In January, geese fly overhead Arrowing their way to the lake beyond the wood. They pass over And pass over And again, they pass over In their ones, their tens, their hundreds, Until breathless, you realize, their thousands have come and gone. They appear before dusk, when the clouds are soft and small, the sky pink like spun sugar, And they sing as they go, that wild, ululating cry.
They know nothing of plagues, or how the world has ground to an unstable halt; How in that grinding the Earth seems fit to tear itself apart. They know only that it is warm in January–warm enough to feign a spring, And perhaps they’re right. Perhaps it is spring, and we have shifted the seasons as we grind down the Earth. “Look,” you tell the small souls in your charge. “Look up from your books And see what they are teaching you. There is one, There is ten, There is a hundred, And a thousand.”
They look up with wonder in their eyes, and no book could teach this– How the finite can seem to last forever.
In 2019, I experienced a lot of creative setbacks. I got to the end of the year feeling like I needed to reconnect with why it is I write, and what I want to give to the world, both through writing and through the ways I choose to live.
So for my 2020 word of the year, I chose “inward.”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, WEYMOUTH
Look, I have gone inward in 2020. I have plumbed the depths of my own creative despair, been in buildings other than my house a grand total of 6 times, homeschooled my children, and had nearly zero contact with extended family and friends. I could not be more inward-facing at this point. I am VERY VERY ready for my year of turning inward to end.
The thing is, I chose “inward” for 2020 because I started the year feeling pretty much at capacity. I’d started to wonder if my words and being had actual worth; been pushed to what I thought was the edge of myself time management-wise; and I knew (or thought I knew) that 2020 would bring me a long awaited turning point. In the fall, both my kids would be in school for full days, and, for the first time since my oldest was born, I’d be able to routinely write during daylight hours.
The plan (in my folly, I love making plans) was to turn inward for the first half of the year–to weather the remainder of a busy half-day-preschool-and-full-day-first-grade schedule. And then in autumn, when school started again, I would burst out of the inward sanctum of my creative chrysalis, renewed, reinvented, reborn. I’d turn outward again. I’d expand my writing to categories beyond YA. I’d volunteer at the kids’ school, and build more community where I live, and…
Yeah.
Instead, this year was a struggle at every turn. And I know we’re all struggling, so for the most part on social media, I try to put peace into the world. I try to focus on and capture the moments of serenity. But it was hard. At every turn, it has been exhausting, and while I’ve turned inward through necessity, it was not the rejuvenating inward turn I envisioned. It has been about survival, not renewal.
In the midst of that, though, I recognize the accomplishments I made, the victories I won. I sold two YA novels, getting myself back on the publishing a book a year schedule I’ve always aimed for. I kept my kids happy and healthy and academically on track, in a much more stable way than they’d have experienced if I’d sent them to school (which isn’t to say that the decision to send kids to school this year is a flawed one–it simply would not have been best for my kids, who thrive on routine and don’t do well with distance learning). I have, finally, towards the end of this year, begun to be kind to myself once more, and to rest when I need rest, to stop when I need a pause.
It has all been hard. Every minute has been hard. I’ve experienced some adversity in life, and while there were moments of explosive crisis or great difficulty, I can’t recall a year that was as relentlessly draining and demoralizing as this one. There were those who suffered so much more, but I’ve never been a fan of scales of suffering. If you felt this year to be grueling and demanding, if you felt like you’ve left pieces of yourself behind, you deserve to sit with and process those emotions. Your experience is valid, even if there’s no definitive moment of overwhelming trauma to point to.
So. This year was for surviving, and I am far too cautious a person to claim next year for thriving, in any sense of the word. But I was in bed last night, in that half-awake place where moments of startling lucidity sometimes strike, and thinking about my children.
I thought about how, when they wake up, they come to me. It’s not because they need anything, necessarily, or because I can give them things they couldn’t get from around the house on their own. It’s because right now, at this age and stage, I’m their touchstone. It is not vanity but simple fact, to say that I am the small axis their world turns on, the defining feature of it.
