Post Ant Man and the Wasp (no spoilers, promise)

It’s been a hella busy July at our house. The girl child went to camp. I worked a lot. Then I went to NYC for a few days. Then there were various appointments to get to and now there’s “back to school” talk in the air already and I’m starting to get that panicky “What did I forget?” feeling just about every day (aside from my normal, “Where are my keys? Have you seen my phone? Augghh! I need to get gas!).

My yard is not anywhere near as pretty or well-groomed as I would like it to be, and for three summers now I have missed the garden I once had with squash and peppers and herbs and eggplants all growing so beautifully. Thank goodness for the retired cop who at least keeps the grass mowed for a modest fee once a week. His retirement side hustle is basically my salvation.

My room at home has been half-painted for a month. Major props to Neana for rallying the paint can and brushes while I was away and finishing the job.

My house is neat–but it ain’t clean, y’all. Not by a long shot.

And I often–often–feel as if I am letting those around me down…because the juggling act of a busy life sometimes means you drop a ball. And I despise dropping balls…the grace I extend to others in this area is not mine to receive (apparently).

Meanwhile, you know, our country is still in utter chaos and people are still mean and snarky and cruel, and life is scary and sometimes awful things happen and lives are broken and things are hard and money is tight and relationships suffer and hate seems to rage and selfish sometimes wins.

Because…you know…life. 


And so yesterday, a rainy and muggy Sunday, me already tired from a full morning’s work, was the perfect day for a movie. Specifically one the Curly Girl and some of our favorites had been DYING to see: Ant Man and the Wasp, Marvel’s much-anticipated sequel to Ant Man (which was also a big hit in our house). All five of us watching together loved it, and anytime a movie appeals equally to ages 8-46, you can pretty much call it winning.

It was a welcome break from the chaos. The weighty things. The every day rat race of trying to balance work and home and everything in between. We got to sit. And breathe. And just be…while a wonderful story unfolded in front of us.

If you don’t do “superhero movies,” it’s easy to mark them off as merely child’s play, shallow fantasy, or pure fluff. And all I can say about this is to each their own, but you’re missing out on some incredible storytelling. And the Ant Man story is no exception. I mean, sure, he has this super cool suit that means he gets to minimize to ant size and get just about anywhere to solve just about any issue and destroy just about any force of evil. That’s badass enough. But also? He’s a dad. A single one at that. Who has been unfairly treated by the “justice” system. And who wants nothing more than to be with his beautiful little girl and maybe have a second chance at love and life.

Ant Man (Paul Rudd plays him ladies–need I say more?) is so gorgeously complicated on the one hand, and yet so completely simple on the other in his desire to be a good friend, make a decent living, be the best father he can be, and risk the beauty of falling in love again. And all I could think as the scenes flashed before me was, “This is life. In all its struggle and all its charm and all its shattered dreams and all its hope…this is life. And this man…he could be any of us, just trying desperately to do our best.”

And I immediately breathed a prayer of thanks for the normalcy of the moment. The realness of being in a normal theater on a normal day with people I care about so much and with a reminder of all that is good about this life playing out on the giant screen in front of me.

There’s a scene toward the end where a character I spent the first 3/4 of the movie hating suddenly becomes so human…so real in her pain and anger…it’s impossible to hate her when you realize that she’s hurting so deeply, and is so afraid. She tries to run off alone, to escape the pain she’s caused others…and her friend won’t let her. “I will not leave you,” he says.

I. Will. Not. Leave. You.

Y’all–if you have one person…even just one…in your life who will say this to you, who will promise to never leave you, no matter how much you may hate yourself, no matter what awful things you may have done, no matter how unworthy you feel…if you’ve got someone who will say that to you…hold on to that person. With everything you’ve got. 

Because this is what matters. Above everything else. And especially over and against the things that threaten to tear us apart. What matters is holding hands and sticking together. What matters is understanding that we belong to each other and that we are so much stronger together, when we stand in each other’s corners, and sit with each other’s pain, and help each other move forward into whatever is next. What matters is not facing it all alone.

Movies like Ant Man use fantasy to help us understand what is real. Throwing on a high-tech suit that’ll give you super powers? Probably fantasy. But being your daughter’s hero? Helping family find each other again? Opening your heart to the possibility of love? Rebuilding after you’ve lost everything you once dreamed of? That’s real. That’s completely and absolutely real. 

And, somehow, that gives me some hope. 







Big Feelings

I have never been one to hide what I am feeling very well.

(I also have RBF* and sometimes that gets misconstrued as me being angry, when I am totally not, but that’s another story…).

As one person who knows me very well says, “I mean, Jules, your face, it’s about as subtle as Times Square.”

Go ahead. You can laugh. 

Because it’s true. I have, what the school-age son of a dear friend of mine calls, Big Feelings.

Big. Feelings. And that means that on any given day, my heart breaks about a thousand times. And if you work with me, or are a regular part of my life in any way, man, I’m so sorry, because I’m sure it’s exhausting. Another person I know calls it being a “weeper,” and perhaps this is true. I express just about every emotion with tears: anger, sadness, joy, love, rage, frustration, heartache. Also if I am saying anything at all remotely important to me I’m likely to choke up.

I generally immediately apologize for the tears. I know they make a good number of folks uncomfortable. But trust me, they don’t need fixing. Or drying. You just have to roll with it, and get that I am having a Big Feeling and it must be expressed or I’ll likely explode.

