What is she waiting on? Where is she ready to go on to?

Someone was a good archivist and took the time to write a caption on the back that reads:

“Now that’s enough grazing”

Hallie French along little Si road near the base of Mt. Si.

North Bend, Washington

July 6, 1987

My mom told me that Granny French was on a trip with her sister, Thelma and her daughter, Phyllis, to visit her granddaughter, Kathy who used to live in North Bend. So, given that she was traveling with a gaggle of women in my family, it is not hard for me to imagine that Granny’s body language is communicating that she is tired of waiting and perhaps a little exasperated.

I’ve been to that part of the country before. There is a lot of beauty to discover and explore. Maybe she was itching for the views from the top of the mountain rather than lingering there at the base.

I plucked that picture from a box of random family photos several months ago, and I’ve had it perched on my dresser ever since.

I love everything about it.

Recently, I moved the photo from my dresser to the nursery in our house.

My husband and I have been on a long, long winding road to building our family. Over the last 8 years we have experienced 5 miscarriages and have traveled a long process to become home study approved for adoption. Finally, after so much waiting, we got a call that we were chosen as a match by a birth mother who had discerned that adoption was her best path forward. Tears flowed in the courtyard of the Denman building in Nashville as the pastor who shepherds the process shared on our three-way call how intentional the birth mother was with choosing us.

The next day we met the birth mother and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in our conversation with her. “I just saw light when I looked at your book,” she said. “And I wanted to choose someone who hadn’t had the blessing of having children before.”

On the way home we called our family and friends. Finally, we could share some good news!

The birth was expected to be any time because this birth mother had never carried a baby full term before… so the next several days were a flurry of tying up loose ends at work and preparing to be gone. We finished outfitting our sparse nursery, and pulled out the gifts from the adoption shower the church had thrown us over a year ago. We finally walked into a baby consignment store unrestrained and let ourselves enjoy picking out onesies and dreaming about parenting alongside our friends who were expecting the birth of their son.

We would named this baby Hallie Grace. Hallie after my great grandmother and Grace for the grace that’s accompanied us on this long journey, and for the middle name of another grandmother.

A couple of weeks later the day came when we believed she was to be induced. I wrapped up my work and prepared to be away for several weeks. There was a lunar eclipse and a full moon. I remember walking and praying and lighting the candle my friends blessed as we kept vigil and waited for word…

Silence.

The next day there was confusion and a different timeline.

Then, silence.

Waiting…

Then another appointment and we’d learn more… but something happened.

More silence.

More waiting…

Heat, hardships, health concerns.

Another appointment… “nothing has changed”

More silence.

Still no answers. When is this baby due? What is the timeline here? What is this journey we are on?

It’s been 7 weeks since we were told we would be parents to a baby girl who was to be born at any moment, but our arms are still empty.

I’m no stranger to the kind of loss one feels when you think you are going to parent and that hope is dashed. The loss in the adoption process has been different from my other experiences, but it hurts no less.

When it was my own flesh and blood that bore the loss there was some level of finality. And, while recurring miscarriage diagnosis is still largely unexplained and underresearched, I did have an end date there. I knew something of what had happened.

Now we are just frozen in the waiting… which, without a clear threshold, has moved from waiting to what feels like an ending with the subtlety that twilight moves day into night. One moment we were standing in the sun, and now I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

I want to be clear, I have no malice toward the birth mother. I pray for her and the baby daily. I’m worried for them both. And, my goodness the folks at the agency we work with have done everything they could to serve her and us with love and dignity and respect. In many ways I think we have all been powerless to what has unfolded. We certainly don’t have closure.

Nevertheless, here we are, hands on hips, head back, and eyes closed… so sad and so tired of waiting.

I was talking with my mom about the picture of Granny French today and she laughed remembering that I had taken it. I told her how much I resonated with Granny’s exasperated waiting posture and she said, that was just a Granny face. “I think the camera just caught her in mid-observation… that’s what she did, she was taking it all in and probably about to share what she saw.”

I’m still going to choose to resonate with thinking about Hallie waiting at the base of the mountain to move forward, because it’s helpful right now. But, I’m thankful for my mom’s perspective too.