Touchstone:
1: a fundamental or quintessential part or feature 2: a test or criterion for determining the quality or genuineness of a thing 3: a black siliceous stone related to flint and formerly used to test the purity of gold and silver by the streak left on the stone when rubbed by the metal
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
And then I thought of other touchstones–of the books or films or poems or places or experiences or people that have become defining parts of me, that prove or remind me of my own worth and quality and genuineness, and spur me on in the pursuit of personal betterment. Those things I return to, over and over again, because they serve as a litmus test for the presence of goodness and endurance and hope. I would, it is no exaggeration to say, be lost without such people, such words, such places and experiences.
That is what I want to ponder and explore in 2021. Touchstone people, touchstone moments, touchstone things. The little axes my universe turns on. What it means to live in such a way that you yourself can function as a touchstone for others, when necessary.
To me it is a word about guiding and illuminating, remembering and looking forward. And I am, albeit with some reservations after the difficulties of 2020, interested to see where this touchstone year leads.
The other day on Twitter I was asked about my writing process, and realized that I’ve never really talked or written about it before. Mostly because it’s always been less scientific than intuitive for me, but I’m going to try to list some of the things that are constants.
The Initial Spark
One of the first and most common questions writers get, both from other writers and non-writers, is “where do your ideas come from?” My ideas come from what I think of as an initial spark–something that sets off a chain reaction of “what ifs” in my brain that all coalesce to form a scene. That’s always how my books start–with a particular scene. It’s not always the opening, or the end. It can be anywhere in the story. But it gives me a glimpse of the world and characters and their dilemma, and serves as the thing I build around.
For instance, with The Light Between Worlds, the initial spark was reading a tweet where someone in publishing wished for a book about Susan Pevensie post-Narnia. I started thinking about what Susan’s life would have been like, and how a story like that could be framed–it couldn’t be about Susan herself, given that Narnia’s copyright hasn’t expired. But it could be about someone like Susan–someone in similar circumstances. At that point, the first scene struck me–of a lovely, put-together girl being approached by a stag in the middle of Trafalgar Square. That scene occurs at around the 75% mark of The Light Between Worlds, but it gave me the basics I needed to build the story–I had Philippa, her longing, her world in London, and the character of Cervus the stag, as well. Everything else grew out from that meeting.
With A Treason of Thorns, the initial spark was, of all things, a Twitter bot (I promise not everything I write starts on Twitter). It’s a fabulism-type bot which generates tweets about a mysterious, somewhat Gothic English garden. On a whim, I wrote a microfiction based on one of the tweets, about a girl in a sentient garden, waiting for suitors with a very odd friend. That scene became the basis for Violet and Burleigh House and Wyn.
Other sparks have been walking my dog and coming up with a scene in which a character is traveling on foot to a distant mountain, inhabited by a fearsome being her community views as a god. Nursing my oldest as an infant and imagining the first meeting between a queen and the wet nurse who would tend her children. Considering how I could reframe the fairytale The Wild Swans and being struck by an image, of a girl with black hair walking into the sea to beg for the lives of her missing kin.
The sparks that can kindle a story are all around us, so long as we view the world with curiosity, an openness to possibility, and consider that all-important question, “what if?”
Building a Framework
Once the concept for a story exists, I build the framework, or structure. This is where the well-known authorial designations of pantser, planner, and plantser come in (a pantser is someone who makes up stories as they go–flying by the seat of their pants. A planner plots everything prior to writing. A plantser does a combination of the two, planning some of the framework of the story, but leaving room for adjustment and embellishment).
I myself started out as a pantser. I’d use the instincts for story we all have, as individuals living in a media-saturated world, and craft a narrative that just felt right. Now that I write under deadlines, I’ve become that combination of a planner and a pantser. It’s easier at this point, to revise the structure of a story before I’ve gone to the trouble of writing the whole thing. I do, however, still write at least a few opening chapters before planning out the entire story. This lets me get a feel for the characters and world and central problem, which gives me a better grasp of the different forms the narrative could take. How much of the story I write before plotting can vary–anywhere from three or four chapters, to the entirety of the first act, though getting the whole first act done is my preference.
