A Celebration of Saints and Siblings

Not only is today, November 1st, All Saint’s Day and the first day of Dia de los Muertos (which I read a great post about yesterday on Caleb Wilde’s blog), today is also my older brother’s birthday.

When I look back on our shared childhood, the first memories that arise are shared fears: fear of adults, fear of the phone, fear of the dark, fear of getting in trouble.

As kids, we were so scared of adults that we’d enlist our younger brother to exchange our unwanted Happy Meal toys for the coveted Hot Wheels cars. Our younger brother would toddle up to the cashier, all dimples and smiles, while Khary and I would duck beneath the table or huddle closer to our mom, lips quivering at the mere thought of talking to a stranger.

To this day, Khary and I share a phone phobia, although I am pleased to report that we're both getting much better (being a journalism major will quell that fear right quick—or drive your roommate mad).

As much as I remember the fears and worries of childhood, today I am reminded of so much more.

Growing up with a lot of fears yields a lot of courage. I once heard a quote that said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”

Over the years, Khary has shown me that there are many things more important than fear.

Khary, today I want to say thank you for being you.

For the beauty you’ve taught me to see in the underdog.

For teaching me that different doesn't mean worse, it could even mean better.

For your creativity.

For your empathy.

For your loyalty.

For teaching me early on the power of words to build up or tear down.

For the times we’ve laughed so hard we’ve cried, making fools of ourselves at Olive Garden.

For the times we dared Cameron to touch the electric fence--and he did it.

For understanding my fears better than anyone else I’ve ever known.

For your example of courage.

The courage to trust me with your heart.

The courage to be vulnerable and real.

The courage to continue, to try again even when the world wants you to fail.

The courage to pick up the pieces.

The courage to grapple with it what it means to be true to yourself.

The courage to suspend judgment in order to build relationship.

The courage to risk authenticity.

The courage to hope that things can look different.

The courage to care.

The courage to love.

Thank you for being you. Happy Birthday and congratulations on your new job! I love you.

Why bask?

I began to realize that I couldn’t love the poor if I didn’t even love my mom or my roommates. If I didn’t love myself.

How I became God’s Basking Case

No, not basket case, (although I’m sure there’s a hint of that, too) basking case.

This story starts with a rebuttal.

When I first came back to church, people started asking me if they could pray for me. Most of the time, I said no.

But after awhile, after racking my brain to come up with anything I might like the almighty creator of the universe to help me out with, I finally decided on the one prayer request I felt comfortable asking.

“I’d like to be able to love and serve others better,” I mumbled more to my feet than to anyone in particular.

And the response?

“No, that is not what you should pray for.”

Excuse me?

Since when do prayer requests have to pass quality control? When I was a junior high youth leader we'd pray for students' sick fish, cats, and nano babies. No prayer was too big or too small.

But the congregation had spoken: I was not to pray to serve others better.

“I have an image for you instead,” they said--they all said, different people on different occasions. All with the same image, the same concept. The same Instead...

Instead they all had an image of me basking in God's love.

One couple told me, "Aly, you are beautiful. I see you lying in a meadow. Soaking in God's love."

Another woman (on a separate occasion) told me: "I see a picture of you in a field of flowers, basking in God's love."

Another person straight up told me, "No, I don't think you should pray to love others. I believe you need to bask in God's love."

The first time I heard this, I scoffed.

The second time I heard this, I scoffed.

The third time I heard this, I started to get nervous.

Basking, really? That’s about the sissiest verb I’ve ever heard and somehow everyone in this church is obsessed with it.

I didn't want images of soaking and basking and laying lazily in a field of wild flowers. I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted my god to care about injustice and oppression. I wanted my god to help me love others better, to quiet the guilt in my heart for being born to a well-off family in the wealthiest country in the world.

If you're going to give me an image, I thought, let it be of selling all I have and giving it to the poor. An image of writing award winning exposés that shut down sweat shops and bring justice to the marginalized around the world. An image of revolution. Of anger. Of action.

That's not what my church friends had for me. And it's not what God had for me either.

Little did I know this was the beginning of the basking.

Check back next week to read how my skeptical little heart began to bask in God’s love.

Have you ever been given a word or image that didn’t sit right with you at the time? How did you respond?