There are times this really gets me in trouble (hence the sorry). Sometimes, the Big Feelings completely overtake me and I wind up trying to explain it. This is never a good idea. Because I sometimes say things that don’t need to be said. Or lose all perspective and wind up saying foolish and selfish things. Or make mountains out of molehills. Or basically just become irrational.

File those moments under #thingsJuliewishesshehadhandledbetter .

But here’s the thing I’m learning–or at least trying to. We’re all pretty jacked up. For all sorts of reasons, and generally the world asks us to set the jacked-up-ness aside, soldier up, and keep at it. And there’s some value in this–in being able to carry on with your life and work even though you feel like you might be dying inside.

Still, I think we often ask too much ourselves, and “bucking up buttercup” too often means being fake–both to ourselves and to the world around us. And I have to tell you, at age 43, I’ve had enough of fake. The moment we choose to be truer to our notion of what those around us want us to be than we are to ourselves, we become less of the person we were meant to be.

No matter how big they are, your feelings, they are yours. And you’re allowed.

I want to be clear that Big Feelings are no excuse for being an asshole. You don’t get to ruin everybody else’s day with your baggage and/or emotions. And you don’t get to treat others like crap just because you’re having a bad day. Have your feelings–but don’t force them on everyone around you. I’ve been guilty of this in my life–and always regret it.

You may be wondering why this matters enough to me to write about. I mean, come on, Jules–there’s a whole lot wrong with the world and you want to write about feelings?

Yea. I do. Because, yes, there is a whole lot wrong with the world. And we are all so very broken. And every day, it seems, we find a new reason to lash out at one another–the frequency with which we do that on social media, especially, is terrifying to me. It’s as if our Big Feelings give us license to attack and dehumanize anyone who doesn’t affirm or agree with us. And this is tearing at the fabric of our communities with deadly accuracy and consistency.

And sometimes the pendulum swings to the other side, and we find ourselves so afraid of offending someone and their feelings that we fail to even speak honestly or grapple with difficult situations with any integrity or courage. Also not helpful.

It’s such a fine balance–feeling what we feel and also recognizing that everyone else has baggage too and it might be real different than ours; feeling what we feel and also trying to pay attention to the feelings of those around us; feeling what we feel and trying to figure out what’s appropriate to share and act upon and what’s not.

Big. Feelings.

For me, what it boils down to is this (and let me just say real quick I rarely get this right…still…I’m working on it):

  1. Be you. Fully you. With all your flaws and all your awesomeness. And realize that for some people YOU may be too much. Or too wrong. Or too…YOU. These people are not the ones you hold on to.
  2. Big Feelings are real. And feeling them is honest. But you gotta find a way to put it all in perspective.
  3. This world is friggin’ angry. Especially our corner of it. And I swear to you that simple human decency and kindness is our only way out. Don’t be a jerk. Just don’t. (And yes, I made a note to self, here!).
  4. You are not responsible for another person’s feelings. But that doesn’t mean actively seeking to hurt another is okay either. See #3 (don’t be a jerk).
  5. Sometimes you just gotta step back. Hit the pause button. Take a breath. And remember that you are HERE. You are YOU. You are ALIVE. And it will somehow be okay.
  6. Care for each other, y’all. Shelter each other. We’re all on edge. And raw. And jumpy. And the tension of both our personal lives and the general state of our country right now has us all uptight. So…love harder. Feel deeper. Remember that as long as we’re loving each other all is not lost.

Look, this has rambled, I know–maybe chalk it up to my own BF’s…but maybe also try to notice your own. And how they both help and maybe sometimes wreak havoc in your life. And as you do, remember…we’re so much more alike, feelings and all, than we will ever be different.

Breathe, friends. You’ve got this. 

*Resting Bitch Face–it’s a thing, trust me.





Rupture and Repair

There’s a hinge on one of the cabinet doors in my kitchen that is loose. And as a result, the door doesn’t close properly. It needs repair.

So does the shutter that got ripped off the side of my house in a storm last week. And the shed in my backyard that is crumbling from years of neglect (although the sweet creamsicle-orange kitty that has taken up sometimes residence in it doesn’t seem to mind). And the spot on my deck where the former owners thought it would be a brilliant idea (sarcasm font) to stack up 30-some concrete blocks around a whole lot of dirt and build up a “garden” on the deck.

Because this is what it is to be a home owner–a series of repairs. There is always something breaking, something wearing out, something on the fritz. Lucky me, I’ve got some good folks around who help with the things I can’t figure out, and a dad who isn’t too far away and doesn’t mind doing what he can either.

This morning I had a long overdue conversation with a dear friend–we live ten hours apart and haven’t talked nearly enough in the last few months. So it was one of those, “How’s this and how’s that and what’s new?” convos that lasted an hour and went super fast and wasn’t nearly long enough.

We talked about heartache. The things that have left us broken. The things and people that are helping us heal. We talked about how hard it is to trust again after things have shattered and how fear is often so much easier to listen to than hope. Especially when it comes to relationships and the possibility of being fulfilled and joyful again.

“Rupture and repair” is the image we settled on for what life often seems like–a series of ruptures and repairs. Like a house, only with a lot more pain and soul-ache and intensity and long-lasting effects.

Rupture is deeply, profoundly painful. It’s what volcanos do, after all. Aortic valves. Cysts.  Pipelines. They burst when ill or faulty or active and the result is generally chaos and a long recovery.

Sometimes our souls rupture. Our very beings. Our hearts feel like they might quite literally burst with the anguish or anger that comes with what’s happening and how, after all, do you stem the rushing tide of a ruptured life? How do you put back together whatever’s left in some way that points toward a future?

