What I Want From My Brothers

from the nakedpastor

I want my brothers to stop saying, when I bring up how the so-called biblical limitations make me feel, "It's scripture." I want a conversation about Scripture, not a conversation-stopper.

I want my brothers to stop saying, when I bring up the limitations women face, "Men can't give birth. Men can't be mothers." Childbirth and motherhood are beautiful parts of femininity. But role limitation that is caused by biology is not the same as role limitation that is caused by theology.

I want my brothers to enter my world for a moment, to understand what it's like to hear, "Women don't struggle with lust, pornography, masturbation."

To understand what it's like to hear, "You should stay beautiful so your husband doesn't cheat on you."

To understand what it's like to be told that I won't enjoy sex as much as men, but that my body is so intensely sexual that I must be overly-fastidious about how it's covered.

I want my brothers to understand what it's like to hear, "You'd be a great pastor if you weren't a woman."

Likewise, I want my brothers to imagine what it would be like to hear, "You are perfectly qualified, but you can't because you're a man."

I want my brothers to understand that "feminist" is not the same as "man-hater."

I want my brothers to understand that this issue isn't a rights issue, it is a theological one.

I want my brothers to understand that I am asking for the opportunity for my gifted sisters to serve in the role of priest, bishop, deacon. This isn't about power. This is about gifted women being able to serve God to the best of their abilities. The old line that women are told, "Those who demand to be priests aren't suitable to be priests," is true. But I'm not demanding anything. I'm asking for a re-evaluation. I'm asking for my view to be considered. I'm asking my brothers to entertain the possibility that complementarianism might be theologically incorrect.

I want my brothers to know that I am perfectly willing to entertain the notion that complementarianism is correct and that I am wrong. I just haven't been convinced yet.

I want my brothers to understand that women have been systemically marginalized for centuries, something men, as a group, have not faced.

I want my brothers to allow me to explore the hard questions without telling me I'm on a slippery-slope.

I want my brothers to understand that questioning traditional gender roles isn't the same as questioning the Gospel or the inspiration of Scripture.

I want my brothers to understand that I don't want them to change their position just because it makes me feel bad, but because they're convinced.

But I want my brothers to understand that the emotions and intuition of a redeemed person can be as valid an indicator of orthodoxy as reason. Let's pair them together.

I want my brothers to understand that I know that some of them understand some or all of these things (even if they disagree with my conclusions).

I want my brothers to understand that I don't think they're misogynists if they disagree with egalitarianism.

I want my brothers to understand I say all this from a place of love and respect for men, for the importance of fatherhood, brotherhood, husbandhood.

I want my sisters who disagree with me on these issues to consider these things as well.

And I want my brothers to know that I want women to enter their world of struggles as well. I'm sure a man could write a loving, thoughtful post entitled, "What I Want From My Sisters." But this post is about women, because I'm a woman, and this is the world I know to write about. The world I want my brothers to understand.

And That's How I Got 5 Cats

Coal Porter, about 6 months old. He looks big in the photo because of the perspective; he's actually a wee lad.

Jackie-Julep, 2 years old, very pregnant

   

On Monday April 2nd, Craig and I brought home Jackie-Julep, pictured at left. A friend of ours had encountered financial trouble and wasn't able to care for them any longer. What I didn't know is that they had been put outside full-time for several days before we got there. Their owner left early Monday, so Craig and I decided to try to catch them that evening.

Jacqueline (formerly named Alice White) was easy to catch. Getting her in the crate was another matter. She wasn't having it, and none of us wanted to force her since she was (is) pregnant. We put her in the backseat of the car with the crate and a can of wet food. After eating my husband coaxed her into the crate.

Her son, who we've named Coal Porter (formerly Kepler) ran from us that evening. I don't blame him. He had been confined to the outside after being an indoor-outdoor cat, his owner was gone, and some strange people just took his mom. We tried again Tuesday. When he didn't come again we arranged to meet with the owner to see if he could coax him. The owner backed out at the last minute, so my Dad and I went over there by ourselves, but we didn't see him at all this time. Our friends who lived next door to the cats offered to befriend and catch him for us, something for which I am incredibly grateful.

Two weeks passed and I wasn't expecting much. Since we hadn't seen him on Wednesday, I thought something had happened. After all, he was about 6 months old, outside by himself. There was food and water available at all times, but he could have been caught by a predator or taken in by someone else. Part of me was somewhat relieved, because 5 cats is a lot, but I was also worried.

