New Blog

I am now blogging at https://freevangelic.com. Would love to see you there and hear from you.

 

 

The rest of being

Lucille Ball, resting

My home is filled with the scents of roast and chocolate cake. The quilt upon which I lie and write – a double-wedding ring from Mom the Christmas before my wedding – is finally growing soft with age. Her quilts are so stiff when we first get them, filled with tiny stitches that won’t lie down. I can almost stand the quilt up on its folded end. As it gets used, though, the threads of the fabric and those stitching it together into a beautiful pattern learn where to bend. Sometimes one may even break here and there. As it’s tossed in and out of the washing machine and dryer, as kiddos and pets wallow all over it, as it gets crumpled each night and then smoothed again each morning, the threads within keep bending and stretching.

Eventually, they settle into a rest of being.

The quilt becomes a source of warmth, comfort, and pleasure where before it was only a thing of beauty, a representation of effort and talent. It is still all those things years later – the beauty of this quilt struck me when I cast it across the bed two nights ago – but it is all those other descriptors now, too.

I’m like this quilt. I was stiff, put together, and an outwardly beautiful example of my parents’ love…but now I’m more. Now I’ve bent. I’ve been broken. Tossed around in the tumbler of life. Now I’ve softened enough to be a source of comfort, warmth, and enjoyment in ways I could not before the bending and the breaking.

Now I settle into a rest of being.

 

Turning The Page

As of August 14, 2018, 7:59pm EST, I resigned from SON Studios.

This will come as a shock to some and I am sorry I have not called each one of you before posting this notice. Frankly, I’m not sure my heart or my introverted brain can last through calls with all of you whom I love and care so deeply about, you who have been so encouraging to me and to SON. Thank you. A million times, thank you. The richness of your relationships has made this six-year attempt at a non-profit worth everything.

Naples, for all its cosmopolitan flair, is still a small community. I accept that there will be “talk.” The short story is that several folks had unexpected events in their lives that cost SON about $1mm in pledges and promised funds over the past year. SON simply ran out of runway to afford operations and I could no longer afford to work without pay.

Much must be navigated and decided. The Board agreed for all of the projects and clients to leave with me. It’s been a humbling and encouraging experience to call each person and hear them say they’ll stick with me for whatever’s next. I’m not sure what will happen as this page turns, but I do know this:

The mission of SON – to use media for good – is the heartbeat of who I am. It may require a different approach (what was it Thomas Edison said about failing 10,000 times on his way to finding the right method?), but that’s okay. I’ve never minded a challenge.

For now, I just needed to acknowledge publicly that I’m no longer at SON. It felt deceptive to not say something. You are welcome to email me at rebeca@seitzwritesllc.com or, if you have my cell number, to use it.

For SON business, please reach out to the remaining Board members (on the SON website).

If you’ve been a member or donor to SON, if you’ve attended an event or taken the time to mail in cards of encouragement, leave voicemails of support, or shoot over emails with cheers – thank you. I sit here today knowing that there are incredible people in this nation who fervently wish to harness the power of story toward a positive end. I love y’all for that. Thank you.

 

Dear Grandfather, About Your Statue…

I am the great, great, great, great, great, great granddaughter of Revolutionary War hero, Major General William Moultrie (the last man appointed by Congress to that rank).

Dear G⁶Grandfather,

We still talk of you. How you and your 400 men fought off 2,000 British soldiers to keep Sullivan’s Island from falling under their control. It’s a point of family pride that your victory in South Carolina encouraged and emboldened the men in Philadelphia who were penning the Declaration of Independence. You let them see that we could win our independence. We could fight and win. You did that.

I wonder if you know about the statue of you? It’s in White Point Garden in Charleston. Erected in June of 2007. You’re 8 feet tall and standing on a 7 foot pedestal. You’re hard to miss!

Yes, we remember you aloud.

But it’s harder to talk about other days of yours.

You enslaved people, G⁶Grandfather. How could you?

