Angela's Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today was Angela's day:

Isaiah 9:6b–7

The prediction written in this passage by Isaiah is full of hope: “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; and he is named Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

It’s full of hope for us, just as it was full of hope for those in Isaiah’s nation affected by war when he wrote it. And this year, while I’m trying to be cheerful and happy and full of advent and candy canes, it’s hard not to feel sad too. Because it feels like we’re at war too.

At school my students spent much of November anxious, concerned, crying. They have been affected by our nation’s rift just as so many of us have, and in some ways, even more so. They don’t understand that it will ultimately be okay, because they have no prior experience with going through rough times as a nation and coming out the other side.  They are scared for their families, for their friends, for themselves. They are just figuring out who they will be, and even though so many of us are too, it’s a little more dramatic when you’re twelve.

But in this passage Isaiah tells us that this child, this Prince of Peace, will establish a kingdom full of justice, of righteousness, and that there will be no end to this kingdom. I take solace in that today. That Jesus is still king all these years later, and will continue to be. I use that solace to be hopeful. To lift up my students during this holiday season. To remind myself to turn on a Christmas carol and sing along rather than read another thinkpiece on the Huffington Post. To believe that that child, born for us, will comfort us, will love us, will save us. That solace will carry me.

Prayer for today:

God, I am grateful for Isaiah’s hopefulness, and I pray he be a reminder to me this advent season. That he believed Jesus would come, and He did. Thank you, for Isaiah, and for your son, that baby born for me. Amen.

Aunt Gloria

December 1979

The Saturday after Thanksgiving I was shuffling through the mail that had just been dropped off and I saw a red envelope from Guideposts magazine. I sucked my breath back into my body and I stared down at it. I knew what it would say even before I opened it. And I was right. A subscription had been gifted to me for Christmas, just as it was every year. From Gloria Hoolsema.

But here's the thing, Gloria passed away on November eleventh.

It was a complete surprise. And it was completely expected.

Since before I can remember Gloria had been battling Multiple Sclerosis (MS). It hit her quick decades ago and it hit her hard. She swiftly moved into a wheelchair and the disease ravaged her physical body. But not her brain. Or her spirit. Never her spirit.

May 1983

Angela and I went home for the funeral. It was important to be with our family. It was important to say goodbye. To remember the good times. To remember the not so good times. To sit in that church on that Tuesday and thank God for her life. And to be a little bit angry at what had happened. Back then and again that week. It's hard sometimes. Most of the time. To make sense of what illness does to us, all of us.

August 1982

Gloria was just thirteen when I was born. Young for an aunt. And I don't remember much from when I was little but the photograph books loving assembled tell me she loved being an aunt. Pictures of me from birth, in her arms, her on the ground playing with me, we look happy. We were happy. We played, we read books, she babysat us, even accompanied us to another uncle's wedding so my parents could party all night while she watched over us. I attended her graduations, and even later, went to her alma mater -- Olivet College.

And Gloria supported me in such an encouraging way. Even though words were few, especially in later years when MS took most of her ability to speak, she always made sure I got gifts that helped shape me. Novels by Christian authors, books she thought I needed to read, and the aforementioned subscription to Guideposts. I honestly think of her and her faith every time I pick up the small periodical.

Her faith was on display for all to see. She lived her faith every single day. She was an active member of her church, from her chair. She preached without words, as we are taught to do as Christians, and she preached loudly. She loved loudly.

She loved her children, her husband, her family, Texas sheet cake, playing cards (winning even more), family genealogy, music, and so much more. But I am blessed because she loved me. To have her with me for thirty nine years was beyond special. To have her memory with me forever, an unbelievable gift. One of my most favorite memories is from just this past August, at her son Jeremy's wedding. We danced all night -- all of us. Gloria on the dance floor surrounded by her friends and family, her lifetime of love, we all danced together. We sang favorite songs and made sure no one was left out of the circle. We took photos and hugged and to say I am grateful for that day is such an understatement. To know that we were all together for something so happy, something so celebratory, just months before she was gone leaves me gulping through tears. Happy tears, for the most part.

August 2016

There were tears that Friday morning when we found out she was gone. There were tears for days, shared with family and friends. Shared for her love, her spirit, her faith. But also because the world is a little less bright right now. A little less shiny. Gloria is gone but she will never be forgotten. She is a part of me, of so many. A bright, shining, loud part. And I love that. And her.

Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today was my day:

Philippians 4:4–9 

I have this scripture passage from Philippians all marked up in my bible. I have the word always circled in the beginning phrase rejoice in the Lord always. I have the sixth verse, which states do not be anxious about anything, underlined. And in the margin I’ve drawn arrows around the whole passage and written the words “some assembly is required”.

That’s definitely my approach to the holiday season: some assembly required. There are presents to buy and wrap, cookies to bake, plans to make, calendars to coordinate, planes to catch, and on and on. But it’s also my approach to my faith: some assembly required. In this passage, written by Paul, in what some call the most joyous book in the whole bible, we are reminded to rejoice! To let our gentleness be evident to all. To pray with thanksgiving. To think about what is lovely, what is right, what is pure, what is excellent. And that can be hard. That can be near impossible. Especially in today’s political climate. In a culture that feeds fear and demands perfection.

But it is in these fractured times, in this busy holiday season, that we must put together the pieces Paul reminds us are there, right in front of us. We have to seek out what is true, what is noble, what is admirable, what is praiseworthy. We have to seek out the good. We have to remember that a baby was born to save us all. And that the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will protect us.  

Prayer for today: (lyrics from the Relient K song “I Celebrate the Day”)

“And the first time that you opened your eyes, did you realize that you would be my savior and the first breath that left your lips, did you know that it would change this world forever?”

Thank you for that, for the peace you bring to us all. 

Pearl Harbor

"I want to go to Pearl Harbor," said Mom, on New Years Day 2015.

And so we went, just a few short months later. We flew to Hawaii, wrangled the rental car up the coast, and arrived before the gates opened.

We spent all day visiting the memorials, the museums, reading, watching, looking at the pictures. We took the ferry out to the memorial for the USS Arizona. We filed off the boat and walked through the doorway. We looked out at the water, oil still visible on the surface 74 years later. We stood quietly among the crowd of hundreds, the click of cameras, the whisper of thoughts the only sounds. It was a beautiful sunny, Hawaiian day. Just as it probably was the day of the attack.

Before we left on our trip, we invited our neighbors, Bill and Betty, over to talk about Hawaii. They were both born and raised there before moving to Los Angeles some fifty years ago. Bill told stories of working in the fields after school, sometimes instead of school. Betty told of sitting on the porch that morning and hearing the attack. Of being forced from her family's home to make way for military housing afterward. There wasn't much emotion to their memories, simply facts, Polaroids from a life lived back then. But we talked later about how it was impossible to imagine what it would have been like to have been on the island that day, that week, that year. To live through it and comprehend it and process it.

We filed back off the memorial slowly that Monday, photographers like me trying to get a few last shots of the gorgeous panorama around us. We sat on the ferry, quietly heading back, thinking about the gravity of where we had just been, what we had just experienced. And then when we got back inside the visitors' center, Mom, Angela and I headed into the restroom. It was there where we finally let go. I remember coming out of the stall to wash my hands and seeing my Mom in tears.

This was the reason for the trip. The trip she'd waited her whole life to take. The trip we'd spent the last few months not sure would happen (see: Sarah gets blood clots). To be in this space, at the memorial, to take it all in, to think about the event, the attack, the people, her father who served in the Navy, her friend who'd worked with the veterans, everyone who'd come before us.

Growing up Pearl Harbor Day was marked on the calendar like most other holidays. We spoke of it, we read about it. And now here we were, in the place where it happened. We cried in that moment, all three of us. In the bathroom in the visitors' center. We cried for the enormity of it all. For the people we'd lost, not as a direct result of the attack but for the memories we carried with us. For my grandfather, the Navy man, for Helen, the helper. We all cried.

And then we got back in the rental car, fought traffic all the way back down the coast and found our way to the hotel bar. We sat on the patio, ordered drinks, and toasted Charlie and Helen. My grandfather and our very dear family friend. We toasted them and what this trip meant. What history means. What love means. What perseverance means. What remembering means. And then we watched the sun set. To be in that place, to experience it, we are thankful, and grateful, and most of all, full of hope at what has transpired since, that from something like that day can come something that is, in the end, beautiful.

God bless those we lost. God bless those who gave so much for so long. God bless America.

What happens next

It was supposed to be a history-making day. It was supposed to be an amazing day. It was supposed to be so much more. So much bigger. So much more exciting. So much happier.

And yet, that Tuesday night I sat on the floor in my living room, an untouched bag of celebratory M&Ms by my side, and I stared in horror at what had happened. I went to bed early. I tried to block out the truth.