I wonder if it is an invitation, even in this deep pain, to take it all in… to look around at what is here, even here, when the road has no clear ending in sight.

There is a magnet on our fridge with the Georgia O’Keeffe quote, “Take time to look.” on it. Maybe that was what was behind the “Granny French stance” mom was talking about. I like the idea of thinking she was good at taking time to look.

Justin and I have been held and loved and prayed for by so many people. People have checked in, and also known when not to push for answers we didn’t have. I’ve been shown so much grace in my work. I’ve learned so much more about the complexities of adoption and the suffering that is always going to be a part of that path even if things go smoothly. I have seen the best in people who have cared in so many various ways.

And, I’m learning to sit with and take my own grief seriously. I might be stuck on the side of the road, but I’m not at the base of the mountain. I’ve been on an 8 year climb and perhaps it’s time to take stock of all the wear and tear my mind, body and soul have traveled through to this point.

It is excruciating to be on the side of the road once again on this journey. It’s cumulative grief that I’ll have to spend a while unraveling and being honest with myself about. I am in the process of finding a therapist to work with and exploring outlets for healing. Writing is one of them, and so I’m thankful for this space. And, I know, there is grace here too. I know that even here, I can pray, as Mary Oliver says, by paying attention.

Today, paying attention finds me grateful for Granny French and all she has said to me from that snap shot taken almost 40 years ago on the side of the road.

What lies underneath all that has been cracked open?

Exposed by the dark, fertile places of my life

What growth is unfurling in this threshold?

I Stretch and yearn

Toward a light

I somehow instinctively know to reach for

But I couldn’t describe, and I haven’t fully seen.

Everything I am and

The fruit that’s mine to bear

Is written in me

Longing to burst forth

Through the compost of what has and hasn’t been

Death and

Loss and

Failure and

Grief and

Pain

Remade.

The tender nurture of hands that have seen

What is mine to do

And did the faithful work of

Agitation

Accompaniment

Curiosity

Pruning

Witness

Water and light to nourish deep roots;

I’m not growing for my own glory

There isn’t a finished product to enshrine

But a fruit whose call is to nourish forward

To feed the other precious parts of this

Interdependent creation.

I’m not hungry for more

But I’m hungry to offer what I was made for

To bear life beyond my life

To settle into my place of all that is

No more

No less

I am a seed, planted in good soil

Greening

.

I’ve learned that the West Tennessee climate and soil is not hospitable to broccoli, especially when you plant it too late.

I’ve learned that our garden is planted near a large corn field. Apparently corn sucks up a lot of the nitrogen (needed for plant growth) from the ground. I’m curious if some of the fruit seems a little less developed because of that?

I’ve learned that I planted way too much in a small space. I didn’t account for how much each plant would grow and expand as it produced its fruit. The zucchini, squash… and, oh, the cucumbers - they are all over with the spindly curly cue tips of their vines wrapping themselves around anything within reach like a clingy friend or a nosey neighbor.

I’ve learned about blossom rot, which happens when the plants are not pollinated or when something is off in the soil. Several of our first fruits fell victim to blossom rot.

I’ve learned how to make zucchini bread from all of the produce that came in June. But, then I learned about vine bores. This terrible little creature eats the plants from the inside out. And, it seems, that for a while they still appear healthy; but, they are slowly dying on the inside. I had to pull some of the squash plants out the other day and I think the zucchini plants are next.

I’ve learned that nature is beautiful and cruel and so far beyond my control… and that the yield does not necessarily match what you sow.

A lot of these lessons, or at least lessons that would have translated to the context of Jesus’ parable were probably known by Jesus’ audience. The clues in scripture imply that his audience is diverse. He’s drawn a crowd, presumably because of the miracles he’s been doing. But, he’s also got some folks who have already expressed discomfort with and even opposition to the seeds he is planting with his word and witness. Regardless of how they felt about him, I think many in that crowd would have known how to be more precise with their sowing practices. There was an extravagance to his sowing that perhaps might not have seemed prudent.

In my NRSV Bible the title of the first section of chapter 13 is “the parable of the sower”. Perhaps, the title points us to the most important focal point of this message: the generosity of the sower.

