feminism part 1: a redemptive movement

About 6 months ago I started calling myself a feminist. Everyone is this year - Miley, Beyonce, John Legend, Amy Pohler. It is all around me at work, in my church, and all over the media. My reaction has been so passionate and unrestrained that it's taken me by surprise.  I've found myself in departmental meetings fist pumping for new female hires, not sure if I even agree with my reaction. And in the last couple months I'm finally understanding why.

I don't want to be a girl that tries to make men and women the same. To say that we are equally talented at all things. We just aren't - my coed flag football team alone proves that. I don't want to be a girl that is waiting to pounce on anything discriminatory or unfair. I don't want those things to fester until I'm the victim and the world owes me something. But I also don't want to be the girl I was a year ago, heartbroken by my strengths I was told I wasn't created to use, and confused by the God that gave them to me.

Feminism started for me in February, sitting across from one of the most gentle men I've known as he counseled me through deep anxiety and doubt. We'd talk and then he'd ask me to write. I would stare at the blank paper knowing I'd have to read it aloud, and I'd panic thinking it had to be beautiful - the perfectly sound words of God. But in my desperation I wrote. First, sentences. Then pages filled with words that are unmistakably His, just for me.  Words that are gentle and kind. Empowering. True. Words that are teaching me to trust myself and forgive myself for the ways I thought I wasn't measuring up. Words I wish every woman could hear.

Feminism for me is about knowing that I am loved as the person I am in this exact moment. It is about believing that I am strong, capable, and gentle. It is about knowing my opinions of theology, business, and the world are valuable, and trusting that what I desire matters. It is about paying close attention to the shoulds and not letting them own me.

More tactically, it is believing my commitment to a career I am passionate about does not make me less of a Christian woman. And that my disinterest in motherhood does not mean I am damaged. Because although I'm single, these expectations have released a huge amount of pain and fear inside of me. Dating has filled me with crippling anxiety as the desires of my heart don't align with who I hear I should be as a godly woman. I see a list of requirements I know I can't live up to and still be myself. I fear I'll disappear - because I've let that happen once before.

I started reading a book last week on feminism and Christianity. It provides biblical basis for some of the things I've heard God whisper to me over the last year - things that I've wept over in the past because I couldn't find them in scripture. The author refers to feminism as a redemptive movement. She argues that any movement bringing more justice and human flourishing into the world is part of the Kingdom of God moving on earth. All of me agrees.

I am a feminist. But I am nothing if not His.

"But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light."
1 Peter 2:9

He has called all of us, alike.

We are all full of the color that has not been dreamed.

Ducking out of the 8 degree weather last night into the subway-level tunnels at Mayo, Mom and I started making a "thankful for" list. At first we were kidding, but somewhere after "last nights pizza calzone" I realized how much I needed the list. In theory, Mayo is a hopeful place with a lot of answers. But it was a dark place for me and mom. Everyone was sick, all around us. We spent over 10 hours waiting on an appointment we weren't sure we'd get. Every time I passed someone underweight or tired I wanted to ask if there was hope for them, and in turn, for me. It was lonely - like you're set apart from the rest of the world because of your illness.

I joke when I say it reminds of District 13, but I really do wonder if the author of the Hunger Games ever spent any time at Mayo. It always felt like we were underground because it was too cold to venture outside and all the buildings are connected by underground tunnels. Although parts of the building are beautiful, it is still sterile. They give you a schedule of your week with a barcode on it, and every time you check in for an appointment you scan it.

But there were also good parts - like the pianos scattered throughout the hospital campus and the large windows in the waiting rooms that overlooked the city. And I left with a lot of what I'd hoped for - a doctor who is on my side and series of tests that may provide some answers.