While I plot somewhat in advance now, I still do a lot of the creative work organically–I come up with the narrative in my mind, usually on country drives or walks–and then write a synopsis that covers all the key plot points I devised. My favorite resource for plot structure is the Save the Cat beat sheet, which you can find here. Once the framework of the story is complete, I revise the synopsis about eleven billion times with my agent and editor, until we come up with something that feels true to my initial concept of the book, while being sufficiently fast-paced (pacing is my Achilles’ heel, I would write books with no plot to speak of if left to my own devices!) After this, I draft the remainder of the story, staying more or less true to the synopsis. There’s still lots of room for filling in the blanks and finding surprises within and between the planned scenes, which appeals to the former pantser in me.
Research Rabbit Holes
I write primarily historical fantasy, which is absolutely wonderful because I get all the trouble and frustration of ensuring historical accuracy AND crafting a consistent magic system and mythos. I am, if nothing else, a glutton for punishment.
In order to make life somewhat easier, I tend to choose historical settings I have at least a passing familiarity with. This usually allows me to do an initial first draft with minimal research–just some fact-checking along the way to be sure of dates and distances, etc. But sometimes, I run into areas that need deeper study. Thus far, my most research-heavy book by far was The Light Between Worlds, thanks to my decision to set much of the second half in London’s National Gallery. I spent hours upon hours studying the Gallery’s history and learning the nuances and process of art restoration. At one point, I even reached out to a wonderful archivist at the Gallery, who provided me with floor plans for the Gallery in 1951, when The Light Between Worlds is set. When researching, feel free to go deep if that’s your preference–there are always details I know I can fudge because of the unlikeliness of any readers realizing I’ve done so, but for me, the knowledge that I’ve been as accurate as possible is a great feeling. I’m willing to put in the work for that.
The Disaster Draft
Once a story is fully drafted and the research primarily done and incorporated, I get feedback. Depending on what I wrote a piece for, this can be from critique partners or my agent or an editor. I always hope not to have to make massive structural changes–that is, after all, why I now write a synopsis to be critiqued and revised in advance. But even without overwhelming changes to structure, there’s always a lot of work to be done in the Disaster Draft.
The Disaster Draft feels like ruining your book.
There’s really no way around it. You take your first draft, which felt good and exciting and new and relatively cohesive, and tear bits of it out and Frankenstein other bits in, and it gets clunky and stops flowing nicely and you lose all perspective and spend a lot of time lying on the floor in despair, convinced you’ve wrecked everything and are a failure and will never meet your deadline.
……………………………Or at least I do.
However, the Disaster Draft is not ruining your book. I like to think of it this way–when the Old Masters painted, they created beautiful sketches to work from. The sketches were lovely and works of art in their own right. And then the Old Masters ruined them. They put blobs of paint on. They blocked in color. Everything began to look messy and unfinished and like a disaster, as they filled in the framework they’d created. But once the color was blocked in and they began to add detail, the painting took shape and became Art again. It never would have got there without that messy in-between stage.
So persevere–this too shall pass, even if you need to spend a lot of time on the floor to get through it.
The Magic Draft
For me, the Magic Draft is where everything finally comes together. All the Frankensteined bits and pieces are ready to be smoothed together, the stitches hidden, the details added. The Magic Draft is when I start to think, again, “Hey, I did pretty good! This is actually a great story!”
Depending on where you are in your growth as an artist and especially depending on the book, you may need multiple Disaster Drafts before you get to the magic. That’s okay, and normal. If you still believe in the story at hand, keep pressing on. Eventually, it will all come together. I have one concept which is incredibly dear to me that I’ve been trying to shepherd through the initial framework-building stage for *checks calendar* seven years. Obviously if you have a hard deadline to work through, you can’t let things breathe forever, but if that’s an option, take the time you need.
Eyes on the Horizon
One thing that will help maintain your forward momentum is to always have ideas on the backburner. I keep a file of story concepts, which I write out as three paragraph pitches built out around that initial spark and scene, and save for when I need them. At any given time, my preference is to have a minimum of one story being drafted, one being revised, and one for which I’m doing the cognitive work of planning–developing the story framework in my head. If the publishing fates smile, this allows for a seamless transition from one project to another, as you just move things up the list/to the next stage of development as progress is made. This is a practical application of the old adage about eggs and baskets–don’t pin your hopes to a single story idea. It’s not one story you’re building, it’s yourself a writer. There are always more concepts, even if you have to lay a dear one to rest.