Jackie-Julep hid under the couch a great deal when we brought her home. She'd peep out to eat and cuddle, then retreat. I have never met such an affectionate cat. All she wants to do is cuddle, and if she notices one hand isn't touching her, she'll go find it. My husband had a hand behind a pillow, and even though he was petting her with the other one, she went and dug out his other hand and forced her head into it. Today she's lying on the couch and like a queen, awaits for her loyal subjects to shower her with affection.

We have an alcohol theme for our cat's names, so we bandied around names like Bailey. We were about to name her Julep when my dad came in and commented that she looked like a Jack Rabbit. My husband, in a stroke of inspiration, said, "Jackie-Julep" and it stuck. And Jackie can also stand for Jack Daniels.

Thursday, April 12, my husband and I were out to dinner when we got a call from our friends that they had confined Porter to a room in the owner's former house. We went home to grab wet food, and headed over. Armed with flashlights, we went into the house. My husband put down a can of wet food. As Porter eagerly ate it, he kept pushing it towards the cat carrier, so my husband took advantage of the opportunity and pushed it further in, and we caught Porter.

We named him Coal Porter because Porter is a type of beer, and Coal because of his black nose. And obviously it's a pun on the name of the songwriter Cole Porter.

Porter had a terrible flea infestation, so we've treated him with Revolution flea drops. He is also terrified of the outside. I opened a window in his room and he hid under the bed until I closed it. When he's downstairs and we open a door he runs far away. He's a survivor, but clearly his time outside traumatized him.

He's as affectionate as his mother but far more playful. He is not fond of the other cats at all, and we're going to have to make slow introductions. Jackie is currently fighting a respiratory infection and pink-eye and is due to give birth any day now. Unfortunately Jackie was not excited to see her son, so we couldn't keep them in a room together.

And that's how I got 5 cats.

Body Peace

I put this on my tumblr, but I thought I'd share it here too.


Body peace means the end of belittling, insulting, and hating my body.

It means making healthy choices out of a place of love, respect, and honor for my body.

It means never judging myself or someone else by their body.

It means never insulting my body in front of others, and when I do share my struggles with body image with others, to only do so with those strong enough to help me carry my burden, not with those I think I could negatively influence to hate themselves.

It means never letting a child hear me say that I’m fat, ugly, or worthless, because children are impressionable and absorb the messages around them, and learn from the adults in their lives how to see themselves.

It means that, if I start a weight loss goal, that it comes from a place of love, respect, compassion, and honor for my body.

It means I will not wait until I’ve gotten healthier to love my body. I will love it in this moment, at this weight, at this size.

It means peace of mind and soul with my body. 

It means rejecting the beauty standards that have come to saturate our lives and psyches, and embracing my own standard of what counts as a beautiful body, mind and soul.

It means celebrating and respecting every body I come into contact with.

It means that, when I falter in loving myself or others, when I falter at making healthy choices, I will not inundate myself with guilt and hatred, but with forgiveness, love, and grace.

It means rejecting the idea that it is wrong or selfish to love yourself, because only when we love ourselves can we truly love others.

What does body peace mean to you?

Why I Kept My Difficult Cat

I think of all the decisions I've made that confound friends and family the most, it was my decision to keep our cat Schnapps.

We adopted Schnapps from a local no-kill shelter. I saw him sitting alone in his cage and my heart immediately went out to him. My original intention was to adopt an older cat, but we couldn't find "the one." This little guy was sitting quietly in his cage and I thought (wrongly) that meant he would be a calm kitten. 

In another mistake on my part, I kept Schnapps locked alone in a small room in our house with his litter box and cat toys. This tactic works fine if you've adopted a cat who was raised by its mother and thus was properly attached and stimulated. Schnapps was found in a bag with his brother, floating in a pond, an obvious attempt at drowning them. Just like humans, cats need to bond with their mothers as youngsters, or they develop attachment and aggression issues. Instead of keeping him isolated, I should have kept him in our room so that we could cuddle and attach the way he had missed out on as a kitty.

Schnapps was fine for the first week, and then the crazy cat came out. He was aggressive. A cat mitten toy I would wear was no match for full-on claws attack, and underneath the mitten there would appear fresh scratches. Once, at a physician's office, I was asked if I was self-harming. No, I had to reply. I just have an insane cat.

One day I was holding Schnapps while friends were leaving the house so that he wouldn't try to run out the door. His response was to attempt to scalp me (said friends are still a little afraid of Schnapps, and I'm certain Schnapps is the reason the husband is not keen on getting a cat for his wife).

Another time, Schnapps gave my husband a lip piercing. At night he'd come up to cuddle, but if we talked, laughed or moved he'd attack.

We also had to travel with him because living in a college town around the holidays, there wasn't anyone to pet sit. So we took him to my in-laws, where tensions were high because he was absolutely terrified of my 4 year old sister in law, and I was terrified of what he might attack/scratch/hurt. 

