Election

If you’re firmly committed to voting for Donald Trump, there is no need for you to read any further. Your choice is your choice, and history has proven that no facts, no opinions, no memes, and no articles are likely to change your mind. And so I will not try and, if you choose to continue reading, I would appreciate it if you would not bash my support of a different candidate. I personally have worked hard to remain at least polite through everything, and I think I deserve the same consideration.

For you undecideds, those who are vacillating, and those who are considering a third-party candidate, let me tell you why you should vote for Hillary Clinton. Not just against other candidates, but for someone who has the potential to be a great president for the United States.

It seems that, in every presidential election, I have heard people say, essentially, “Well, neither candidate is perfect, but so-and-so seems to be a slightly better choice.” And some years I would agree; presidential candidates seem evenly matched on maturity, experience, and the desire to listen to both the people and to wise and expert counsel on the tough stuff (like math and science). I try to vote for the person who I think will do the best job for the nation as a whole: leaders who will promote unity, build the economy, protect the earth that God has given us, and work toward justice in the US and abroad. I look to people who have experience, who have potential for growth, and who have a servant’s heart. The president has a tough job, and if he or she isn’t in it to serve, it’s not a good fit.

I love and admire Bernie Sanders for many of these reasons, and I appreciate that he carries on, continuing to do what he can to serve the people of the United States. That’s also why I am a supporter of Hillary Clinton. She cares deeply about this country and the people in it, and has the skills and experience to be a good, maybe even great, president. What do I like about her? Lots of things.

She’s a woman. I love that in a leader. Women lead in different ways than men. That doesn’t make her weak; it makes her strong in different ways. She leads from a place of collaboration and compassion. These are gifts, not liabilities. She understands that, together, we are stronger.  

She’s a listener. I love that in a leader. She pays attention to what’s going on in the hearts and minds of the people, and she’s willing to listen to experts. Once she’s listened, she responds thoughtfully. She’s also willing, after due consideration, to change her mind on issues. We call this growth. It’s not a bad thing.

She’s a Christian. I love the way she witnesses to her Methodist upbringing in the way she treats people and sees policy. Those who know the presence of a higher power tend to think big-picture and to remember that it’s not all about them. I think that Clinton carries this in her bones; she can talk the talk, but she’s really good at walking the walk. In most things, I see her as kind and gracious. (And a caveat: many cannot reconcile Clinton’s right-to-choose position on abortion with Christian faith, and I appreciate that concern. That said, I don’t think legislation will end abortion, and even if it could, I don’t think the president has the power to make it happen. This always seems to me an issue designed to distract us from the real work of the presidency. We’ve had several pro-life presidents since Roe v. Wade, and as far as I know, not one of them has made its reversal a priority. It’s a campaign wooing tactic, and it works.)

And now back to Clinton. I like her because she endures. I love that in a leader. She’s been scrutinized on every single step she’s ever taken and criticized by people no matter what she’s done. From her marriage to her cooking skills to her wardrobe…none of which have a damn thing to do with what kind of a leader she is…she’s been dodging stones cast on her every day of her life. Even when it comes to the other stuff—big issues like Bengazi or deleted emails—endless investigations (where she has always shown up, answered questions, and complied with everything asked of her) have revealed no wrongdoing. I think if she had some things to do over, she might do them differently. But in spite of all the muckraking—the name calling, cheap shots, half-truths, and outright lies—even with ALL of that, she still wants to serve the American people. She doesn’t need the presidency: she’s had a rich, full life. The presidency is not a trophy for her, but a way for her to put her considerable gifts to work for all of us.

She understands politics, and that’s important in a leader. She knows the law, and she understands the job of the president; she will be able to hit the ground running. I know that politics is a dirty word for some, and that sometimes we say we’d like to clean house, start over, get rid of career politicians. The truth is, in general we don’t choose to vote them out. Do we need reforms? Definitely. Lots of things in this country are broken. I hope that this election is a wake-up call to all of us on our own deep pain and dysfunction. And I hope that President Clinton will lead the way to helping us change, so that we can have a better future together.

This election has been the duel of the sound bite, and feels to me that we have lost sight of the long game.  We’ve focused on some stuff that doesn’t matter: on the most recent bit of dirt, or perceived dirt, on either major candidate. We need to stop that and concentrate on the road ahead. The internet is a wealth of information and misinformation; be informed, and don’t just rely on one source or one friend’s Facebook post. Look at the long game. I don’t want to go back to some nostalgia-fueled concept of when America was “great”; I want to go forward, together, toward even further greatness. Hillary gets that. She gives me hope. That’s why, without apology, I’m with her.

Trunk space

When I was a kid, my mom had an old trunk that she bought from an estate sale. Before I left for college I claimed it as my own, and since then it's traveled with me to every dwelling, serving as storage, seating, table, and conversation piece until Phillip took it with him when he left for college.

