine. “Did you check the neighbor’s?”

He nodded. “We’re just going to post it and come back tomorrow. Make sure your cars are moved by 7 am.”

I promised, and texted the girls to inform them also, but not once did it occur that the fated tree was not across the street, but the one just outside our fence—the tall, watching tree, with three prominent boughs like a troop of soldiers that were known to frolic with the branches of the tree across the lawn, or wave at me through my attic window, or sigh over me in the stillness of sleepless nights when I lay on my back in the grass.

That tree had become a friend during a long season where God did not speak to me directly, but whispered in every rustle of its leaves, gave away his position with every sway of its branches.

And some unfeeling men had come through with a job to do, lopping off its branches and grinding its roots with a hungry chainsaw. They might as well have cut off my right arm, because—who needs that limb? Or dug out my heart valves, because, at the rate Minneapolis was hacking down trees along Penn Avenue, there wasn’t going to be enough oxygen-production to make city life worth living anyway.

Vaguely I wondered if, had I known which tree was posted, I would’ve planted myself beneath it in true tree-hugging fashion and refused to budge when the city arrived in the morning…

Probably not.

Deep down, I knew it had to go. It was diseased, I noticed a few prior—the leaves had turned brown and speckly. It had that sad, scraggly look of something that has been dying for a long time, and just wants to be put out of its misery.

Maybe the city workers were not so unfeeling after all…maybe they spared the tree in our front yard from catching the disease, upping oxygen-production in the long run.

I knew I didn’t need the tree anymore. God was speaking again, and I had to remind myself that the season of secret wonder wasn’t lost just because the tree was gone.

Even now the axe is laid to the root…any tree that doesn’t bear fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Perhaps the felling of the tree was just a continuation of the way God had always walked with me: providing tangible, naturally-rooted things (no pun intended) to represent supernatural realities.

It represented the limbs in my heart that he had cut off during the eternal, fiery summer, so that what was already producing fruit would doubly flourish.

Perhaps he just wanted to show me, if I could care that much about a tree, what was available in the caring of his people?

Fox Hair

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Through the black bedroom window, I can see a full moon casting its iridescent glow beyond the limbs of the snow-saddled maple tree.

It reminds me of the pearl earring I removed before applying the henna dye to my hair.

I sit in an old white t-shirt and shower cap, looking like a mushroom with a little red fringe peeking out from underneath.

I mixed the powered henna plant with a little allspice and chamomile tea, a spoonful of white yogurt. The paste turns out green, but once applied, heated occasionally, and rinsed, turns my hair a fox-red, like the drawing of the animal on the box.

It’s a long-held girlish fancy of mine, to have red hair.

Without meaning to, my hair styles have come to coincide with whatever season I’m in with Jesus. A natural, physical reflection of a supernatural, spiritual reality.

Dreadlocks for a season of grieving, a shaved head for a new beginning, a pixie cut during true self-discovery, the disheveled, asymmetrical growing-out process during an overseas season of suffering…

This is a first for me, dyeing it other than a color close to my natural blonde.

But what’s the reason? What’s the season? Why is now the time when I take my interest seriously and go to a full-day’s effort to turn my hair red?

I suppose it’s a re-turn.

A returning to lots of things I would call “girlish fancies.”

Girlish fancies being the things we–Jesus and I–did at first, when I was young captured by romance, and long before I ever attributed the whispers of love to Jesus Christ, but only found “the ring around that moon enchanting.”*

Every few minutes I pick up the hair dryer and heat the shower cap through, and the shadows on the snowy yard shift slowly with the movement of the moon.

This is a returning to the natural, instinctual endearments of a child, before the first fracturing, the first heartbreak, the first clumsy attempt to bind–with self-protection, or people-pleasing mechanism, or withdrawn silence–the wound left by bitter, cynical adults who were all too eager to welcome you to “the real world.”

Let the little ones come to me.

A return to innocence and simple delight.

In the basement, I rinse my head over the laundry room sink and blow-dry the vibrant, wet strands, giggling nervously at the shocking red-orange tint.

The color will deepen, and shift ever-so-slightly, in the next few days.

Back under the covers, I lie awake in the company of a moon with its own orangish hue. I am a fox, flitting between shadows, striking red against the white snow.

I’m returning to my first love.



*See for reference: Anne of Green Gables


winter edit

Across my social media, I see clips of weather radar,

the current temperature, decreasing

the wind chill,




in beanies, with scarves

meeting in the middle

so only their eyebrows peek out,

the one patch of fur

growing from our red, raw skin, and

does Minnesota think man

tries to dupe her with synthetic

wolf coats and bear hats


I wonder

if she is a little like you,

humoring herself in her unpredictability,

in man’s annual exclamations of “Why do I live here??”