The next morning I awoke to Angela sitting on the edge of my bed begging me to check the results on my phone. She couldn't bear to look. Couldn't bear to think of going to school and facing the thousands of students who had been so exuberant the day before. They'd spent their art periods making signs about voting. They'd stood on the sidewalk Tuesday afternoon encouraging the adults in their world to vote. To think about them. To do the right thing.

I checked my phone and my heart sank. I already had half a dozen text messages. I knew I didn't need to read the news. But I did. And my heart broke. For dreams deferred. For dreams quashed. For dreams snatched away.

We sat on the bed for a while before we both got the courage to get up and get dressed. We drove to Angela's school where she headed inside and I headed through the parking lot, putting in my earbuds for the five mile walk home. But before I got too far I saw a friend, a grown man, a teacher, in tears. He asked simply, what happened. I shook my head. I had no words good enough. He needed a hug. I gave him one. And off I went.

I called my childhood home and my dad picked up the phone. I asked him the same question I had been unable to answer. "What happened, Dad?"

He didn't know either. We commiserated. We vented. He listened as I rattled off what this meant, what it changes, how it will affect me and my friends, people I love. How I felt my work and efforts had been for nothing. And then I asked him what happens next. His answer?

"We get through this. We always do. We have in the past. It will be okay."

But I was honest in that moment. I'm tired of getting through it. I'm tired of just getting by, of just settling for okay. But at that moment there were no other answers to give.

I walked on. And when I got home I spent most of my day on the phone, talking to friends who's lives had been shaken. Who have been told they are not good enough. Not valuable. Not important. Not true. Talking to people who had volunteered, like me, and knew it wasn't enough. But weren't sure, just like me, what else we could have done. I tried to wipe away their tears through the telephone wires. I was unsuccessful and I cried myself.

I have been politically active most of my life. I grew up knowing that voting was something you did because it was expected. It wasn't a choice, it was a part of life. My parents voted in every single election when I was a child and I grew to know that was exactly how a person should act. By the time I was in college I was volunteering with a campaign myself, organizing other volunteers, walking in Fourth of July parades, wearing t-shirts, handing out buttons.

I'm a union girl, always have been since I was old enough to know that's how I got braces and casts for broken bones, a roof over my head and a fair workplace for my father and my grandfathers. I'm proud of the work the educator's unions do here in California and I support them. I've carried picket signs and worn red on Tuesdays for years.

I marched through the streets of Los Angeles to protest Prop 8 before I had barely unpacked here. I didn't fully understand the gay marriage issues before I moved to California but I quickly became versed and did my best to help the cause. I cried with friends and I celebrated with friends when rulings came down.

And so this past November, after months of volunteering and promoting and rooting, to have such a loss register, it was heartbreaking. And momentarily paralyzing. The world had stopped and when it started again, I was afraid of what would happen.

And then just a few days later I found myself unexpectedly back home in Michigan. Standing in the backyard at my parents' house on a cool Saturday morning, asking what happened once again to a friend. And her response immediately buoyed me. She was still upset, yes, as we all were, but more than that, she was moving forward. She had already had talks and set plans into motion and she was looking to the future. And as I walked back across the yard into the driveway, and saw the small Hillary stickers stuck on the back windshields of my parents' two cars, I smiled.

My parents are the reason I am so political. They are the reason I am a union girl. They are the reason I fight for what's right and for those who can't fight alone. They taught me to vote. To speak. To not back down. And Friday night when they picked me up at the airport and I commented on how great it was to see that little Hillary sticker I'd left them in the summer, stuck on their car, my mom spoke up and said she wasn't taking it off. She wanted the world, or at least her community, to know her true heart. I am so proud of them for that. For leaving their stickers on. For telling the world, this is my voice and I will use it.

I will not quiet my voice. Not now, not in the future. I will read everything I can get my hands on to try and understand this world I live in. I will talk to people. I will use my agency to try and enact change in this world. I will work to make the world see that it can be better, that we have to be better.

Since November 8th, I've fed and clothed the homeless, stocked the shelves at a food pantry, signed up to volunteer at Planned Parenthood, contacted my elected representatives, and yes, spent too much time reading and commenting on social media. But I've also taken time out for family, laughed at a movie, read a good book, and cooked a lot of comforting foods. It's a balance. Life is a balance. The world is a balance. And when I'm in balance, my world is too. And I can go out into it and be that agent of change. Be that person who's not just asking what happens next but actually being that person who goes out and does what happens next. Because what happens next will be extraordinary. It has to be.