So here's the list.
1. Doctors that are listening and aren't afraid of a case that isn't textbook. And the hope that some day soon I'll have a diagnosis that makes sense and is manageable in the long term.
2. Taking turns with mom on who the sick one is (so I don't feel so broken) and watching her shuffle down the hallway at a ridiculously slow speed, faking a cough, when it's her turn. She's always been a good actress.
3. Telling my nurse as she removes my IV that the process always makes me think of the tree in Avatar. And seeing the confused look in her eyes right before she bursts out laughing - telling me she'll think of that every time from now on.
4. Sitting down on the marble steps in the lobby Tuesday evening beside my mom, listening to a woman play the piano.
5. Scoring a consultation with a Rheumatologist after 10 hours in the waiting room.
6. My sweet nurse rubbing my hand through my entire liver biopsy - she made me feel safe in a very foreign place.
7. Looking my Rheumatologist in the eyes (who the receptionist insisted looked like Sean Connery) as he explains that none of my symptoms surprise him and yes, even without a solid diagnosis, he's confident he can put my symptoms in remission.
8. "I'm not here to give you drugs that will make you live 10 days longer, I'm here to give you a good life." - Dr. de Groen
9. Finishing the tests and appointments two days earlier than expected, and Dad's amazing skills of persuasion to change our fight plans from Saturday to Thursday to get us home for Thanksgiving.

10. Sitting around the Thanksgiving table tonight at the Brawner's house, sandwiched between my parents, with the sweet reminder that even though we aren't related, the people around me are my family. And I'm home.

if you can't get what you want, you learn to love the things you've got.

I feel like I need to write something about my upcoming week. Maybe just to document it for myself because this blog has been a lot about my illness and my life in the midst of it, and this week is a big part of that story.

I'm headed to Mayo Clinic tomorrow. I'll be in Rochester, Minnesota for the next 7 days praying and hoping that they find something that Emory hasn't.

I don't really think they will. Autoimmune diseases are a mystery and even when they have a real name that doesn't mean there is much hope for curing them. But there is something about knowing that the best doctors in the world may look me in the eyes and say they don't have an answer that brings hope to my heart.

I think a lot about people with cancer. About how they are fighting a mysterious disease that's stuck inside of them, that they can't control or battle without breaking their body into pieces to cure it. I've got to say, I feel a lot like that. There is something inside my body that's working against me and no one can figure it out.

Maybe Mayo will. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll board the plane next Saturday knowing that my symptoms will always be a mystery. But I'll also know that I'm part of the research now for other people like me that don't know why their body isn't on their side anymore. And then maybe someone won't feel as alone.

Paige told me today that her illness has helped her distinguish between her sickness and who she really is. I used to fear that I'd be defined by being sick. It felt that way in college. But Paige is right - somehow my sickness has helped me see who I am apart from it, and how nothing about it defines me. But I could use a little prayer this week that I'll believe my diagnosis isn't all of me. Because I'm scared my heart can't handle this mystery forever.

Mayo has been a dream for awhile. I'll focus on that.

let the words fall out

I first heard about this book around a table with five girls I didn't know, nibbling on cheese and drinking wine and listening to my beautifully eccentric friend, Carolyn, read quotes she had jotted down on notecards. She had collected the quotes over the previous couple months - mostly from books she had been reading that she found insightful. They were a starting point for conversation, and she called our time that night Curiosity Club. As we read the notecards aloud and shared bits of our stories, I listened to the questions that have been burdening me over the last two years be asked back to me five times, in five different voices. Questions about why church doesn't seem as relevant anymore, when it used to be the one place that felt like home. Questions about where women belong in the workplace and church as gifted leaders, teachers, and thinkers. Questions about how Christian communities can still be unwelcoming to our gay and lesbian friends while claiming the gospel. Questions about how our parents’ generation can feel so sure about certain parts of scripture when we see so many blatant inconsistencies. And questions about our deep longing for the Church to admit that we really don't have anything but the basics figured out.

And then the inevitable fear, what do these questions say about my belief in God?

I heard about Rachel Held Evans that night, and I went home and ordered Evolving in Monkeytown because Rachel sounded a lot like me. As I read, I came across a statement that I wish we'd had that night. "When we know how to make a distinction between our ideas about God and God himself, our faith remains safe when one of those ideas is seriously challenged."