Just when we think we’ve

figured you out,

you send the first snowstorm and we’ve all forgotten

how to drive.

Are we so arrogant,

these synthetic-fur-wearing-warm-blooded settlers,

that we jump our batteries

and flex our four-wheel-drives

in recognition of our superpower,



I wonder

if you long to be noticed

in the way

I walk out the door

and my breath momentarily

fogs the lenses over my eyes.


In the way

the snow lies naked and white,

a mercy-covering for fallow ground,

majestic in its glittering beauty

and quiet in its boast.


In the way

the sun shines brightest, clearest

the colder the temperature



In the way

you are sovereign over every degree

and send a bitter wind to see

if we will stop


And pay attention to the truth:


that your beauty

is revealed in adversity,


that you are never

in a hurry


that you long to quell

every fear and anxiety–

which will surface in the slowness–

with a mercy-covering like snow,




that you give us this day our daily bread,

the aboriginal rest

our bred-in-captivity lies can never slice

or deliver.



The Pizza Guy’s Here

© Columbia Pictures 2006

For a persuasive moment, I see the evening unfold before my eyes:

Me in sweats, an old beanie.

A movie on Netflix, likely a rom-com,

a glass of wine,

and a microwaved Lean Cuisine, still in its plastic tray.

The vision jams in my mind’s eye and begins skipping on replay, mocking my Friday night, Saturday night, every night for the rest of my life;

and, really, it’s the sequence from every rom-com ever made, showing the same scene over a time lapse, only with a different sweater, a different lounging position, and a mound of take-out cartons piling up.

I suppose it’s all those rom-coms that’ve stuck the scene in my head in the first place.

Still, there’s an appeal in it.

Netflix has got some great originals…and French wine is available at Top Valu for under ten bucks.

As I move toward it in my heart, with victimized resignation, my spirit does a backwards somersault, as if trying to create reverse momentum. Why would you choose that?

Obviously I have no comeback that would satisfy my honest places. Excuses are for the parts of us that have already departed from the truth, and the Spirit only deals in truth.

It’s aggravating in this moment, but truth is the most satisfying channel of life right now, aggravating because it’s also quite narrow in its permission. I’d give anything to be working an evening shift, or unpacking boxes in a new apartment, or even to have a book I’m excited to read (taking suggestions, by the way.)

Truth, by its nature, is sufficient, however. Even however limiting it may feel. You can spend many an evening with nothing to do, no one to do it with, and apparent little to look forward to, and still be satisfied with only the truth.

The truth of who Jesus is for you, and who you are to him.

The truth is that a lifelong addiction to romantic comedy is not my destiny–pardon my French. (Are we confessing the truth? Because I’m drinking French wine as I write this. Don’t worry, I’m not under its influence. I ate the Lean Cuisine earlier, and it was full of rice.)

Why am I taking up a victimized heart posture as if that’s all I amount to? Even for a single evening, I don’t have to resign myself to less than who I am created to be.

Truth is like your friend, the pizza-delivery guy, who always arrives in the last fainting moments of craving, with permission to be honest like an extra side of cheesy bread.

(Tip that guy, because no one delivers like the Holy Spirit.)

Honesty ushers in grace, and grace is the channel to receive love–a need of which you buffered a rom-com in the first place.

Take whatever it is you do on an aimless evening and ask yourself: why do I do this?

And then ask yourself, is it consistent with the truth in me?

The truth is, I’m supposed to be on the wrestling mat of my soul, where Holy Spirit wants to pin me.
Instead I’m bobbing-and-weaving around him, avoiding some painful truth–’cause let’s be honest, truth is also the scalding cheese on top of the pizza that blisters the roof of your mouth for a week.

…I’m boxing the air, feigning a warmup, because I know I’m supposed to be wrestling him, I’ve just left the honest place for Excusez-moi, there’s just one thing I need to do first…

My spirit knows it, it’s telling me so. It’s practically doing gymnastics in my stomach, and I think drinking wine is the solution to decompress??

It’s called a holy unrest, people.

It’s meant to agitate, to get you to pay attention to the fact that your soul is not free. Your freedom is the best tip you could give Holy Spirit.

During these aimless evenings, whether it’s momentary or a movie-marathon, slow down enough to confess the truth: you are made for more than what you’d choose for yourself.

Then ask Jesus, what exchange would you make? 

I bet you every evening of the rest of my life he’ll tell you this truth: I’ll give you my life for yours.