How do you pull yourself off the floor of your existence, where you’ve fallen and huddled, small and afraid and broken, and stand upright again? With eyes clear enough to see new possibility and a heart whose bruises have healed just enough to imagine love and joy and hope again?

There’s no handyman–or woman–for that y’all. No trip to Lowes for just the right parts. No DIY video on YouTube or Pinterest.

Nope–there is only the slow, steady, determined work of the human spirit–a most tenacious and scrappy spirit if there ever was, when it sets it mind to something.

And there is grace–like a gentle summer rain, falling softly on the parts that ache the most, filling up the cracks and fissures of our souls with its redemptive mercy, and helping us find life again.

And if you’re lucky enough, as I am, to have someone in this with you, to have a helper and support and true companion who will stand with you through it…well, then stop and say “thank you” right now, because this is no small thing.

The breaking will happen again, y’all. Over and over. Because this is what life does. It breaks us. In a thousand ways, both small and mighty. And sometimes it will seem that you cannot survive the breaking.

But you can. You will. Repair is possible, and with every repair, every effort at wholeness, you become, I believe, an even more beautiful version of the person you were made to be in the first place.

The rupturing does not get the last word. Because it is in the repairing that we find what it means to be fully alive, the scars from what has been testaments to strength we didn’t know we had. A promise, of sorts, that on the other side of what we thought would destroy us, is, it turns out, goodness and grace beyond measure.



That day I heard (a whole bunch of) deeply devoted raucous soccer fans sing Rodgers and Hammerstein…

I first knew the song from the musical Carousel. A Rodgers and Hammerstein classic that,  per usual with that duo, is not all sweetness and light but has some dark and meaningful undertones about what it means to live this beautiful/brutal life. Gut-wrenching, really, with music that gets right under your skin and stays there.

You’ll Never Walk Alone is maybe the most famous chorus from the musical–I first learned it in high school, and I think sang it with my college choir, too. Regardless, I’ve known the words by heart for 25 years now.

What I did not know, until maybe a year and half ago, is that You’ll Never Walk Alone, albeit an edgier, less meticulous, version of it is the anthem of the Liverpool Football Club.

I’m not even going to try to give you a history of LFC. Or explain why they are such an endearing, motley crew of blind-devotion fans. If you really are a curious, here’s a bit on how You’ll Never Walk Alone (heretofore YNWA, per LFC’s way of denoting it) came to be their jam. But I can’t even begin to explain it all–partly because sports-talk has never been my thing (and I can’t even pretend to know all the lingo), but also because I honestly feel like I’m way too new to this party to have any street (pitch?) cred at all in talking about it.

But here’s an example of how deep it runs: over Spring Break, while lounging by a pool in Destin, I saw a man with an LFC shirt on–and I said, “Hey! You’re a Liverpool fan!” And I swear to you, we talked for 15 minutes, and by the time the convo was over I knew his name, his daughter’s name, and that–lo and behold–they were actually from here in Louisville and our kids go to the same school. 

I can’t even make that up, y’all. This white Southern woman met and had a lively conversation with a native Middle Eastern man whose child goes to the same school as mine, in another state, because of an English soccer team with super colorful history.

How’s that for global diplomacy?!?

And then there was this past Saturday, where I found myself at a watch party for the final Champions League game at local Irish bar. Liverpool v. Real Madrid. A big freaking deal. We arrived a half hour before game time. And already it was loud. Electric. Barely controlled chaos. Guinness was flowing liberally and bright LFC jerseys and scarves stretched as far as you could see. A friend I hadn’t seen in forever hollered my name over the din and we exchanged greetings, the folks he was sitting with suddenly friends because we were all there for the same reason, and for the same team.

We had to scrounge for seats, and I am eternally grateful to this completely colorful and wonderful Englishman who got us situated, and also grateful for the one bartender who paid any attention to my charming (well, I tried for charming) “two Black and Tans, please” and so helped me get to my seat, cold beers in hand, just in time.

Just in time for YNWA.

I’ve heard about it. I’ve watched videos of LFC fans singing it with their damn hearts on fire at Anfield, LFC’s home. I’ve listed to recordings of it. I’ve heard about it, you know? So I knew it was a big deal. I knew it was a thing.

I was in no way shape or form prepared to really experience it. To feel what it was like for a 100 Liverpool fans to raise their voices in earnest love and admiration for their boys in red in the back room of an old bar, wooden rafters bursting with the reverb of the sound, chills running down my spine, and complete strangers throwing arms around one another in perfect accord.

“…walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown, walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone…”

I was in tears before the first verse was over, completely overwhelmed with the spirit of it, the tightly knit community of it. The raw love inherent in the full-throated singing of the lyrics. I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Even as I felt like a bit of an outsider from my own perspective, I knew that everyone around me didn’t feel that about me. I was there. A red LFC scarf thrown around my neck. I was smiling through those tears and it wasn’t hard for us all to catch each other’s eyes, grin big, and keep singing. With all we had.

I promise you, not a damn one of those people cared, in that moment, who I voted for in the last election. Or what I did for a living. Or what socioeconomic status I fall into. Or whether or not I’ve been divorced or broken or down on my luck. Or what color my skin is. Or who I am in a relationship with. Or why I’d even shown up. At that moment, I was part of it. I was theirs, part of something so much bigger than myself, with more history, more far-reaching effect, more momentum, than I could ever muster for anything on my own.