And I think that’s all! Hopefully some of this was enlightening or helpful! If anything stood out to you in particular, or you have questions, feel free to let me know in the comments.
If you have poked around the blog here at all, you’ll undoubtedly have noticed that I’ve got a bit of a theme going as we head towards winter solstice and Advent. Light and darkness, darkness and light, the physical and literal, the spiritual and metaphorical meanings of the two, keep running around and together in my mind. It’s something I find myself contemplating every year at this time, but am especially preoccupied with in the midst of our current notable historical moment.
So I thought I’d write about books that served as light in darkness to me when I was a child, and about how they continue to shed light, in spite of their flaws. (If you want an unpacking of those flaws, this is not where it’s going to happen–I want to be up front about understanding my favorites have shortcomings, but if you’re looking for more than that at the moment, you’ll have to utilize your Google skills.)
Now that’s out of the way, let’s talk about wardrobes and witches and lions and faith.
illustration by Pauline Baynes
I don’t remember the first time I read the Narnia series. With other books, I have a definitive Moment of Discovery, but Narnia was always there, part of the background of my childhood. Likely, my mother read them to me before I could read myself. Presumably, I went on to read them on my own in first or second grade, as I did with all my favorite read alouds. But as far as memory serves, Aslan and the Pevensies and Eustace and Jill, Diggory and Polly and the many wonderful people of Narnia, were always there.
I do remember what struck me most strongly about the books, though, both as a child and a young person and an adult. It was, and is, the fierceness of the characters’ faith. Growing up in the Christian church, I learned by heart (at yet another dim, unremembered point) that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” And the faith of the people of Narnia, and of Narnia’s friends from our world, shone bright as the sun.
Lucy Pevensie, the darling of the series, is a goodhearted and compassionate and unimpeachably truthful girl. She’s also the first to demonstrate the series’ hallmark virtue. After visiting Narnia through the iconic wardrobe, she’s immediately (and understandably) misbelieved by her siblings. It would be easy for any of us, under those circumstances, to doubt. To question our own experiences, or recant for the sake of convenience and peace.
Lucy, however, does none of those things. Instead, she stays faithful regardless of the cost.
For the next few days she was very miserable. She could have made it up with the others quite easily at any moment if she could have brought herself to say that the whole thing was only a story made up for fun. But Lucy was a very truthful girl and she knew that she was really in the right; and she could not bring herself to say this. The others who thought she was telling a lie, and a silly lie too, made her very unhappy.
~The Lion, The Witch and the wardrobe
illustration by Pauline Baynes
Later on in the same story, we see faith exhibited by the beleaguered people of Narnia. Subjugated by a White Witch and cursed to endure the well known “always winter but never Christmas” (a sort of eternal January through March doldrums) the residents of Narnia have passed on, for a century, memories of their world before. Of “summer when the woods were green and old Silenus on his fat donkey would come to visit them, and sometimes Bacchus himself; and then the streams would run with wine instead of water and the whole forest would give itself up to jollification for weeks on end.”
It is not only memories of the old times the Narnians have passed down either–throughout the Witch’s reign, they remain steadfastly faithful that an end will come to her tyranny. That
Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death, And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.
~The Lion, the witch, and the wardrobe
As we know, the faith of the Narnians is well-rewarded.
But the vital moments of Lucy’s discovery of Narnia and Aslan’s salvation of his kingdom are not the only instances of Narnian faith. It characterizes them throughout the series–Shasta believes in the talking horse, Bree’s, assurance that their journey across a desert will lead to greater happiness. Caspian believes that the crew of his ship, the Dawn Treader, will find not just the seven missing lords of his father’s court, but also high adventure and lands beyond the known bounds of the world. Reepicheep, most valiant of all Narnians, sails past the world’s very ending, unshakeable in his belief that such an act of daring will lead not to his destruction, but to the discovery of Aslan’s Country.
illustration by Pauline Baynes
The most stirring exhibit of faith in the Chronicles of Narnia, though, occurs in The Silver Chair, one of the odder installments of the series. In it, Eustace Scrubb and Jill, children from our world, along with two companions–doleful Puddleglum and the ensorcelled Prince Rilian–are imprisoned in the underground domain of yet another Witch. There, the Witch lays a spell of music and fire upon them, designed to make them forget the world above entirely. But the faith of Narnians–even the humblest and most ordinary among them–is a hard thing to contend with.