At some some point in the last 25 years, there was a reaction against mystery in our understanding of God. Christians felt like they had to scientifically prove the existence of God or else he'd cease to be relevant. But I think, in doing so, we lost so much of Him. We made him so solid that we forgot about his tears and his poetry, his creativity and mischievousness, his humor, and his frustration over our stubborn willfulness to figure everything out. I think there is a lot more mystery to God than we allow. For me, it is without mystery that He ceases to be relevant, not science.

I grew up in a family of ideas. I'm realizing now that most of my peers did too. As Rachel puts it, we had all the answers before we even had the questions. In some ways this has been crippling and has made me angry. But it has also given me the courage to uncover what I believe about everything. It's like when you tell a kid not to do something and out of curiosity he/she does the exact opposite. We don't react well when we are told what not to think - especially when we are not given a full reason as to why. It makes us wonder what else is out there. With all our questions pre-answered, our parents created the perfect environment to yield a generation of reckless thinkers. And now we are asking a lot of questions that aren't safe to mention in church. But the problem is...when they aren't received well or taken seriously we aren't willing to stick around just because we “should.”

I'd venture to say that my peers and I have witnessed far more pain and horror in this world than any generation before us. Definitely not firsthand, but due to the technology in the world we are aware of evils and catastrophes in real time, and have unlimited access to the ones of the past. They are evils we can't reverse or heal, no matter how many years or dollars we pour into the broken-down places. We are a generation of thinkers, and we are also a generation devoted to causes. We won't sit by and watch the terror in this world without the freedom to ask hard questions. But that doesn't mean that we need the answers. We more-so need our questions validated - simply by the fact that they are heard and that they are truly and deeply understood.

I visited the Grand Canyon last week and I didn't care to figure it out. It could be hundreds-of-millions of years old or not. I don't really care. Either way, God was there then and He is here now.

We left our first meeting of Curiosity Club agreeing that our questions didn't say anything about belief or disbelief.  We decided they we're human and that God is a beautiful mystery and that the issues we raised make Jesus angry and confused too. What I hope I remember is that the questions don't have to shake everything I've ever known. It is more likely that I am simply trying to uncover what I thought I knew and believed all along. And that really, I'm not losing my faith in God himself, I'm simplifying my faith down into what God originally intended.

Good lord, I hope so.

"Master the instrument, master the music, then forget all that shit and play." - Charlie Parker

I was in Chicago last week for a conference and one of the speakers was Alex Chen, with Google Creative Labs. He shared with us a couple of his side projects. Each one was inspiring, but this one I keep watching over and over. I think it's beautiful and genius and somehow simple...in a lovely way.

"This is a little experiment with a viola and Glass. I thought is would be fun to create a song layering short video loops. So I spent the afternoon improvising melodies, filming it on Google Glass, then I pieced it all together into a small orchestra." - Alex Chen

So check out the video. And then check out Alex's other side projects. He is one of the guys responsible for the Les Paul Goggle Doodle, which is also fantastic.

the list : part two

I've been putting off this post (it's most definitely back-dated) because I doubt its interesting to anyone except me. But weirdly enough, I started this list to encourage myself to be brave. To do some of the things I've been wanting to do since I moved to the city in 2010 and to not let the excuse of feeling sick or not having someone equally excited about them stop me. And as I look back over it, I'm so thankful for this silly list, because this summer was a beautiful surprise. There are these lovely moments - watching the city lights from the roof of the Telephone Factory lofts, learning to long-board on the street outside the Mott's house in Grant Park, water-skiing for the first time with my sister - that I hope I remember for a long time. Everyday-life is hopeful and adventurous and full of inspiration, and for some reason I needed that reminder.

1. Go dancing (preferably at MJQ) - This didn't really happen. However, I did engage in an impromptu interpretive dance to Elton John's masterpiece "Your Song" in my sunroom with best friend Lizzy and Kevin at me and Jessie's birthday party. That is pretty much as good as it gets.

2. See a show at Eddie's Attic. Complete! The Lone Bellow and Sandra McCracken. Both were wonderful, and Eddie's atmosphere is beautiful to me.