It was the truest, purest form of community I have seen in longer than I can remember. 

Liverpool lost the match–in some really heartsick moments. Plus their star player, and the great hope of the entire nation of Egypt for this year’s World Cup, was seriously injured before the first half was over. So it was a somber lot that cleared that bar two hours after we’d sung its roof down–but even the somberness had its sense of togetherness–squeezes on the arm, pats on the back, a head nod from someone I’d just met as if to say, “Glad you were here…next time we’ll get them.” But maybe the best thing were the words LFC’s own captain spoke post game, when, in an interview, he was asked to comment on the mistakes of individual players that perhaps had led to the loss, “We lose as a team,” he said.

We lose as a team.

Damn if the United States of America, hell, the whole world, and even our individual cities, school systems, and churches couldn’t learn a lot from Liverpool Football Club. 

A scrappy European football team, drenched in history as fighters, as a tightly knit clan of blood brothers and sisters, their whole hearts poured into their life together. The things they could teach us.

If we cared, at all, to listen. 






IMG_0275Lemme tell y’all how I feel about the long, choking, vine-y weeds one finds here in Kentucky. They may be all over the place, but I’ve never seen anything like them until I first tried to maintain a yard here.

I despise them.

They pop up out of nowhere. Innocuous and tiny one day, like huge ropey snakes the next, threatening to squeeze the life out of whatever flower or shrub they’ve wrapped themselves around. There are many types of weeds…I know this. But this particular brand–whatever it’s called (and I do not care) makes me crazy.

It’s almost rage, and it bubbled right up when I saw that this one had begun wrapping itself around one of my azalea bushes, when I swear to you that two days ago the damn weed was not even there!

Gah. Despise. 

The only word for them is insidious–persistent in their quiet destruction, escalating to a major chore over a few steaming hot days and one hard rain.

I ripped this thing out of the ground so hard. So fast. Maybe said a few colorful words as I did, realizing it isn’t even June yet, so a whole bunch of these things will rear their ugly pervasive heads over the next few months. They have to be dealt with posthaste. Forthwith (just like Danny Reagan says a least once an episode on Blue Bloods). If you don’t…well…they thrive, and the next thing you know Grandma’s daisies are getting a boa constrictor type of treatment.

I know–I know what you’re thinking. It’s just a weed. A simple growing thing that you’ve already plucked right out. Chill, Jules. 

But y’all, there’s the thing–they remind me of so many things in this life–So. Many. Things.–that have the same effect on us, both as individuals and as communities.

Things like grief. Shame. Rage. If such things are not dealt with, resolved, talked through so that they no longer control the landscape of your life…in the end, they will strangle any possibility of hope or joy.

Things like hate. Greed. Narcissism. These guys–I mean good lord how they can rip apart lives and communities, wrapping their tentacles of manipulation and isolation around us until we can’t even breathe with any ease at all, so tense and afraid and angry we become.

Things like shattered dreams–the way they keep flashing in front of us in bouts of sorrow or occasional nightmares or moments of “what might have been,” so much that we are unable to move forward, out of what we feel has wrecked our lives and into what might be waiting for us on the other side of the wreckage.

We were made for so much more. Hardwired, as Brene Brown says, for connection; created to live in love. And weeds–my metaphorical ones, anyway–they cut us off from the very things we need to live, and corner us into lesser versions of ourselves.

I had a very conscious thought tonite as I tore at the very root of that weed, pulling with vigor, determined to get it, that I could just as easily be pulling at any number of situations or experiences that have been cause for sadness or anger or frustration or fear.

We all have them. 

But here’s what I know: it’s possible to pull the suckers out; or, at least, talk them out, work them out, figure them out, so that they are no longer so threatening, no longer able to dominate our hearts, no longer able to keep us from being all that we were meant to be.

And yes, they’ll pop back up from time to time. But you’ll learn to see them coming. Learn to grab ’em while they are just tiny little thoughts and not great huge monsters. You’ll clear them out, quicker this time.

And when you do, you will find that what is left is space for grace to do its mighty, merciful work of pulling back together the pieces of your heart, so that goodness has room to riot again. 


Good Bones

A writing friend and clergy colleague gifted me with a poem this week. Perhaps you’ve heard it before. It’s by Maggie Smith and it reads:

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

I’ve read it maybe a dozen times in the last 24 hours, and placed it in every context of my life as truth.

I remembered standing, well over a year ago, in the front room of what would become Curly Girl’s and my home, the place filthy and neglected, my eyes taking it all in and my heart feeling this strange patter of “This is it,” and my realtor, who has known me for years, watching me, and saying, “You see something, don’t you, Julie?”

I remembered CG and I yelling at each other one recent, stressful evening, the way headstrong mothers and daughters sometimes do, both of us just out of sorts and irritated at the whole world. “I didn’t know I could talk to you like that,” she said, mollified, as I sat there, stunned at at the truth that she really is no longer a baby and we are so much more alike than anyone realizes. “It’s okay,” I said, “It will probably happen again. And it will be okay, and we will always get through it. Because I love you, no matter what.” And we both cried. And then laughed–loudly–at ourselves.

I remembered words I wish I hadn’t said. Situations I wish I’d handled differently. Relationships I have lost and ones I have found and how quickly life can change and how different it can feel after trauma or loss. I remembered how much I get wrong in this life.

I remembered my fears for this world we live in and what’s going to become of us, especially in these United States, if we keep up this insistence on political and idealogical hatred and division. And I remembered everything I love about being an American.