And don’t even start with all the excuses. Did you know we’re still saying them today? We are! We talk about how it was the culture then, and the necessary thing for the economy. We tell people that slavery wasn’t just a Southern thing and we spew out millions of words, thousands of deflections – many true –  even while we cringe inside. I hate this part of being a Southern woman.

You know what I’ve wondered?

I’ve often thought about your time before you were Major General William Moultrie of Washington’s great Continental Army. You know what I’m talking about. Yes. That time. That year before your heroic defense of Sullivan’s Island – I’m talking about the raid you led as colonel of the 2^nd South Carolina Regiment.

Are you ashamed of that now?

No, that’s not what I want to ask you.

What I really want to ask is harder. It’s harder because as soon as I ask it, I answer for you with the words I desperately want to be true – an answer that could be true. It could.

G⁶Grandfather, when you killed those 50 runaway slaves and when you imprisoned the rest of the slaves you captured on that island – slaves who had run from plantations like yours to fight for the British on the promise that Britain would grant them freedom – did you see before you a British soldier or a black slave?

You know, every man on both sides of the family in the last generation served in a branch of this nation’s military. You’d be proud. The family dedication to the nation has stayed strong. We don’t talk much about the fighting they’ve done, either.

But I wish I could talk with you about yours. Were you killing enemies to the nation’s independence…or runaway slaves? What were they in your mind?

A year later, you killed British soldiers. White men, most likely. In doing so, you won a decisive victory that helped lead to American independence. Was your intent then the same as the day you killed the slaves?

Oh, Grandfather.

We’re taking down statues of men like you now. A white woman was killed by a white man who thought he was somehow “better” just because he’s white. Others of many ethnicities were seriously injured.

Do you agree that this is insane?

Do you fold in upon yourself, broken by the idea that this thought even exists? That you helped perpetuate it? How did you live in the dissonance of fighting for liberty while removing it from black men? How?

Oh, I want to scream at you! Why couldn’t you and those other men – good God, you were smart enough to start a nation! You thumbed your nose at a monarchy! – how could you not figure out a way to end slavery, too?! You all said how awful it was. You said it was an offense to God. You said it was breaking with natural law. And yet you were so scared to break the economy – so worried that it would cripple the nation and we’d lose our independence – that you let slavery continue.

You kicked that evil ball down the field for another generation to handle.

Why could you not be brave enough to end it no matter the consequences?

Don’t we say in our family to do good and let God handle the result? Couldn’t you trust that?

For Mother’s Day this year, my sweet Hubs surprised me with something I’d long wanted: a kit from 23andme. (It’s a DNA test that reveals your ancestry. Yeah, you’re not going to understand “DNA” either.)

Anyway, scattered within the expected British, Irish, French, Scandinavian and “Broadly Northwestern European” lay two surprises: 0.2% Native American (apologies, Aunt Ruth, you were right)…

…and there…

…the eyebrow-raiser…

…just a tiny little 0.1%…

Sub-Saharan African – West Africa.

Yep. I’m not all “white” (what does that even mean?). And, since I don’t know when or how that little 0.1% came to be, you may not have been either.

I love this part of me.

Would you have?

What would you say about the idea of taking down your statue? (Let’s assume you’re humble enough to not have wanted it in the first place. Work with me here, G⁶.)

If you knew that your statue makes citizens fold in on themselves, broken and hurt by the reminder that their family worked your land for your gain…what would you say?

I’m one of a lot of your granddaughters. Am I supposed to say something? Would you want me to?

You know, the best part of our family came from your line. Retta Moultrie. I’m named after her mama, Rebecca Hayes (your great granddaughter). Aunt Retta. Born in 1894. Oh my heavens, a better woman has never walked this earth. She helped raise me. Lived to be 102! I can still feel her little, wrinkled hand on top of mine as we sat on her velour couch, singing hymns together. I can hear her humming as I played with her white hair. I have three pillows on my bed that she sewed by hand. They’ve lost the smell of her but, every great long while, I can close my eyes and nearly catch the scent by memory.