“There never was such a world,” said the Witch.
“No,” said Jill and Scrubb, “never was such a world.”
“There never was any world but mine,” said the Witch.
“There never was any world but yours,” said they.
Puddleglum was still fighting hard. “I don’t rightly know what you all mean by a world,” he said, talking like a man who hasn’t enough air. “But you can play that fiddle till your fingers drop off, and still you won’t make me forget Narnia; and the whole Overworld too. We’ll never see it again, I shouldn’t wonder. You may have blotted it out and turned it dark like this, for all I know. Nothing more likely. But I know I was there once. I’ve seen the sky full of stars. I’ve seen the sun coming up out of the sea of a morning and sinking behind the mountains at night. And I’ve seen him up in the midday sky when I couldn’t look at him for brightness.”
…”Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children’s story.”
“Yes, I see now,” said Jill in a heavy, hopeless tone. “It must be so.” And while she said this, it seemed to her to be very good sense.
Slowly and gravely the Witch repeated, “There is no sun.” And they all said nothing. She repeated, in a softer and deeper voice. “There is no sun.” After a pause, and after a struggle in their minds, all four of them said together, “You are right. There is no sun.” It was such a relief to give in and say it.
…”Come, all of you,” (said the Witch.) “Put away these childish tricks. I have work for you all in the real world. There is no Narnia, no Overworld, no sky, no sun, no Aslan. And now, to bed all. And let us begin a wiser life tomorrow…”
The Prince and the two children were standing with their heads hung down, their cheeks flushed, their eyes half closed; the strength had all gone from them; the enchantment almost complete. But Puddleglum, desperately gathering all his strength, walked over to the fire. Then he did a very brave thing. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him quite as much as it would hurt a human; for his feet (which were bare) were webbed and hard and cold-blooded like a duck’s. But he knew it would hurt him badly enough; and so it did. With his bare foot he stamped on the fire, grinding a large part of it into ashes on the flat hearth…
…The sweet, heavy smell grew very much less. For though the whole fire had not been put out, a good bit of it had, and what remained smelled very largely of burnt Marsh-wiggle, which is not at all an enchanting smell. This instantly made everyone’s brain far clearer. The Prince and the children held up their heads again and opened their eyes…
“One word, Ma’am,” he (Puddleglum) said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. “One word. All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won’t deny any of what you said. But there’s one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things–trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”
~The Silver Chair
illustration by Pauline Baynes
Puddleglum’s demonstration of faith and determination is an extraordinary one, made all the more so by his temperament, which tends to melancholy and pessimism. But at his core, there is a staunch belief in the good and bright realm he’s come from, and a refusal to settle for less. He will accept no pale and hollow imitation of the real world, so long as even the idea of another and better reality remains. It is his relentless faith that overcomes the Witch’s insidious spell.
So what about us? Most of us have done our share of knocking on the backs of wardrobes, wishing for another world. Some of us have, despite the disappointing emptiness of cupboards and closets, retained faith in the existence of another world, someday, somehow. Some of us have lost that faith. But we all believe in something, and it’s not solely a religious concept, faith.
During high school, I had the privilege of taking a philosophy class taught by my school’s cleverest and most demanding teacher. He introduced us to Descartes’ cogito ergo sum–I think, therefore I am, the one and only premise that philosophy has ever been able to definitively prove. Because I think, I know I must exist somewhere, in some form. Everything else, my philosophy teacher informed the classroom of alternately bored or riveted students, is a matter of basic belief.
Of faith.
Philosophically, the very world we treat as undeniable, and the input of our senses, are all basic beliefs. All matters of faith. We have faith that what we perceive is real. We have faith that the world will continue to turn just as it has always done, and, on an even more basic level, that our world exists at all.