I remembered everything I fear for my daughter–because this whole world, this whole life, can be a real shithole, and I am very guilty of selling her a framework of beauty and hope, even as she has known the truth that sometimes the beauty and hope get dashed against the realities of heartache and betrayal.

Damn if I don’t believe Smith’s words with all I’ve got. That this life, this world, this journey we’re on–it’s got good bones. Just like our sweet little Cape Cod with it’s oddities and quirks and chipped hardwood floors. Just like the relationships that have held. Just like a mother and daughter who might rail against each other but who also have an unbreakable bond born of a love that cannot ever be destroyed. Just like our country–where so much good has happened right alongside so much evil.

For every moment of mercy there is one, it seems, of destruction. I know this–I see it every day. And yet, I believe the mercy will win.

Because we have good bones. 

I still believe that love is worth risking. That new beginnings are possible. That we can love each other better. That we can be who God intended us to be. That all is not lost.

Because we have good bones.

I know–there’s all sorts of evidence to the contrary. So much is wrong. But I want to sell us all the world, invest in it deeply, so that we are determined to protect our investment and make it beautiful.

Wherever you’ve got good bones–in your family, your relationships, your homes, your communities, your workplaces–honor them. Cling to them. Trust that there is a foundation around you that will not fall. That you are held in the grip of something bigger than you. And that in this is the strength you need to do the beautiful-making.

It’s possible to make this place beautiful. 



Because love does not have an agenda. Full stop.

“Loving people means caring without an agenda. As soon we have an agenda, it’s not love anymore.” — Bob Goff, Everybody Always


Friday night my house was full of some of my most favorite people. People who I can honestly say love me just for me. I am profoundly thankful for this gift, and probably do not tell them often enough how much it matters to me. I mean, I’m a lot y’all, and at any given moment can be equally as on-the-verge of tears and laughter as I am righteous indignation or complete frustration. Jacked up like we all are, and so not so easy to love, much of the time.

What I’m saying is, if you’ve got such people, hold on to them. Tight as hell. It is not to be taken for granted.

Because here’s the thing: if there are conditions attached, it is not love. And if there is an agenda at work (no matter how subtle and well-meaning) it is also not love (thanks, Bob Goff).

It might be care. It might be affection. It might be a very good-hearted effort at wanting to help someone. But it is not love.

Whether you’re talking about romantic love or friendship love or family love or the kind of love we claim to have if we’re people of faith–love is not about fixing. Love is not about changing. Love is not about asking a person to be someone they’re not.

I cannot tell you how hard the way I have learned this has been. I used to believe that if I loved hard enough, I could change a person. If I could just say the right words, act the right way, do the right thing, everything hard and complicated would go away and everything would come up roses and kittens and sunshine.

Long story short: not so much. You can’t really love a person if you’re out to do such fixing, such changing…because if that’s what you’re after, there’s an agenda at stake. And the end result will not be what you’ve imagined.

I promise. Trust me on this.

Look, people are messy. And this makes life even messier. And there is no way around that. And sometimes, you just have to sit in the mess, get right down in the muck with your friend or family member or significant other and allow that, “Yea, this moment we’re in? It sucks. It’s awful. And scary. And maybe we could have even avoided it with some different decisions or actions along the way. Then again, maybe not.”

And then you just sit. You stay. You promise, “I love you,” and you promise that without any goal in mind except the one that matters most: presence.

Presence is maybe the best expression of love. “Holding space,” you sometimes hear it called–this idea that the best we can offer someone is our nonjudgmental, constant, unconditional, prayerful presence in the midst of whatever life has handed her. And no matter what demons he is battling.

(NOTE: Just so we’re clear, I’m not talking about staying in harmful relationships, or toxic friendships, or enabling addicts or narcissists or abusers or other forms of painful relationship here. Sometimes, the very best decision you can make is the one to walk away.)

We’re super good at throwing the word “love,” around. We talk a big game about “peace and love,” and loving past politics and socioeconomic divides and different ways of living our lives. And mostly I think this is total BS. Because so, so often, I think we secretly (and arrogantly) hope that whoever we are professing to love “just as they are,” will actually become what we wish that person was–someone who believes like we do or acts like we want them to act or…whatever, you get my point.

Non-BS loving just says, “I love you,” and leaves it at that. Just, “I love you.” Just like you are. Even when you are getting on my last nerve. Even when I see you being your own worst enemy. Even when the ugliest parts of you are on display (because I know the most beautiful ones, too).

I have been very guilty of BS-love. Maybe you have too.

A very wise pastor once said to me, “Julie, you have many gifts. But what I hope more than anything for you is that you one day discover that YOU are the real gift. Just you. No matter what you can do for others, no matter what talents you have, no matter what things you accomplish–YOU are the gift.”

I’ve held on to his words as, at this point in my life, I’ve sought out relationships that are not dependent on what I can do or produce or make happen or excel at. Relationships that value just me…as broken and jumbled and messy as I am.

The thing is, when we learn to love without agenda, without seeking change, when we truly love someone where she’s at, or simply for who he is, the result is that we learn to love ourselves the same way.

And this is everything. Because we have been fearfully and wonderfully made.

There’s a man in my life who means a great deal to me, and a few weeks ago, he took me to a family gathering, where I’d be meeting one of his cousins–a lifelong best friend cousin who is very important to him.

I said, “I think I’m a little nervous. I mean, this is family that’s so important to you. I don’t want to mess up.”

And he said, “Just be you.”