This is one of the few parables where Jesus actually offers an interpretation. He explains the different kinds of soil that we humans can be:

First there is the hard soil that represents the one who hears the word of the kingdom and doesn’t understand, so it is snatched away.

Next the rocky soil that represents the one who at first receives the word with joy, but has no roots and is then scorched by trouble and persecution.

Then the thorny soil that represents the one who hears the word but is drawn away by the cares of the world.

Finally, the good soil that represents the one that hears the words and understands it and bears fruit.

While we can get caught up in analyzing the soil and the wisdom of the practices… we don’t want to miss the extravagance with which the sower sows. Despite the callous and difficult conditions we present, Jesus sows hope through seeds of the kingdom extravagantly and abundantly in ALL of the soil.

And we are the soil.

Another thing I’ve learned this year is that soil is not static. The life of the land is dynamic, and in one small area the land has probably had seasons where it has been each kind of soil.

There are times when our hearts have been hardened because of loss, trauma or grief. Perhaps something we held precious in our heart was taken away from us. Maybe we are finding that our life and our faith doesn’t look like we thought it would. Maybe we feel like God hasn’t shown up or followed through the way we hope he would. Maybe the hand we’ve been dealt just seems unfair. We’ve been in hard soil before.

There are times when our hearts are rocky because we came out running with great enthusiasm throwing ourselves into life and faith full force. But, we didn’t have sustained disciplines, rhythms, or accountable community to journey with. In these seasons our roots weren’t deep and we got scorched (or I would say burned out). It’s easy to get wrapped up in the jobs and checklists of what it looks like to live a fruitful life, but if we aren’t deeply rooted in our Spiritual lives those well-meaning actions lead to burn out, frustration, and bitterness. We’ve experienced the rocky soil.

There are times when our hearts are overcome by thorns in the form of the powers and principalities of this world. We set out to live a life of following Christ, but we also breathe the air of the culture we live in. Our values and choices can be skewed because the values of the world around us are in direct conflict with the values of the Kingdom of God. Jesus calls us to spend our time, our money, and our resources differently than the rest of the world, and that gets hard when it seems like we are missing out. Sometimes, wealth, materialism, and even our propensity to worry about the stuff that just doesn’t matter lands us in thorny soil.

And yet, the Good New is: Jesus is the extravagantly generous Sower and we are the soil.

Growing up this understanding of the soil made me feel pressure to somehow make myself good soil. I’m not sure this is the point. As Jeff Chu asks in his book, Good Soil: “What if the parable wasn’t about categorizing good versus bad, healthy versus unhealthy, sinner versus saints? What if the parable were understood less as a prescription of you need to be good soil and more of a description of what was actually happening, both in the ecosystem around us and in our own lives? What if Jesus was describing the realities of both soil and the soul, which were ever-changing and subject to outside forces?”

He goes on to remind readers that it was extremely pertinent to Jesus’ original listeners that he was speaking about the land. The people of Galilee had farmed the same territory for generations, but in Jesus’ time the colonization of the Roman empire was creating great change and turmoil. There was likely a sense of hopelessness not only for their land, but also for their survival as a people.

This quandary isn’t unique to Jesus’ time and place. All throughout time immemorial humanity has stripped the land, taken land from one another in the name of power, and disrupted the patterns and lives of people. Many across the globe are living it today. For good reason, it can be easy to lose hope in our ability to bear fruit in the land and as a people.

One of the best books I’ve read recently is called The Parable of the Sower. Written in 1993, Octavia Butler imagines the downfall of the United States of America in 2025. In the landscape she paints, most Americans do not have access to what they need. A sense of safety and the value of citizenship has fallen and only walled and heavily armed communities are left. People are isolated and afraid of everyone else. As the consequences of that reality unfold, new voices begin to emerge. The book’s protagonist, Lauren Olamina, begins sowing seeds of a new vision for mutuality and hope. Shaped together by all the sorrow and pain they had experienced, a small community forms and hope takes root as they understand that their survival and well being is wrapped up in one another.