Faith underpins everything we do, whether we recognize it or not.
illustration by Pauline Baynes
I see, all around me, a pale and hollow world, shot through with threads of glory. It is Narnia in winter–at once the memory of something better and the potential for greater things. Perhaps my vision is skewed. Perhaps my faith is misplaced. Perhaps we are little better than animals, and my beliefs that “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” and that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice” will ultimately be proved foolish.
The truth is, I don’t much care. I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. And I plan to spend my life not just looking for Overland–for a better and brighter and more just world. However I can, whenever it lies within my power, I will work to begin bringing that brighter world about.
Because true faith is not just a matter of nebulous belief. True faith acts, like Puddleglum the Marsh-wiggle. True faith carries on, like Caspian and Reepicheep. True faith persists in the face of doubt, like Lucy Pevensie. And true faith–in our capacity to do better and be better, and in a brighter world–well. That sort of faith builds. With words or paint or laws or lessons taught or kindness given, assistance offered. That faith cannot stay idle; it is the occupation of a lifetime.
I hope to spend my life working faithfully. I hope to do so alongside you.
Sending you all love and light as the days grow darker, Laura
I don’t know how to say any of what I want to say here. I have held it close for years and tried to find a shape or words for it, and been constantly unable to. But I think I need to try.
It is Wednesday, November 4th 2020 and the US presidential election has yet to be decided. I know, though, that whatever happens, however the next 4 years look, I will be quietly devastated. I have been for ages now, while I watch the churches and faith leaders that I grew up respecting and heeding, give way to some of the worst human instincts.
I have walked out of sermons where a white preacher railed on Colin Kaepernick’s decision to kneel, only to go on and say nothing about racial injustice or borders shut to refugees or babies torn from their families for the offense of trying to seek sanctuary in America. I have heard professing Christians speak the name of Jesus in one breath and describe the poor and stateless as poison with the next. I have heard law enforcement praised and supported by my faith community while not a word is ever said about black brothers and sisters lying dead in the street. At every turn, those who strive to work for justice and equity have been described by the evangelical churches that I grew up in as rioters or rebellious, people unsubmissive to authority, as if submission to government at any cost is the linchpin salvation rests on, rather than a relentless love for God and others.
I have seen church leaders hound and denigrate women who speak up on behalf of their own gender–demeaning their attempts to draw attention to the disrespect and abuse of our sex that goes on within sacred spaces. I have seen those same leaders cling to power with stomach-turning desperation, willing to do whatever is necessary in order to maintain their position and influence. They have shown themselves ready to support anything–pride, profanity, adultery, blatant hatred of others that has led to death and chaos and deep-rooted bitterness on a national scale–all for the sake of one thing.
Religious liberty, applied only to themselves.
And I don’t think that in this life, my heart will ever mend. This is the church that taught me “Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit, but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than himself.” That pointed me to Jesus, who reserved his harshest words for religious leaders who sought their own advancement at the expense of the needy and the wronged. Who called such leaders “broods of vipers” and “whitewashed tombs”, and drove those who profited from their faith out of his house with righteous anger and a scourge. Who touched the unclean, who loved the unlovable, who chose to spend his time with sex workers and former con artists and social outcasts. Who summed up the law and all the prophets in four words.
Love God. Love others.
The thing is, I paid attention. I listened. I believed. I took every word to heart. I still trust implicitly in the God presented to me by a church that has shown itself to be run through by hatred and decay. But I cannot trust an institution that for years now, has striven against the interests of those it has a sacred duty to honor and defend.
The poor. The unhoused. The sick. The despairing. The desperate.
There is more to defending life and dignity than the unborn. The children struggling through a pandemic in this nation, falling through the cracks of our imperiled social safety nets because they were born into poverty, or waiting in immigration facilities for families that may never be found, or living in fear that they may be shot because of the color of their skin, all deserve the advocacy and support of those who claim to follow a man who said “let the little children come to me.”
I don’t know what to say anymore. Nothing seems to make much difference, in the conversations I have. I’ve run out of ways to attempt to convey that Christianity has always been beautiful–is still beautiful–because it demands that its adherents practice radical compassion and understanding: a willingness to listen, and to love without parameters, and to put the needs of others before their own, even unto death.
Not religious liberty, but religious self-sacrifice.
I am heartbroken over what the evangelical church has shown itself to be.