Just be you.

Three little words, packing a mighty punch.

Y’all, if we could say this to each other, to ourselves, every day, and really mean it, really live it…good lord. I cannot even imagine what a difference it would make.

Just be you. And let those you profess to love just be them. With everything I am, I have come to believe that it is only through this kind of non-BS, non-agenda, real loving that we’ve got any hope of moving past division, brokenness, and pain, and into the truth of what it means to set aside our agendas, our arrogance, our determination that our ways are the best ways, and our insistence on our own false certainties, and discover something much more beautiful and whole–maybe, even, everything good about what it means to be human.

It is a hard thing, what I’m suggesting. As hard for me as anyone. But I think it matters more than we can even begin to know.

With love, y’all. — JER







Wakonda/LPAS Mashup

Last weekend I finally saw Black Panther. It’s intense, for sure, and like every Marvel movie I’ve seen so far (having only relatively recently been converted to fandom), has some really amazing things to say about what it means to be human, what it means to live in community, what it means to watch each other’s back and hold on (hard) to your tribe. I’m stunned and inspired by the way these stories, often dismissed as “just comics,” speak with such depth and clarity to so much of what is both awful and beautiful about this life.

The Monday morning after came early, as I took off on a long-anticipated(in our house), albeit quick, trip. Three busloads of 5th graders and a appropriately corresponding number of chaperones. 6am Monday to 9pm Tuesday. City Museum, the St. Louis Arch, pizza and arcade games, the St. Louis Zoo and the Cahokia Mounds (Google it—I had no idea!).

Exhausted just thinking about it, aren’t you?

I could tell you some funny stories. And there are certainly some inside jokes that will go down in history. And a minor tween crisis averted here or there that would make for good storytelling. But what I really want to be sure to say is this: I just experienced close to 150 fifth graders and their parents and teachers being tribe.

Tribe. It’s your people. The ones you hold accountable and are accountable to. The ones you don’t always like but that you always love. The ones who know you and love you anyway, or maybe don’t know you well at all but choose to love you because you are THEIRS.

And I feel like what I’ve known these last 36 hours is a particular sort of tribe—it’s a chosen tribe, a tribe forged out of these kids and their teachers working hard for the last several years at taking care of each other while they learned their lessons and sang their songs and played their instruments and acted on their stage. It’s a tribe born of a vision of some very talented and compassionate and capable leaders who then set about making that vision a reality. Truthfully, we won’t all stay in touch, and with the school year almost over some of us may never see each other again, but that doesn’t change that we’ve walked these last two days together. In that way I guess it’s only a temporary tribe—but still, I’ll take it.

Because here’s the thing–those three busloads of kids were a complete cross-section of our city—maybe even our country.

Some of us travel frequently, and have all the gear, all the things, all the fancy luggage, all the monogrammed bags, all that you need (and some stuff you don’t) to take a trip. And some of us have never left the state of Kentucky.

Some of us are hotel pros and can give you a list of what’s best and worst about our favorite chain. And some of us have never even stayed at a hotel of any kind, and are surprised to discover you don’t need to bring your own towel and that probably the manager will even find you some toothpaste if you need it.

Some of us dine out frequently and can order quickly and politely no matter what age we are. Others haven’t eaten out much at all aside from fast food, and so simply telling a kind waitress what you’d like to drink becomes a major milestone.

We are all different colors. We span the full spectrum of any sort of socioeconomic continuum. We are single parents and long and happily married couples. We are Republicans and Democrats. We are people of faith and we are not so much. We are high achievers and we are those who struggle to read. We are well-fed and we are malnourished. We are well-loved and we are survivors of abuse and neglect. We are all scarred somewhere inside—and some of us show it. We are Lincoln Elementary Performing Arts School, and the expectation we’ve been given is that at LPAS, we are family. And so we’d better act as such.

And so we do—and our kids are so much better for it.

I cried this morning with a friend and fellow parent as we shared a story about a kid our own children have known since kindergarten, and who we know struggles in ways we cannot imagine in this life. And when I saw one of the educators sweep that same kid into a sincere and welcoming hug as we walked into the zoo this morning, and the kid burst into a grin, my heart sang—because for one moment, he was safe. Held fast. Reminded he is loved and that he matters.

I smiled deep inside as I saw my daughter run off across a field at one of our stops, shrieking with laughter, friends calling after her, and I breathed immediate thanks that she is able to know such joy given all the sorrow she has also known.

I felt my heart flood with gratitude as I watched teachers love fiercely and lead compassionately and give so selflessly of their time and talent because they love these kids of ours as their own. They really, truly do.

And then I thought of T’ Challa, the Black Panther (Were you thinking I wouldn’t come back around to that?), and his words at the movie’s end, as he’s speaking to the United Nations about his new understanding of what it means to part of a global community:

We will work to be an example of how we as brothers and sisters on this earth should treat each other. Now, more than ever, the illusions of division threaten our very existence. We all know the truth: more connects us than separates us. But in times of crisis, the wise build bridges, while the foolish build barriers. We must find a way to look after one another as if we were one single tribe.

One single tribe, y’all. What happens to one of us matters to all of us, because eventually, in ways we don’t even realize, what happens to one of us happens to all of us.

Look, I know I’m only writing a variation on a Julie-theme here, and maybe even preaching to the choir. But that’s okay. We need reminding. I do, anyway. It’s much easier to write about being one tribe than it is to actually live it, and I can assure you the struggle is real for me, too. There are plenty of folks I know I’d just as soon never interact with again…but that’s not how life rolls.