Before Daniel moved out a few weeks ago, he and Shay were shopping for a coffee table, but when area thrift stores didn’t yield anything, I suggested they look for a trunk, since storage space is always at a premium in apartments. He wrinkled his nose at this suggestion, so I told him to take the coffee table from the basement.

With the coffee table out of the way, I figured maybe I should replace it…with a trunk. The kids hang out in the basement and, because it gets cold down there, we keep a lot of afghans and blankets handy, mostly piled in a corner where they collect dust, cat hair, and possibly spiders. I figured a trunk would keep them cleaner, neater—off the floor, anyway—and could also serve as a table.

I began watching Craig’s List for bargains. There were some amazing trunks out there, and a lot of them had amazing prices—certainly more than I wanted to pay for a place for the kids to prop their feet. A rustic trunk was snapped up before I could claim it, and I emailed about a cedar chest but I got no answer. And then I discovered a steamer trunk: not wood, but sturdy, in good shape, and bright blue. And the price was right.

I shot off a message, and yes, the trunk was still available. After a few email volleys, we agreed to meet. It’s probably the writer in me that compels me to compile back stories for people before I meet them. Her name was Jessica, so I figured she was early 30s. Her choice of vehicle led me to believe she had a large family, and when her email signature included a Bible verse (that she had edited to include exclamation points), I pegged her as a home schooler. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

She was already waiting when I pulled into the gas station where we were meeting, in her Yukon that bore smiling stick-figure kids—five of them. A couple of the kids were in the car; Jessica got out and popped the hatch, and there was the trunk, exactly as expected. She helped me get into my car, explaining that she had hoped to do something creative with it over the summer, but with a new baby all the homeschooling, she just hadn’t gotten around to it. I handed her the cash and we parted ways.

I got my treasure home and vacuumed it out. Lily helped me lug it downstairs and position it in front of the couch. I tossed in the freshly washed blankets. Done. Couldn’t be happier.

Except I’d become a little addicted to looking at Craig’s List trunks, so I went back online and noticed that a trunk I’d been eying had dropped in price. It obviously needed a little love, but no more than lots of other trunks priced at four times the money. The description, however, told the story: the trunk was locked, there was no key, and the owners had tried to drill the lock, so the lock was damaged.

It was such a great deal, I didn’t think twice before shooting off an email.

When I arrived at the address, Sean had already moved the chest out onto the porch. He told me that when he and his wife purchased it from a friend, there had been a key but it was broken, and his drill had not been powerful enough to break the lock. He and his wife were offloading things because they were going to put their house on the market. They didn’t have another house in mind; he thought they would rent for a while. Something about him made me wonder if they were on their way to the mission field, but I didn’t ask. We loaded up the trunk and wished each other well.

Bill’s drill was strong enough to bust through the lock, which probably wasn’t original to the piece, although it matched the hinges, so I’m guessing both were replaced in the 80s, during the height of the country decorating trend. Inside the trunk was a beautiful cedar lining and a tag that offered $150 in replacement value for moth damage from Caswell-Runyan in Huntington, Indiana.

Hand-crafted cedar chests existed before Caswell-Runyan, but none were massed produced before the company began in 1906. The company closed in 1956, and the styling of my trunk suggests that it was constructed sometime in the 1920s, probably about the time my grandparents married. I wondered if my grandmother had a cedar chest, and I imagined the young bride who used this chest when it was new to collect the makings of her new home. I pondered how many different owners had stored their treasures in its fragrant walls and left their marks on its worn exterior over the decades.

In the antiques business they call that patina: a reflection of the piece’s age, and a reminder of everyone who’s ever touched it—its backstory, as it were. We don’t have a word like that for people, which is kind of too bad. We forget that aging is a gift, and that the marks on us are a sign of survival and strength—pain, too, of course, but of pain that did not defeat us. With people, we don’t always appreciate the beauty that comes from imperfection, from the wear-and-tear of hurting and loving and surviving.

Even with its dings and imperfections, the trunk’s wood was beautifully enhanced with lemon oil, a little sanding, and a little stain and varnish. Sometimes just a little love can work wonders.

At some point we might replace the lock, but at the moment that little imperfection is part of its story. I imagine that someday one of the kids will claim it as their own and schlep it from house to house, or perhaps it will wind up on Craig’s List. But for now it has a home, and a purpose, and the unique beauty that comes from a long life.

Still Learning

Long before we adopted two dark-skinned children, I was introduced to anti-racism training. For the past 30 years, I’ve attended lectures and workshops that point out the inequalities in our culture: the peach-colored Crayola crayon that is labeled flesh, as if all flesh is rosy; the high incidents of harassment of African American drivers and the disproportionate number of people of color who are incarcerated; the many ways that the playing field is unequal for immigrants who are not white; the myth that “hard work” will pay off for someone other than white males.