She taught me to love people, G⁶Grandfather. All people. To be kind. Patient. Generous even when I didn’t have plenty. Lord knows she didn’t. If you were anything like Aunt Retta, you’d care deeply about the hurt that comes from the racial divide of today. A divide you helped cause.

I hope you’d also be relieved to see that slavery has been eradicated. We’ve found a way to be economically strong without it. We are a fully free nation. No monarchy. No ruler. The government by, of, and for the people that you and others created is still going.

The descendants of your slaves? They’re no doubt leaders today! Business owners. Doctors. Elected officials. Engineers. Scientists. Writers. Do you see how powerful freedom is? Look where we are! The last governor of South Carolina – the very state where you were governor for two terms – was a woman – an Indian woman! And now she’s the Ambassador to the United Nations!

Oh, G⁶Grandfather, we’ve come so far.

Thank you for fighting to create an independent nation. A nation conceived in liberty, still struggling to fully live in it.

Maybe your statue isn’t just a reminder of your Sullivan’s Island victory on behalf of the United States and its fight for independence.

It is also a reminder of that year before.

I need to remember you were both a hero and a horror.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I didn’t “let you do anything,” sir (a declaration)

I am one of the many women you brushed up against in line. One whose waist felt your arm slither around and hold a bit too closely as you helped me into a vehicle. A female whose body you leaned into for a hug instead of a handshake, pressing your hand into my back so that my chest came into harder contact with yours. Those are my legs you ogled in a meeting because I dared to wear a pencil skirt. It’s my laugh you heard when you told me the racy joke. My big brown eyes that looked away over a lip-sticked smile when you made the flirtatious suggestion.

None of what you did was wanted.

None of it appreciated or invited.

But, like the Republican presidential candidate, I’m sure you believed one of two things: (1) she’s giving me cues that she wants this or (2) I can do this because I’m me and she’s her.

And did I kick up about it? Did I slap your face? Go to HR? Write a blog post, even? No. So that must mean I wanted it, right? Must mean I enjoyed it? Must mean you’re allowed to be this way.

No. Here’s what really happened:

You stared at my legs. I asked myself why I didn’t put on the slacks because I knew I had a meeting with men today. Then I berated myself for the idea of changing a completely acceptable wardrobe just because you can’t focus on business in a business meeting. Then I thought about moving to another seat, one that wouldn’t give you such a good view of my knees. Then I berated myself again for thinking of how to accommodate your ridiculous actions and how un-Sheryl Sandberg that is of me. Then I thought about just taking the bull by the horns and interrupting the entire meeting to say, “If you could stop staring at my legs, I’d appreciate it,” but then all the other men in the room would either think I was an ice queen or suddenly also become aware of my legs and the other women would withdraw from me, grateful it wasn’t them but eager to not be put in the ice queen territory, too. And then I needed to stop allowing myself to care that you were ogling me because I had valid contributions to make to this meeting that would be helpful to the project, so I turned away and worked.

Or let’s talk about how you do business hugs instead of handshakes – only with the women, of course, because you’re “a hugger.” So, you throw your big arm around my shoulders and pull me in, pressing my breasts against your chest and holding me there until you’ve gotten your fill, talking the whole time about how good it is to see me and how you’re looking forward to being a part of this project, blah blah. Since I didn’t slap your face, I must have “let” you, right?

“…they let you do it,” Trump told Billy Bush. “You can do anything.”

While you were busy getting your cheap feel, here’s what I was thinking: If I say something right here, right now, will I lose my job? Will this project go south if I embarrass him and he quits? He matters more to this than me because he’s the one with the money/prestige. If he leaves, his funding leaves, too and then we’re back to square one on this. Does it really matter if he feels my breasts for a few seconds if, in the end, we get the project done and it makes a positive difference in the world? My comfort level isn’t as important as getting the job done. This is just part of it. Part of working in a male-dominated industry. You don’t want to be “that” woman who can’t work with men and get along or you’re done in this industry, Rebeca. Be a grown-up. Smile. Overlook it. Stay focused on the mission. Laugh.