There are a million things constructed to tear us apart. Myriad labels designed to divide. News spins created to fortify those illusions of division. But in the end, what matters is that this life is best done, most fully lived, together. We need each other, whether we like it or not.

Impossible? Maybe. Only I just watched it happen. And maybe it was just a couple of days. And maybe it won’t make a difference for everyone.

But if even half–hell, if even a quarter!–of the kids on that trip remember that, once, for 48 hours, they held equal footing, equal sway, equal love, equal voice–then I can’t help but think it could move the needle of our existence a bit further from chaos and bit closer to wholeness.










Breakfast Club Remix

“We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”

The Breakfast Club

My favorite movie, hands down, is The Breakfast Club, and if you know me much at all, you’ve probably heard me say that before. When I was doing youth ministry, I kept the classic movie poster associated with the flick up in my office. I’ve preached about it. Written about it. And can quote it endlessly. It’s super annoying to actually watch the movie with me. Because I say the words right along with the actors:

Does Barry Manilow know you raided his wardrobe?

Is that clear Mr. Bender? / Crystal.

Eat. My. Shorts. 

You get my point. I love, love, love TBC. And I used it in youth ministry all the time because it’s a great exploration of what it means to get past our surface opinions and stereotypes and really get to know the heart of another person. Look, I know it’s all midwestern white kids–so in terms of real diversity, it’s, well…not so much. Still, there are lessons to be learned as Claire, Brian, John, Andy and Allison discover the things about them that are not so different as they thought. Important lessons, about really digging in and being brave enough to see that the one person you thought you’d never have anything in common with suddenly gets you in a way you didn’t know was possible.

When I first learned to love TBC, what I saw is how different they all were: “…the brain, the athlete, the basket case, the princess and the criminal.” Each one of them so caught up in the way they’d allowed their families and social circles to define them that they could not see past the great divide of socioeconomic status. And learning to see past those differences becomes the lesson of their time together in Saturday detention.

Every March, a reminder goes around social media that it was on March 24th that the events of TBC took place. I smiled when I saw it this year, and took a sweet little trip down my TBC memory lane.

And then…then something struck me. I remembered it differently this time. Life experience, perhaps, lending a new lens. Here’s what occurred to me: It isn’t so much how different they all are that cuts to the chase. It’s how broken.

It’s how completely broken they are, each in their own way, and how that brokenness feeds their disconnect from one another. 

Brian’s under so much pressure to excel academically he is actually contemplating (sort of) suicide. His reason for landing in detention amounts to a cry for help. John–well, it’s his MO. It’s what he’s known for, the constant trouble-making–and, generally speaking, we all often live up to what we’re “known for,” even when it isn’t in our best interest. Claire and Andy are caught in the demands of being popular–it’s hard to feel sorry for them at first, but something about them always got to me by the end, and I found myself seeing their popularity as more of a prison than anything else. And then there’s Allison–a question mark of a kid if there ever was one, but clearly battling her own demons.

Y’all, it isn’t that we’re all a little bizarre, and some of us hide it better than others, it’s that we’re all a little (or a lot) broken…smashed to bits by one thing or another in this life. And that brokenness, it can do one of two things. It can destroy us, or, it can lead us into more of what we were meant to be in the first place.

Some of us hide the brokenness better than others. Push it back from the forefront of our lives with practiced skill. This is never a winning strategy. Best case scenario, it leaves us unable to really live, just putting one foot in front of the other as we try to simply survive. Worst case scenario, it creates a denial that can often lead to bullying and anger. It never heals this way–just festers, infecting everything with its insistence on being known.

It is only when we face the brokenness, sit with it, gather up the wreckage and admit its having knocked us down, breathless, worn and afraid, that we’re able to find a way past it and into something whole (even if scarred at the edges). This is exactly what the TBC five do as they sit in that circle toward the movie’s end, the reality of their lives being made plain in heart-wrenching–and yet healing–ways.

The great question of course, is Brian’s game-changer of a query at the movie’s end, “What happens on Monday?” What happens when they return to the reality of of their life at school? In the moment together they’ve deconstructed the things that kept them apart.

Brian’s question is never really answered. Not in full. And we never find out if that deconstruction holds–we’re just given a glimpse, as they are, of what could be. Of what’s possible beyond what they’ve known.

I’d argue that such glimpses are the very things life is made of. The very thing that makes seeing past the brokenness possible. The very thing that helps us see that what could happen on Monday is something new, something brilliant, something that helps us rise, strong, from painfully shattered dreams and face the possibility of new dreams, new realities, new ways of being.

Lemme get churchy for a hot second here: In my faith tradition, Christianity, it’s Holy Week, the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, the week where we remember Jesus’ betrayal, death, and resurrection. Just so you know, I am not so much interested in the exact facts of how it all went down. What I believe, with every fiber of my being, is that something so powerful, so redemptive, so game-changing, happened in the lives of Jesus and his followers that nothing was ever the same again. Including our brokenness. I believe something about the life and death of Jesus meant that wholeness and healing are possible, no matter what.

There’s a song I love–it’s called Broken Things, by Lucy Kaplansky, and it sings this:

You can have my heart
If you don’t mind broken things
You can have my life
If you don’t mind these tears
I heard that you make old things new
So I give these pieces all to you
If you want it, you can have my heart

I also believe, with every fiber of my being, that life together, life lived in the love that God meant for us to live in, is the kind of life that takes old and broken things and makes them new. And I’ve no idea if John Hughes believed that too when he made The Breakfast Club…but I can’t help thinking he must have, somewhere, known the truth that in each of us dwells such heartache. And also, in each of us, dwells a desire, even if we cannot quite name it, to be whole.