Both Jesus’ parable and Butler’s story remind us of the power of love and the vision of community that can be sown and grown even in very difficult and hostile environments. And, as disciples of Jesus, we are not only the soil that receives what he sows, we are called to be sowers of the hope and love of the Kingdom of God regardless of the circumstances around us.

I’ve recently met a woman in Weakley County that has taken up this call to sow in the midst of difficulty. Candice is a middle aged white mother and homemaker who lives in a neighborhood just outside of Martin. One day she discovered an abandoned cemetery near her home. Being a student of genealogy, she decided to do some research about the graves that she found and she learned about Percy Gardner Shadd, a black lawyer who lived in Weakley county during the time of Reconstruction. The more she uncovered about Percy, the more she learned about the hardships he faced as a young black professional in the south. But, he persevered and became quite successful.

Percy and his family owned the land Candice lived on as well as the cemetery and much of the surrounding area. Candice learned in the will she uncovered that he had hopes for his family to enjoy the land for generations to come and for the cemetery to be kept up as the place where this community would be laid to rest.

As Candice followed the paper trail of deeds for the land, she traced the very particular effects that the Jim Crow laws in the South had on Percy’s family and their ability to hold on to the land that was theirs. Now, the area where Candice lives is inhabited by all white families and the cemetery has been overgrown and forgotten. Candice is not an activist nor does she have any particular political leanings or agendas… but she has felt called by God to restore the cemetery and tell the story of Percy and his family. Her heart has been moved to offer herself to the Holy work of racial reconciliation and to honor the family and legacy of Percy by being part of building communities where all are welcome and have the opportunity to grow and flourish.

Each day she spends out there clearing the brush and tending to the graves she is sowing seeds of hope and restoration where the thorns of racism, abuse of power and greed have choked out life. Just recently she hosted one of Percy’s descendants to come to the cemetery where he learned about the courage and giftedness of his ancestor.

Friends, as disciples of Jesus, this is our invitation. Whatever soil we inhabit, we are called to sow seeds of healing, restoration and love. And we don’t do this alone. We are fed and nourished by the sower whose abundant supply of grace is always available. It is the very grace we receive each time we come together as the Body to receive from the table of grace

.

The party signs, the theological jokes, and the coffee cake were in perfect juxtaposition to the honest stories we shared. Our conversation facilitated my acknowledgment of the grief I have for all the versions of myself I thought I would be. And, I sat in the promise of all that still can be.

The daffodils are blooming, and tonight I was receive the ashes and be reminded of my mortality with the refrain: you are but dust, and to dust you shall return.

On a call with a ministry student I listened as he shared his own understand of the paradox we people of faith hold. “We have to acknowledge the grief,” he said, “but not as people who don’t have hope.” And we lose the beauty of it if we push too far into one or the other. “I have to be where my feet are, “ he continued, “let joy be joy and sad be sad.”

At 42 I’m about half way through the journey - at best. And this day just feels like an invitation to spend the rest of my time being where my feet are.

Here we are, God, on another Ash Wednesday… beginning another Lenten journey. You know the baggage we come with. You know the wounds we carry. You see through our masks and public displays of piety. You know our motives and you see into the depths of our heart. More than our mortality, perhaps that’s what we fear: the depth to which you know us. Forgive us for hiding, O God, and grant us your mercy as we walk this road together. Break our hearts open so that we can draw from the well of your goodness and compassion rather than the dried up well of performance and impermanence. Create in us clean hearts by teaching us how to be present to ourselves and one another. Guide us away from our destructive habits of perfectionism and pride. Transform us so that our embodied lives bear witness to your gracious redemption as you live and move and breathe in and among us. Humble us and hearten us on this day we pray. In the name of Jesus Christ who always dwells right where our feet are. Amen.

When I was a young girl I remember a sermon where my Southern Baptist pastor pointed out to the older generation in the church that they should probably check themselves before they criticize the music that younger folks listen to. He pointed out that many of the middle aged and older folks in the congregation prided themselves on their country music and if they were really listening to the lyrics of the popular country songs they loved, they were no more pinnacles of Christian values than any other popular music of that time. The pastor wasn’t promoting one type of music as better than the other… he wasn’t even saying that we shouldn’t listen to secular music; but, rather, his invitation was for all of us - in every generation - to examine the cultural air that we breathe and measure it next to the standard of Christ… not the standards of our generation, our preferences, or the powers and principalities of our culture.