I did.

I smiled. I laughed.

You took that as acceptance and possibly even encouragement.

It’s no wonder you are confused by the female outrage over that Trump video. You’ve been hugging and ogling for years and you know dang well that women are fine with it because none of them has ever objected and most of the time we smile and laugh right along with you, right?

Let me clear things up here.

I fake smile and fake laugh so I can do my job.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that I can be effective in my role.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that I don’t get fired.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that I have relationship capital.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that you’ll keep working on the task.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that I don’t slap you.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that I can be a team player.

I fake smile and fake laugh so that the situation will end and I can get back to business.

I fake smile and fake laugh.

And you see and hear acceptance, even invitation.

 

If Donald Trump becomes president, your belief system on this will be exemplified by the leader of the free world. Suddenly, the sexual innuendo, flirting, hugs, touches, and ogling will be even more acceptable because, hey, that’s how the president gets things done and it worked for him, right? Married to a topless model, living in the White House, millions in the bank – the guy is the epitome of Man of the World and what man doesn’t want to be that?

So I wanted to be clear right here, today. Make a declaration, even.

You touch me, you flirt with me, you treat me as a sexual being that you are entitled to access, you’re getting called out on it. It shouldn’t require me to sacrifice my career, but that’s a length to which I will go now. Why now? Because the threat level has risen with every defense of Trump’s behavior that I have read on Facebook and Twitter or listened to on the radio or watched on television since that video came out.

I don’t walk in a room and stare at your penis. I don’t crack jokes about its size or call it by derogatory names because I’m not thinking about it at all. I don’t picture how you would be in bed. I don’t try to determine if you want me. I do not even care that you are capable of sex. I’m not interested. At all. Ever. Even a little bit. No, not even that much. The door is closed. There is no crack in it. No window for you to climb through.

Your sexual nature is not wanted.

Not even if you’re famous.

Not even if you’re rich.

Not even if you’re the Republican party’s nominee for President of the United States.

You want to work together like two adults who are talented, intelligent, resourceful, and can get the job done? Bring it. Let’s do this thing. I am all over that like white on rice. You wanna joke and kid while we work? Absolutely. I love a fun workplace. You wanna explore ideas and brainstorm about how we can do this job better, how we can enrich the culture of this country with the stories we bring them? Holy heaven and hottest hell, yes, I am down for that.

But check the rest of it at the door. I’m not going to quit genuinely smiling just because you walk in the room and mistake it for sexual invitation. I’m not going to quit genuinely laughing because you find it sexually attractive. I like to smile. I like to laugh. That’s for me, not you. That’s me enjoying the amazing life I get to lead and the adventurous career I have – it isn’t an invitation for you to be a part of it in any way but a colleague.

Thanks for letting me set the record straight here. Whew, I feel lighter already, knowing I won’t have to have those internal debates anymore.

Now, let’s get to work.

 

 

 

Calculating God

As more and more writers, filmmakers, managers, publishers, movie lovers, book lovers, and tv fans join the movement at SON, I have an awesome opportunity to see the common ground on which we stand regardless of religion (or lack thereof). It’s so cool! It also raises questions I haven’t focused on for a while. What makes an atheist choose the moral high ground? What spurs a Jewish woman to work with a roomful of Jesus lovers? How did the God Christians worship today come to the world’s collective awareness in the first place? What motivates all of us to make the world a better place?

When I was 16, my dad took me aside and asked why I subscribed to the Christian faith. I don’t remember my answer, but it was probably the textbook Southern Baptist one as that is the only denomination or way of belief I knew at that point. Daddy and Mom raised all of us kids in Baptist churches. Whatever I said that day, I remember Daddy shaking his head at me. “Your faith isn’t yours if it’s part mine or your mom’s. You need to figure out what you believe and why you believe it.” He set me off on a course of reading about the world’s religions.