The straw that broke the camel's back was when Schnapps almost scratched out my eye. My husband and I loaded him in the crate, and I was heartbroken, thinking that maybe he simply wasn't fit for ownership, and that we'd have to put him down.

At the vet's office it was suggested that we put him on an anti-depressant. They also encouraged us to get Schnapps a buddy, but because we were renting at that time we could only do one pet. At this point we knew Schnapps needed to be able to go outside and to have other cats to interact with, but those were things we couldn't provide.

He was put on the anti-depressant, and things improved. People thought we were absolutely ridiculous for doing this, and I had to come to terms with something: I take pet ownership way more seriously than a majority of the population. Schnapps isn't just a pet, he's a companion, and when I said I'd adopt him, I meant ADOPT, not give it a try and then give up on him. He was family--an insane, aggressive member of our family--but family nonetheless.

They didn't get 100% better, but it was manageable. When we traveled to my Dad's for Chistmas and my sister brought her cats, Schnapps was like a new cat. He had tons of space to roam the 2500 sq ft house. He had buddies. He was snuggly and affectionate. He stopped attacking our ankles every time we walked by.

We knew that we needed space and other cats. Finally, we moved. And Schnapps had a yard and a new cat to play (fight) with.

Schnapps is still not the cuddle bug I was hoping for, but now he is a good cat whose only behavioral problem is spats with Cider (pictured above) and the occasional ripping of the carpet. He has freedom, and a neighbor's orange cat that comes over for visits and play time, and they go exploring together in our yard and the wood behind the house.

If I had listened to people who said, "Seriously, just get rid of him," I wouldn't have had the chance to see him become the cat he was meant to be. I wouldn't have tried to help him get better, I would have just kicked him to the curb.

Sometimes people do need to get rid of their animals, because they have needs the owners can't provide (friends who adopted a hyper dog had to rehome her in a place with land and constant attention that they couldn't give themselves).

Because we knew eventually we'd be in a place where Schnapps would be happy, we stuck it out with him. And now my heart melts when he snuggles with us at night and I know he's not going to attack, ever. And when he comes trotting in the door with his orange tabby friend playfully batting at his heels.

And I'm relieved that I don't have to try to shove a food-covered pill down his throat once a day. 

Gifts, Day 1

Keeping track of the gifts in everyday life until I’ve listed 1,000…
Inspired by Ann Vonskamp: http://www.aholyexperience.com/2006/11/gift-list-thousand-things.html

Children in the library who think dictionaries with small print are “really cool.”

Red shoes that make my feet look sexy.

Knowing that my brother, should he never return my emails, is at least safe, healthy, and successful and far away from the pain.

A conference speaker that inspired me concerning missions instead of stifling with guilt, shame and feelings of worthlessness. We’re all in this together, whether we’re missionaries or not; and that was a wonderful reminder.

Wish bones from roasted chickens. Being silly I pulled it apart by myself yesterday. When the smaller end broke off into my right hand I let out a pathetic whimper that I lost, and then laughed at myself because it meant the “winning” side was in my other hand. It was a ditzy moment that was also profoundly sacramental: I receive both good and bad from the hands of the Lord, wins and losses, sometimes in the same circumstance.

The Catholic Encyclopedia in the library with its gilded pages, green cover, and lovely old book smell.

The warm weather.

Bradford Pear blossoms, even though they’re stinky.

My bean plants, fresh and new, sprouting from tin cans.

Butterfly tea cups with gilded lips.

Gaining some degree of “fame” (or infamy…) for my theological and historical knowledge concerning the early church.

My husband’s arm around me when we sit side by side in the chapel.

My quilted purse.

Working at a library.

Manischewitz Kosher Blackberry Wine before bed.

Playing Purble Place with Craig (a children’s deductive reasoning computer game).

Meetings with wise professors.

Starbucks dates with my sweet husband.

The ability to go on a Starbucks date because of my generous mom (my mother in law, but she’s the only mom I’ve ever known so she gets the distinction of that wonderful appellation : - ) ).

The fact that I can call someone “mom.”

St. Bernard of Clairvaux’s homilies.

This lyric:
“The pain is self inflicted
I know it's not good for my health
But it's easier to please the world than it is to please myself
The rest is out of my hands.”
Lyrics can help me process a world of unspoken emotion.

Ephesians 5:14, because it is the prayer of my heart: “Awake O Sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ shall give you light.”

My grandmother’s diamond ring that I wear as a reminder of the past. Not to dwell on it, but to acknowledge it and resolve to move on in difficult moments when I have the propensity to react to situations like her.