And it is in working towards that desired wholeness that I believe we truly find our salvation from that which has threatened to destroy us.

We’re all a little (or a lot) broken…and the question is what we plan to do with that brokenness…on Monday, or any other day. 

No matter how “bizarre” we might be. 🙂











Middle School: 8 things I’m already thinking about…

(Inspired by two tweens I know–very different from each other in some ways, very alike in others. Both of whom have known heartache and loss; both of whom are talented and full of potential; both of whom are just months away from middle school.  One is my daughter. One is our sweet friend. I spent time around them both this last weekend, and I have not stopped thinking about what’s ahead for them since. This post is for them.)

We recently found out where CG will be going to middle school. It’s a complicated system where we live, in terms of public school, and so now that we have an answer we can relax a little and enjoy what’s left of 5th grade in the world’s best public elementary school (no seriously…it is).


Middle. School.

My beautiful, tender-hearted, independent, opinionated girl–thrown to the chaos that will be her middle school years.

When I was doing youth ministry, I would often say to parents, “Look, it’s going to suck. I’m sorry. It just is. But you will get through it. You will survive. And so will they. But it’s going to be hard.” Those years–gah. They’re this vast battlefield of mean girls and raging hormones and bullies and fear and insecurity.

I moved from Texas to Georgia between Christmas and the new year when I was in 8th grade; from a large junior high in south Texas that was very diverse and very chaotic and often a bit more than I could handle, to a quiet, small town middle school where everyone had been going to school together since kindergarten and I was “that new girl that moved in next to Larry’s house.” (Shoutout to Larry–because he was my first friend in Winder, Georgia and we went on to brave high school and college together too, and I’m still grateful for him).

Talk about a whirlwind. It would take a couple of years (and the discovery of high school theater and chorus) to set right how utterly insecure I was at 13, caught in between a whole lot of change and some very chubby cheeks, unattractive glasses, and a mouth full metal.

Later, I’d watch the kids I worked with in ministry dive into middle school, and mostly just hold their breath and paddle furiously and try to find some sense of calm and safety and sometimes even fun amidst the overwhelming nature of it all. Some did this better than others. As is often true, the kids with more money, better looks, athletic prowess or impressive smarts generally rose to the top socially–but even for them, the pain of simply growing up, learning heartache, experiencing betrayal, knowing failure was often enough to bring them to their knees. They broke my heart on a weekly basis, and would often put it back together again, too, with their unexpected moments of grace and compassion, their damaged little souls working hard to make sense of the world and their place in it.

Soon it will be CG’s turn, and even as I feel anxiety rising and fear forming over what the next few years will be like for her, especially in this age of social media and fierce competition and opioid abuse and school gun violence, I try, too, to focus on what I know will help get her through.

And so, because I’m thinking about it, for what it’s worth, in my NON-expert opinion, parents and caregivers of tweens, here’s what I believe helps our kids survive the utter beast of middle school:

  1. Do not believe your child when he or she says, “I hate you and I want you to go away.” What they mostly likely mean is, “I’m scared, and I’m counting on you to love me regardless of what I say, but please don’t go away and please hold me, because I need your strength and love more than I ever have.”
  2. Do believe your child when he or she is behaving or speaking differently than normal. It could just be hormones. It could also be she doesn’t know how to tell you she’s being harassed, or he doesn’t know how to tell you he’s being bullied.
  3. Ask questions. Not, “How was your day?” because all that’s going to get you is a, “Fine.” But do ask, “Tell me something funny that happened today,” or, “What about today was hard?” or “What are you grateful for today?” She might roll her eyes and ask why you’re so weird. But that’s okay. You’ll live.
  4. Pay attention, but don’t assume the worst. Yes, all the awful things you hear about middle school are possible, but all the good stuff is possible too–kids are often at their most compassionate and driven when they’ve been hurt or are feeling insecure themselves.
  5. Love hard. Love. Hard. They will push you away. They will argue with you incessantly. They will hurt your heart. They will rage and cry and scream. But they need you. So much. And in the face of their emotion, they need you to stand firm with your love and grace and promise them over and over that you are not going anywhere, no matter what. That you are there to stay. No matter what. 
  6. Don’t be afraid to talk. About sex. About drugs. About grades. About anger. About tears. About bodies. About relationships. About bullying. About ANY of it. Don’t be afraid. Being silent does not make any of it go away.
  7. Ask for help. From friends, from family, from teachers, from professional counselors, from whoever. Parenting is not a solo sport, despite what our super mom/dad Pinterest-Perfect culture would have us believe.
  8. Build your kids a tribe. For every one caring adult that a child has outside his immediate family that he can trust, his chances of succeeding grow exponentially. You cannot do this alone. You cannot be all that your child needs. Give your child the gift of knowing that she is loved beyond measure by more than just a few grown ups in this world, and her capacity for growing into who she is mean to be will, I promise you, increase.

There’s a reason I often say that, deep inside, no matter what age we are, we’re all just our middle school selves–insecure and volatile and convinced everyone is looking at us and worried about who we will sit with at lunch. And maybe the best thing we could do for that inner middle school child of our own is to find a real middle school child, and make it our mission to help him or her know that, in the end, it’s going to be okay. They’ll figure it out.

And they do not have to do so alone.