The questions I explored then arise again as SON expands. Why am I here? Why do storytellers exist? Why does almost every human respond to a story? Did someone put us here? Is there a higher being in charge? Can I interact with that being? How did that being come into being? How is existence supposed to work? Does it work that way? Can we make it work that way? What is the story behind all that has been, is, and will be? Is there a story?

These kinds of questions and more are masterfully woven into an incredible novel I finished this past weekend: Calculating God by Robert J. Sawyer. While there are a few places in which the arguments for answers overtake the storyline, I remained fascinated throughout. The story premise is that an alien (Hollus) comes to Earth with the news that Hollus’s planet, another planet with live beings, and Earth have all experienced five cataclysmic events that altered the evolution of life on that planet. Hollus says this is proof that there is a God and that God is manipulating the formation and evolution of life. The big question is: why? Hollus studies life’s history on this planet while holding provocative conversations with the Canadian paleontologist helping him research.

If that were all this book was, it would be well-worth the read.

But the ending of this story is…well…it’s…astounding.

If you’ve ever wondered how God could have come into being…

If you’ve ever thought that maybe there is a being in charge, but it might not be the God of your knowledge base…

If you’ve ever wondered why horrors like cancer could possibly be allowed to exist…

Heck, if you’re just tired of figuring out the ending of a book when you’re barely halfway through it…

You’ve got to get this novel.

 

 

A Gentle Request for How You Respond to Jim’s Passing

James D. Seitz

On Saturday, July 30, 2016, at 11:33am, my fantastic father-in-love James D. Seitz finished his battle with Parkinson’s Disease. He was 82 years old. I loved him dearly. I am not loving something about the response to his death, so I’m writing.

Three years ago, the Hubs and I moved the kiddos down to Naples to help out with Jim’s care. He and Grace allowed us the honor of being a real part of this journey and, while I won’t lie and say it was anywhere in the same ballpark as easy, I’m glad we did. I’m happy we got that time with him, that my kiddos know the amazing grandfather they had, that my mother-in-love and I grew closer as we cared for the love of her life, the man she was married to for 55 years.

Now, most of my Facebook friends are actual friends. They’re people I went to school with, have worked or volunteered with. A few are readers of my novels and I have the gift of their feedback and input as I write additional stories. The folks I call “Facebook Friend” are mostly real relationships. So, rather than call a lot of people and repeat our news, I posted on Facebook that Jim had passed.

               And I got the expected “Sad” and “Love” clicks (thank you) and kind comments from people. It’s been helpful to receive all that, to not feel as if our little family is alone, to realize that a lot of people are acknowledging that a good man’s life has ended.

               But something that has kinda driven me insane is how people barely get the, “I’m so sorry,” out before they jump to, “But you’ll see him again in heaven.”

I’ve done this exact same thing to friends who lose people to death. I’ve done it a lot, even from the moment we were told Jim needed to go into hospice care. Emotion overwhelmed my mother-in-love and husband, so I’m the one who tried to give Jim the news. He read it on my face before I could speak and said, “I’m going to heaven aren’t I?”

I responded, “Yessir, and I’m a little jealous.”

So, yes, I get the instinct to focus on the positive (heaven!) and brush right past the hideous (death). But, I want to go on record as saying I really don’t like it.

I’m a processor. I need time to process, reflect, think, ponder, be quiet and still before I feel as if I can move past a significant emotion. Right now, I hurt. A lot. I’m sad. I miss Jim – even the one who couldn’t speak because Parkinson’s stole his voice. I miss how he always, always smiled when I came into the room. I miss having someone in my life who wanted to hear every single, solitary detail of every single business trip or event I participated in. I miss the one who enjoyed listening to who came with whom and who wore what to this film premiere or that gala. I miss the man who knew the backstories of so many influencers in this town – how they became the people they are today. I want to hear his stories again of chairing balls and functions and how to navigate Board member and funder relationships. I want to ask him a question and see him turn his head, look off in the distance, and give my inquiry real thought before responding with some piece of wisdom I couldn’t have found otherwise. I’ve missed all this for a long time because Parkinson’s took it away but I couldn’t mourn it because we all had to focus on the care required by that moment, that hour. Now that he’s gone all of what was taken by this disease hits at once and I miss him.