3. Find a new not-so-well-known view of the Atlanta skyline. Found one of my own and one from Carolyn. But I'm still on the search for the best undiscovered spot that's all mine.

4. Share a meal at Murphy's and/or a Kevin Rathbun restaurant. Nope, but I've shared some wonderful meals with friends over the last couple months - Agave, Holeman and Finch, Quartino (in Chicago)...

5. Share drinks at Leon's (or Brick Store). Girl's dinner at Brick Store with my best friends from high school, and life - Liz, Mary Beth and Steph. Highlight: Steph was an hour late because of car trouble just because that's tradition at this point. 

6. Spend an hour at Emory Park. Balboa Park in San Diego works. Ashleigh and I extended a work trip into the weekend and spent two days in San Diego with my friend Chris that I met at L'abri. We biked to the park from Chris's house. 

7. Attend at least 3 of the neighborhood festivals. Dogwood and Virginia-Highland. More to come.

8. Roam through an art gallery in Castleberry Hill. No, but I did go the High, my favorite bit of architecture in Atlanta. And I toured the art museum at SCAD on a trip for work.

9. Throw a frisbee in the field by the skate park. This was planned, but it ended up being a party at the Mott's involving bocce, taboo, long-boarding, and some cheap tequila. Abby saved me from almost death involving the long-board and a parked car. Pretty thankful...

10. See a Brave's game (or a few) Complete! Three! Witnessed a game winning grand slam and then possibly the most boring game ever against the Nationals. Braves games define the start of the summer so no complaints here.

11. Finish my painting. Dammit. At least I tried...

12. Light the bonfire in our backyard Complete! Jess and I had a double-birthday party with cornhole, bocce, homemade ice cream, Monday Night Brewing's Drafty Kilt, and of course a bonfire. It ended up being a Perimeter Christian School reunion somehow, which is totally awesome. Covenant school for life.

13. Be overwhelmed by Dekalb Farmer's Market. No...but I did go to the Farmer's Market in San Diego and I think that's at least as cool. Ashleigh and I almost missed our flight back to Atlanta for it, but it was well worth it. Although the main thing I remember is the amazing breakfast burrito we picked up on the way there.

14. Share a food truck meal. At Dogwood with Jessie and Mandie. During our sugar-free diet phase. We might have cheated on the bread.

15. Pass the NCIDQ Exam. Success! I still have to take part 2 but I passed the Practicum! Huge relief! My friend Michele passed too.

16. Hug Abby, Rae, and Karl. No Karl. Canceled my trip to Colorado last minute. But I did see Abby and Rae. So happy to have Abs back in the states from the Gambia. I feel like me again with her here.

17. Bar hop in Athens. I got real sick the weekend I planned to hit up Athens with my college roommates. But Ash and I bar hopped in San Diego to make up for it. (the picture below is must definitely not a bar-hopping picture...but a gem I just found on my phone.)

18. Explore a used bookstore. Bought a book of fairy tales by Hans Christain Anderson at a used bookstore in Decatur. Who knew he wrote The Little Mermaid? And who knew she dies in the end of the real story??

19. Go running in Freedom Park. Biking. Much better. Carolyn and I biked from her studio in the Pencil Factory lofts to Across the Street for dinner, and back. A beautiful night. Carolyn is one of those people that inspires me every time we spend time together. She has an insatiable curiosity that makes the most common things feel like new discoveries. 

20. Ride on a motorcycle. Ryan's scooter. Way better. It was pretty much a dream come true.

21. Buy a vinyl album in Little Five. I hit up Little Five with Lindsey and bought The Postal Service album and Explosions in the Sky. My first two vinyl purchases. And I'm listening to Mumford on vinyl as I write this, thanks to roommate Mandie. 
On a side note: I was able to buy my record player because one of best friend's parents knew this year had been tough financially, with medical bills and a stolen car, and thought they'd help out. But they encouraged me to spend their gift on purchases that would help me get well - and they fully believed that music is a part of that. I agreed, but it wasn't until I had it all hooked up and was lying on my living room floor blasting Mumford's "Ghosts That We Knew" that I completely agreed with them. I'd venture to say everyone needs a record player.