As a young person I felt vindicated that he told the older folks to lay off… but, now, years later, I appreciate the self examination he invited us to. It’s a kind of self examination that I don’t see very often in the broad witness of American Christianity. In fact, I grieve the countless ways that not only are we failing to humbly surrender our lives to Christ’s standard… not only are we not examining the cultural air that we breath, but instead we have conflated the cultural air with Christ. We have mistaken the Kingdom of man for the Kingdom of God.

This conflation is evident in the countless idols the powers and principalities in this country invite us to worship: power, wealth, guns, political parties, sexual exploitation. But, the one on my mind this week is the idol of whiteness.

This past week I had the opportunity to view for the second time the documentary, Reflect, Reclaim, Rejoice: Preserving the Gift of Black Sacred Music. The film was written and produced by my friend Dr. Henri Giles. The film is a brilliant showcase of the importance of Black Sacred music in the church and the unique story this music tells of the Black American experience. It makes the case that it is music that must not be forgotten by the Church. The Black witness of the imago Dei, of the power of faith and embodiment, of joy and praise in the face of persecution and sorrow, of excellence in the face of evil - it’s a witness of a people who have lived the stories of scripture and who know something about the God who saves.

We were viewing the film with a group of folks who are preparing to join the Weakley Country Reconciliation Project on a pilgrimage to Montgomery and Memphis next month to take a deeper dive into the narratives of race and injustice that are often glossed over or misrepresented. We are trying to cultivate curiosity, dialogue and the space to examine with clear hearts the cultural air we breathe. As we sat discussing the film, Pastor Sharon, who is joining us on the trip, made the point that music is always telling a story - whether we realize it or not. And, so, it’s important to be discerning in the stories we hear, and even the ones we choose not to hear.

As she spoke, I couldn’t help but consider the conversation around the Super Bowl Halftime Show. I remember the MAGA “Christian/Family Values” crowd being livid with the announcement months ago that Bad Bunny would be the Halftime entertainment. Now, I know nothing about Bad Bunny, but I’ve learned that he isn’t white (but he IS American) and that much of his music is in Spanish. I imagine that the performance will be on par with performances I’ve seen for the last 30 plus Super Bowls I’ve watched. I’ve LOVED many if not most of these performances over the years. And, while I might have enjoyed the artists each year, sure, it was nothing 15 years ago for me to question whether or not I should leave the Halftime show on during the church youth group parties I was in charge of. But, why is that crowd so incensed by this particular artist? What else is going on in the cultural air that we are breathing right now? What narrative will his music share that is so offensive or different than any other Halftime show over the years that now is the moment for an alternative show?

Well, I was late to the announcement, but on the day we had watched this film and we were having this conversation, I had just learned that Kid Rock was named as the choice for the alternative halftime show that Turning Point was organizing for the MAGA “Christian/Family Values” crowd. And as Pastor Sharon talked about the various narratives that different kinds of music advance, I could see plain as day a narrative of whiteness as the ideal for this “Christian/Family Values” crowd that would feel good about Kid Rock as their alternative.

It feels almost too obvious to point out the hypocrisy. He’s headlined a Super Bowl before. And, his act would have been one that would have given me pause as a youth leader 15 years ago. His lyrics celebrate misogyny, sexual exploitation, and bigtory…like many artists who have been popular over the years. That’s not the shocking part. The shocking, and even devastating part is that he is the pick as the “Christian/American” alternative.

The most popular lyric resurfacing this week being this one from his 1997 song, Cool, Daddy Cool:

Young ladies, young ladies

I like ‘em underage

Some say that statutory

But I say it’s mandatory

Not a good look in the wake of the waves of Epstein files that have exposed the evil committed by many of our country’s leaders over the years. But, ultimately, this makes it crystal clear that it isn’t Christian values the leaders and influencers of this Halftime performance are worried about preserving. It isn’t even a narrative of humanity or moral treatment of our fellow human beings these folks are seeking to advance. Instead, the undercurrent, conscious or not, is lifting whiteness as the moral good. It would be good to pay attention to what gets labeled, by this particular influencing crowd, as “American.”