I miss him.

I don’t care right now about heaven. I really don’t. I care that right now, today, I can’t go up to his bed, kiss the top of his head, and say, “Hello, blue eyes. I love you.” I care that my mother-in-love, a woman who has been an incredible mother to me for twelve years, is alone for the first time in her 77 years of life and isn’t sure how to navigate the silence other than turning on the radio and leaving it on all day. I care that my husband isn’t sure what to do with himself now that he doesn’t have to go and lift his daddy from the wheelchair and place him into bed every early evening or run over there when Jim needed taken care of some other way. I hurt that my youngest doesn’t have much memory of her grandfather as anything other than a Parkinson’s patient and I hurt more that my eldest does and misses the grandfather he knew before this hideous disease invaded our lives.

I don’t care about heaven right now, y’all. Trying to skip over the pain doesn’t lessen it. It forces me into a place of smiling and nodding, pretending that yes, sure, I’m all good, because, hey, we’ll see him again and isn’t that grand.

It’s not grand today. Please let it be okay that it’s not grand. Just for a little bit. We can rejoice in stuff worthy of rejoicing about in time. For now, I need to take a friend’s very wise advice and be gentle with myself. I need to let myself recognize that even though this was a long, long battle that I thought gave me time to be prepared, I was wrong. It still hurts. Each day is a little better than yesterday – I laughed a real laugh yesterday morning with the kiddos, went to the office, and even managed to keep a lunch date with ladies from my neighborhood – but it still hurts. And I’m going to let it hurt for a little while longer. It should hurt. A truly wonderful man is not here anymore. It should hurt.

I try to think of what I will say to people in the future when I hear that death has taken someone they loved off this earth. I don’t think I’ll jump to references of heaven. I think I’ll say, “I’m sad that you’re sad,” or “I’m so sorry this pain has come,” or borrow from my wise friend Mary and say, “Be gentle with yourself.”

Anyway, I do appreciate all of you who have offered comfort and even those of you who have jumped to the heaven references. I know you mean well. I know that. I love you for that. I just wanted to ask you to let me sit here in this remembrance of him and missing him for a little while longer before I have to take a deep breath, set it aside, and pick up full time living and hoping again.

Because even the promise of heaven doesn’t give back the exact same as what was. And saying goodbye to what was…takes a little while.

 

The Hillary Outcome: Use Your Words

 

Setting aside that a female will finally be in the White House (YAY! – not that I’m thrilled Hillary is the standard bearer), I’ve at last put my finger on what I dread about four years of a Clinton presidency. And, in naming it, I’ve realized it’s not altogether a bad thing.

Photo credit: HillaryClinton.com

The entire nation will be forced to pay attention to word choice again. Remember the hours that were given to debating the meaning of the word “is” when the Clinton/Lewinsky stuff went down? It’s already starting with Hilary. Every time she has referred to herself as the “first female presidential nominee” she has been careful to include the phrase “from a major party” as well. That makes it true. Those who ignore the tacked on phrase raise all kinds of hullabaloo on social media about how this is yet another lie from Hillary. But, well, it isn’t – not the way she said it.

And this is how it’s going to be for four more years. She’s going to say something. Everyone will lose their minds talking about how it isn’t true. Everyone else will scream back the exact words she said and how they are, indeed, true. And no one will come any closer to speaking about and working on things that matter.

We’re going to spend four years dickering over semantics.

Four years.

Discussing word choice.

Parsing terms.