Perhaps it was because I felt well versed in all of this that I imagined that we could, even should, raise dark-skinned children. As experienced parents, we had some idea of what we were in for. We also knew we would face different challenges but, with the arrogance of all new parents, we felt we were prepared. Most new parents believe ourselves to be smart and competent, and we are, but the road of parenting is long, and it is fraught with good days and bad. Before we have children, we imagine that enough love will solve any issue, and that we can protect our children from, or at least prepare them for, what the world will dish out.

And then we learn.

We learn that raising humans is a difficult job under the best of circumstance. We also learn that there are no best circumstances. It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes the village is dysfunctional. Money and privilege ease many of stresses of childrearing but can create others. Co-parenting is awesome when it works, but awful when there is conflict between the parents. And a peaceful and supportive home life doesn’t cure the warring madness of our culture.

My black son is a beautiful, loving, happy kid. He’s also impulsive and a total wiseass, traits not unknown in our family. Although from time to time his desire to get the laugh gets him into trouble with his parents, as it has with his siblings before him, I would say he gets in more trouble with teachers and coaches than his equally impulsive, wiseass white peers. Can I prove it? No. But my intuition says that if there’s trouble among a group of boys, the majority of blame will land on Lewi.

I don’t want my kid to get a free pass; bad behavior must be addressed, and we work hard to try to impress this on Lewi. So far I have resisted the temptation to associate the color of his skin with higher expectations. I hate to tell my kid that, because he is black, people will judge him differently on pretty much everything, from his behavior to his work ethic to his intelligence to his speech. Because I know it is true, I feel that I must tell them. But it breaks my heart to know that this boy who I love more than my own life will face this sort of discrimination as long as he lives.

As Lewi gets older, I anticipate that the discrimination will be more overt, especially among people who do not know him. Right now he still lives a little bit in the bubble: he is known at school, at church, in our neighborhood, and so people cut him a little slack. But as he moves into larger schools with higher expectations, it is doubtful that the same grace will be extended to him. And I am terrified of what might happen when he gets his driver’s license, when he will be essentially loose in a world that does not care that he is an amazing human but will pull him over, repeatedly, for driving while black.

Seven years later, I confess that I still do not know how to parent my black son. I sometimes wonder if we did the right thing in adopting, in bringing black children into a culture where they face the kinds of prejudice they face here. That said, I know that, on a small scale, my calling is to speak to that prejudice, to try to live into and create the change that must come, to help those in my circle to see what I see, and to give Lewi a space to grow and thrive. I feel small and inadequate in the face of this calling, as I have with every aspect of parenting. But I think I can still learn.    

Writer

For most of my life I have thought of myself as a writer. It’s the descriptor with which I most identify—more than the names that come with family roles, the titles given to me by various employers, even my given name. The self-appointed title on my business cards is wordsmith, since editing is another part of my freelance work, but at the heart of everything, I think of myself as a writer.

It’s been a long time since I attempted a blog post, and lately even a Facebook post is almost more than I can manage. I’ve been busy and stressed and overwhelmed and depressed over issues large and small, all of which interfere with my ability to write, but which make it all the more important that I try to write.

I am pretty sure that I don’t really know what I think about any given topic until I start to write about it. The dance that happens between my brain and my fingers, typing out my thoughts, is what helps me find clarity. If I can read them back to myself in sentence form, my thoughts make more sense to me.

Writing also informs me of how I feel, and maybe that is why writing is always a struggle, even on the good days. Writing is emotive, and it takes a bit of courage to wade into the emotional swamp and feel all those feels. It’s admittedly cathartic, and I’m certain that the best writing has emotion in it, but it’s not a lot of fun to plumb the depths of my soul, especially if I’m having a bad day/week/year/decade already.

And the things about which I seek clarity these days are painful issues that seem to have no resolution. Shootings in Orlando, politics that seems angry and petty, terrorism, wars overseas that wash up broken humans onto our shores…so much sadness, beyond comprehension. And then there are my personal struggles and concerns: worries about my kids and my job, concerns about my church and my community. When I write, I hurt, and still nothing changes.

But the journey is the destination, is it not? I publish my little blog offerings as a form of therapy, and while I love feedback and the affirmation, the writing is the thing that gives me life.  I cannot be who I am—a writer—if I do not write.

Great writers counsel us wannabes to just keep writing. Go at it every day. Not everything will be wonderful or even good—much of it will be discarded. But the habit of writing, like any other good habit, will pave the way for great things to come, or so they say. You certainly can’t run a marathon without proper and consistent training, and you’ll never write something worthwhile if you haven’t cultivated writing as a discipline. So that’s my goal: commit to a schedule where I write every day.

Writing is hard, even on the days when it’s not. It doesn’t matter. We all need to do hard things sometimes. And while I doubt that anything I write will change the world, I do know the process changes me, and perhaps what I write will be of help or value to someone else. And maybe that’s enough.