22. See the Fernbank telescope. I will do this. As for stars, mom and I laid in the street outside our beach house with red wine, a wooden spoon and a pot (to scare off bears), and stared up at the most beautiful night sky I've seen in years. 

23. Post a blog (this one doesn't count) Success. 

24. Use my SLR camera. It broke...I have big plans for fixing it. But in the meantime I've been sketching. 

25. Spend a Saturday morning yardsale-ing. Jessie and I hit up an estate sale and found these little gems that now hang in the front hall.

26. Touch the Pacific Ocean. Yes! And the Atlantic. 

So I'm officially 26 now and my list is a lot shorter. Well actually, its longer now. That's Atlanta - the more I explore, the more I fall in love with this crazy city and want to know it better.

I hold with all I have

I'm going to start writing again.
Mostly because it helps me process the world around me and at some point in the last year I stopped writing, and processing, the way I know how. And I want to find my way back.

Some mornings I wake up and I'm scared. Scared that every morning for the next forty years I'll be greeted with the same raw pain and hopelessness. Other mornings I wake up without a thought of fear, excited about a hot cup of coffee and the ordinary adventure of the day. I have no idea which morning tomorrow will be and the thing is...my mornings were the same when my body was strong. The trouble comes when I let my feelings inform my thoughts, and seep into my soul.

I spend a lot of hours in doctors' offices. On that weird little bed with the crackly paper sheet. Last week there were butterflies painted on the ceiling tiles. I've made countless hand turkeys out of rubber gloves, thanks to my Mom's silly sense of humor. One good thing about the doctor's office is that it never fails to bring me face-to-face with everything I've been avoiding. It is in those quiet moments after the nurse leaves and before the doctor comes that I realize what I truly believe. And in those still moments, it is hard to not feel worn down and small.

When I got sick a lot of my dreams turned to dust, and no matter what I tried I couldn't get them to materialize again. I used to think that healthy people had it better off because they had the strength and energy to believe. They could look at their life and see the beauty and attribute it straight to God's love. It's a pretty common thought. There was always that moment after something shattered that a healthy friend would look me in the eyes and say,  "Anna, it's okay. He is making your faith stronger. It is further proof that the Lord has big plans for you." But I wanted to take their words and slam them against the wall,  hoping they'd fall to the floor into a thousand pieces. I didn't want a God like that. A God that puts me through hell for the sake of my story. Where is the hope in that? I think somewhere along the way we've come to believe that the harder our lives are, the more He is planning. But then what do we do when we are healthy? Does that mean he is farther from us? We think we are making it simple, but really we are complicating it.

As I look back, I do think there is some truth in those words, deep down, somewhere. But my soul still screams that it isn't a formula. And until I give up making His love and His presence into a formula, I'll never really know Him.

It isn't that in the hard times God is closer. It is that He is close. Always.

I'm starting to fall deeply in love with the parts of our God that are a mystery. They used to scare the hell out of me. Now they help me feel human, and they help me believe He is God and He is bigger.

No matter if my body is strong or weak, my soul doesn't have to be tied to it. My soul doesn't have to feed off of my health, or my view of the world, or that feeling in the morning of hopelessness or belief. My soul feeds off of Him. And He is always there. This is how some of the weakest, most hopeless moments - sitting alone in a hospital bed staring up a oddly painted ceiling tiles, or stranded in a parking lot until the blinding nerve pain in my leg subsides and I can drive home - can still be hopeful and beautiful times for the soul.

I hear God best at night right after I turn off the lights in my room, before I fall asleep. When I'm left looking at the ceiling and all the fears, doubts and joys of my life start to fall into columns and sort themselves out - as if they're written in the night.

Lately I've found him saying that He is here. And that I can rest, because He's not going anywhere. And that I don't have to figure Him out because I can't anyways.

The most obvious things about God are also the most surprising, and the most healing.