I’m a word lover, which makes the coming reality a not entirely bad scenario. I’m thrilled we will pay attention to our language and (hopefully) say what we mean or (at the very least) realize that SHE said exactly what she meant.

But I’m sad that we’re going to lose sight (if we ever had it) of poverty, income disparity, racial tensions, sexual harassment in the workplace, terrorism, human trafficking, hunger, and other serious issues rampant in our nation. That will be the loss of the Clinton presidency: ability to have a truly national conversation regarding situations that matter.

And that leaves me sad because one thing women in the workplace are known for is an ability to get everybody to the table, talking, working together despite differences.

How ironic that the first female presidential nominee from a major party lacks the one characteristic necessary to govern modern-day America.

 

Language, people!

“Evil.”

“Liar.”

“Ugly.”

“Stupid.”

“Moron.”

“Terrorist.”

“Traitor.”

That’s a small sampling of the descriptive words I’ve seen used by people who describe themselves as Jesus-loving folks. When did it become okay to be so mean? To be clear, I’m aware that there’s always been meanness – I’m asking when did it become socially acceptable? Specifically, when did it become acceptable for Christians?

Does the anonymity of a screen really give us the right to go there?

Y’all, Jesus loves Barack Obama. He died for Barack Obama. And Hilary Clinton. And Bernie Sanders. And Donald Trump. Just what do you think God thinks of us – of me, of you – when we speak of people He loves as if they are evil themselves? Unworthy? Do you feel high and holy when you feel hate for these people? When you feel better than them? Smarter than them? Somehow more sanctified or more loved by God than them?

You aren’t.

God doesn’t love you more than He loves Barack Obama.

Yeah, Obama is making some decisions that are hurtful and harmful to people – decisions like creating an atmosphere easily taken advantage of by sexual predators. Please note I’m not saying people whose brains don’t jive with the physical reality of their bodies are predators. I’m saying a predator will pretend to be one of those people and can achieve his/her hurtful aim because of the situation created by Obama’s public school bathroom decree.  And Brian Cornell, the CEO of Target is in the same boat, sure.

But God loves Barack Obama. And Barack Obama has said, more than once, that He is a Christian. So has Hilary Clinton. I don’t know if Brian Cornell has, but…

…maybe we can start with just loving the people who say they love Jesus and are His followers. Maybe if we decided to act like we love people – the way our God loves them – we could be known for the ONLY thing the Bible says we are to be known for: how we love each other. (John 13:34-35)

Please sit in that truth, y’all. Please. The Bible gives us ONE THING to be known for in the world: how we love other people who say they love Him, too. “Love one another,” was said BY JESUS to John as a COMMANDMENT.

…(34) A new commandment I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so also you must love one another. (35) By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you love one another.”

Now, I know a lot of us are motivated by love when we moan and groan about the bathroom thing. We love people, we see a very real opportunity for people to be harmed, and we want to do something about it. At least, I do. I’m a sex abuse survivor. You bet your balloons I’m fired up about that situation. The very idea that my precious little boy or girl could be harmed by a predator taking advantage of an opportunity created – well, my heart speeds up and I get all mad just considering it.

But Barack Obama isn’t trying to hurt people. Target is not trying to hurt people. The irony is that they’re trying to NOT hurt people – the people whose brains don’t agree with their physical bodies. Can we acknowledge that? Can we recognize that someone whose actions we vehemently disagree with can still be motivated from a good place?

Because, when we do that – when we act like the loving people we are supposed to be – then an opportunity for discussion blooms. Hackles lower. No one is “evil” or “stupid” or whatever. Everyone comes in the room wanting the best thing, the kindest thing, for everybody.