This precious ruby, the color of passion, of Christ’s blood, of fire, of clay, of wombs that surround and nurture new life, of the blood of martyrs, and of love. Love deep and overflowing and rising and surging and healing.

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Day 1, 25/1000

Flowers from Ashes

I light candles to soothe my mind and relax in the warmth and beauty.

One particular night I lit candles on our dresser and was prepared to curl up under the covers when I noticed the shadows the light created.

Lacking a traditional jewelry box (on purpose; I find them cumbersome) I hang my necklaces on a coffee mug stand I found at a thrift store. The candle light created a stark shadow between the stand and the wall that appeared to be Christ’s head, crowned with thorns, hanging down from the cross as He gave up His life.

I told this to my husband who turned and saw it, remarking, “Oh yeah, it does,” and then he went about his business.

I kept the other thought to myself.

It’s scaring me.
Perhaps it’s because horror films are inundated with Christian imagery that is then interpreted as creepy, such as Carrie or the Constantine series.

But I noticed on Ash Wednesday, as I did the previous year, that I felt odd with that “smudge of ashes” on my forehead (to borrow my friend's Marissa’s phrasing). Conspicuous.

Maybe these ashes don’t belong here.
I have two rosaries with crucifixes. At the suggestion of many books on contemplative prayer, I’ve tried to meditate on them.* But I’ve never been moved to tears or felt God’s love. Time eked by in an agonizingly slow fashion and then I moved on to reading the Book of Common Prayer or an ancient church homily or saying my petitions to God. It made me feel uncomfortable.

But that shadow crucifix terrified me. He came out of nowhere, and I couldn’t control it. People with ashes on their heads appeared out of nowhere, their crosses ministering to me, showing me the suffering that I didn’t want to acknowledge.

Because there, in that image, is the answer to the ancient question. When I ask, “Why me?” Christ shows His wounds. And then my defenses are gone. I must either accept His answer or cling to my excuses.
And more often than not, I cling to the excuses.

St. Bernard of Clairvaux compared the tree of the cross to the Tree of Life, and the treasures to be found in Christ’s suffering and resurrection to flowers and fruits of that tree.

With eager hands I have plucked flowers from His Tree of Life. They are more gorgeous than any I have ever beheld. When they take in the light of the Son and the Water of Baptism that remain in them, so that they illuminate with holy light and cleanse and refresh with an eternal spring. When I bury my nose in them I become drunk with love like Solomon’s bride because the fragrance is so intoxicatingly sweet.

I take my horde, clinging them to my chest, and then horror upon horrors, I lay my treasure down, and stomp on them.

I, who adore flowers, destroy the most unique and beautiful for the short-lived pleasure of stomping upon them to release my tension, my anger, my bitterness, or my hatred.

Maybe their presence reminds me of my unworthiness of that beauty and I take it out on them.

I do not love the gifts that You secured for me through Your Passion. I do not care that I have harmed them.

I try to forget, and I put You and Your flower-laden tree out of my mind. Until You appear again without my consent. And I am forced to reckon with You.

Unlike Solomon’s bride, I am not sick with love, but with death. Put Your wreath in my hair and Your bouquet in my hands, and make me walk the aisle to You. Remove the veil and take me in Your arms so that I may see the wounds, and not turn away again.

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*Note on meditation on icons, statues, images, etc: I am aware that none of these images are Christ. But they are reminders of Christ’s work and life, and in the same way one meditates on words about Christ without confusing the ink and paper with Yeshua, one can meditate on representations of Christ.

Pudgy Graces

I had hurried from the crowded, humid reptilian exhibit with its sticky heat and noisy bird calls.

I wanted to escape that warmth and let my mind sail over blue ripples in the water and sit at the feet of the manatee.

I stood at the back as the same crowd surged around the thick glass that guarded the elegant beasts, but soon found an opening and rushed forward.

I sat
like a child
my skirt curled under me,
and pressed my face against the glass,
like a child.

And there I prayed that she would glide by me, so I could gaze upon her.

And she did.
Her body descended from the rays of light in the water,
and she showed off her curves and ripples of fat as she danced past me.

And then her face met mine. Nose to nose, through glass. Deep to deep, through glass.

Her eyes penetrated mine, and she shared a joke, a poem, a lesson, a metaphor, a dream, a belief.
And in them was more truth than in a million sermons.

I sat stunned and she turned and touched her fin to my hand, and then swam off, large and graceful in her sleeve of silvery blue flesh.

I want to wear her image around my neck,
as a reminder of that unspoken sermon
to be content, to be love, and to show off your curves in glorious twirls.