The American narrative is multifaceted, multi-layered and made up of a diverse range of voices. It’s made up of voices like those that shaped Black sacred music, voices like the Puerto Rican artist Bad Bunny who, if he is like most of the brilliant rappers I’ve been exposed to, is probably telling a deep and nuanced story with his lyrics. It’s a narrative that cannot be contained in one race, one class, and one cultural movement. It is diverse and layered. And, that diversity threatens leaders whose power and influence depends on fear and control.

So, it wasn’t surprising to me that two days later, as Christian folks from both sides of the political aisle are naming the dissonance between Christian values and Kid Rock’s reputation, and as people are further scrutinizing the unfolding horror of the Epstein files, that President Trump sees it as a good time to post an incredibly racist and evil depiction of President & Michelle Obama. This trope isn’t new in the American story. Dehumanization is part of every white supremecist playbook, because if people are portrayed as less than human, the inhumane violence enacted on them becomes somehow palatable. There is no excuse for this behavior from the leader of our country, and the fact that it has happened and has been minimized and even accepted by large swaths of our country is a much bigger problem than just the behavior of Donald Trump.

We have some self examination to do of the cultural air we breathe.

I have never been one to place my hope in politics. Now, I don’t think that excuses us from responsible citizenship and participation in the political process. In fact, I’m joining over 150 fellow United Methodists at the Tennessee state capitol this week to respectfully share my faith convictions with my state representatives. But, I’m not writing this reflection from a political angle. My concern is as a Spiritual leader who grieves the egregious ways the American Christian witness has been conflated and co-opted by the evil of white supremacy and Christian Nationalism. This isn’t new. It’s woven all throughout the fabric of the American story, but it is never too late to wake up to it. It is never too late to put on our oxygen masks by aligning our standards to Christ so that we breathe something different than these evil toxins in the cultural air. It is never too late to do the hard and refining work of self examination, of lining our lives and our values up with the narrative of Christ.

When Christians get sucked into the gravitational pull of political affiliations determining our Christian values and witness… we lose the narrative of Christ. And we miss the diversity of stories and experiences that can point us to the presence of Christ in ALL persons. When Jesus preached one of the few sermons ever recorded in the temple (the temple that had gotten tangled in its own version of Nationalism at the time), he stated his mission statement plainly:

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

because he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

and recovery of sight to the blind,

to let the oppressed go free,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’ -Luke 4:18-19

This is our standard and the plumbline for our discerning work. When Paul speaks to the early church, a diverse and divided people, about how to live into that, he gives them a beautiful picture of discipleship in Romans 12. I’ll invite you to read the whole thing, but I’ll quote here the two verses that have been ringing in my ears since I got to dig into them with the Wesley Foundation of Middle Tennessee this past week:

Do not be conformed to this world,[c] but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.[d]

For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgement, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. -Romans 12:2-3

If you’ve read this far into my reflections, thank you. I’m not saying the most brilliant or nuanced things about what’s going on in our Church or in our country. I’m really writing for my own formation. But, if what I’ve said has opened your heart and mind to asking the questions and doing the work of self-examination, or if there is something that gives you pause, I’d be very open to dialogue and learning together. The transformation of our mind, the discernment of sober judgement, it comes through honest dialogue with one another and with folks from multiple perspectives (this is the whole undercurrent of the book of Romans, by the way). The body of Christ is mutually interdependent and all of us are wrapped up in one another. We need community and conversation.

If you’re near Weakley County, join our work with WCRP. I’d love to tell you more about it. There are even still some spots on the pilgrimage we are taking next month. Or, if you want to read someone smarter than me in this conversation, here are some of thinkers who have taught me over the years:

Rev. Howard Thurman - Jesus and the Disinherited

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. - any and all of his writing/speeches

Tricia Hersey - Rest as Resistance

Austin Channing Brown - I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness

Octavia Butler - The Parable of the Sower and The Parable of the Talents

And many more…