That’s how we roll, y’all. Those of us who love Jesus, anyway. That’s how we roll. We see someone as worthy of us dying for. Every someone. Someones named Barack Obama or Hilary Clinton or Donald Trump or Brian Cornell. And we say, “Okay, look, I think I may understand what you’re trying to do here. Let’s see if we can come up with a way to do that, but not cause the unintended consequence of giving predators opportunities to take advantage…”

Because the checker on the frontlines at Target is probably a Jesus-lover, too. (There are millions of us, so chances are pretty good.) Or maybe the checker knows nothing of Jesus other than His folks are boycotting Target. And she is just trying to make enough money to buy groceries and enough kibble for the little Yorkie back at the apartment. Or he’s just scraping together enough to take a girl out on a date this weekend and not have the car run out of gas in the process. THOSE are the unintended consequences of your decision to boycott. You hurt them. And surely nobody involved in that boycott signed it because they want to hurt people. They signed it because they’re scared people in bathrooms will get hurt.

We’re all trying to do something good – how about we stand on that common ground, be kind to each other, and figure out a way to achieve both ends?

How about we see people as God does – worthy of dying for – and speak to them and about them from that place?

 

Why A Kiss Is Enough

With the release of my latest novella, SECOND GLANCE, some folks have noticed that I don’t tend to let my characters go too far (if at all) past kissing. Then they read my blog (especially that Morning Sex post) and decide I must be a prude. While that makes me laugh hysterically (and my husband gets a GIANT kick out of it), I’ve decided to reveal the reason behind my choice and explain here why kissing is such a big deal to me (and, by extension, my characters).

I am a sex abuse survivor. Doesn’t make me special – at least a quarter of the women in this country can (sadly) say the same thing. My husband and I were married for seven years before I voluntarily, spontaneously initiated a kiss between us.

Our son was five, our daughter nearly two. Over a year earlier, I’d seen our precious littles playing in the living room floor and been surprised by the thought, “They’re depending on me to teach them how to live. They need me to be healthy.” I knew I wasn’t healthy, mentally and spiritually, regarding physical love but I’d gotten by and had no intention of upsetting the applecart until that breathless moment when I understood that these little beings didn’t need to be affected by my past.

They were free of it.

And I wondered if I could be, too.

So, I embarked on a journey to deal with “the shit” as my husband and I came to call it. I apologize for the vulgarity. If ever there is a time to use a vulgar word as a descriptor, my past experience seemed to be it.

Fast forward nearly two excruciating/exhilarating years later, and I found myself walking through our breakfast room right through the space in which I’d stood contemplating my children’s need for a healthy mom. As I glanced across the room and into the kitchen at my husband, a strange feeling overwhelmed me. I couldn’t puzzle it out at first. I knew part of it to be love. I was feeling love for that man. But it took me several seconds to realize I had a God’s honest desire to kiss him because I loved him. I’d never had that!

I’d been standing there staring at him as I puzzled this out, which drew his attention. He turned his face toward me. “What?” he asked.

I walked over to him, tilted my face up to his, stood on my tiptoes, and kissed him. I’ll hold to decorum and just say here that we’ve been married nearly 12 years and we both remember that kiss.

Kissing is the most emotionally intimate of all physical acts. It is the hardest to ignore when it’s happening (trust me, I know) – much harder to divorce your brain from than sex. A kiss allows another human being into the space of your life from which you speak – and speaking is how everything came to be in the first place. Your mouth is both powerful and vulnerable, giving and receiving, all at the same time. A kiss says a million feelings and thoughts without uttering a spoken word.

I’ve kissed wrong. I’ve kissed right.

Done as it was intended by the Creator, kissing is powerful. It is definitely powerful enough for my characters to convey the depth of emotion and story needed to sweep a reader off her feet.

You know what I don’t find powerful? When two characters who met five milliseconds ago kiss for the first time and somehow that’s an immediate assumption that sex is wanted/needed/necessary/wise. With all the sex on tv and in films and books, I think the shock factor for writers today lies in revealing a kiss for what it genuinely was meant to be, and is.

Having worked very hard and finally come into the experiential knowledge of the power of kissing. I wish we writers could start giving the act its proper due.

So, I do.