I have a bit of a complicated relationship with God these days. And by “these days,” I suppose I actually mean “my entire adult life.” My pendulum swings widely, and unpredictably, between hook-line-and-sinker-for-Jesus and not-at-all-sure-I-buy-any-of-this-like-at-all.
Interestingly enough, I tend to have my most spiritual (I guess that’s the right word) experiences when I’m in full-on skeptic mode. Take, for instance, my recent trip to the St. Louis Zoo.
It was January 25, 1992. I was barely 21 years old, seven months away from receiving my bachelor’s degree, and, on that night, I was wearing an impossibly puffy, disastrously sparkly, stupidly expensive gown. I begged my bridesmaids to tell me jokes as they fussed with my gigantic hair and smoothed my over-indulgent train. “I’m going to throw up. I really, really am.”
Although this story begins with a margarita and includes a scene in which I’m shaking uncontrollably on the floor of my parents’ powder room, it’s not actually about drinking too much. It’s important you know that right up front.
All right, here’s the deal: I drive an Audi TT convertible.
Given that I’m sort of a loudmouth about poverty and privilege and materialism and minimalism, that may seem a little hypocritical. So before you go all TMZ on me and hire someone with a drone to scope out my (non-existent) multi-million-dollar ranch, I want you to know something about my mid-life-crisis-mobile: Jack talked me into it.
Yesterday, I wrote this post: A List of People Who Are Human Beings in No Particular Order.
I wrote it in 10 minutes. I know it’s a hot mess in spots. I also know it’s incomplete in a lot of ways—and I want to correct a piece of that tonight.
A baby taking its first breath.
A momma who chose not to carry her baby to term.
The nurse who assisted with the procedure.
The pastor holding a condemning sign outside the clinic.
The man forcing his girlfriend to stay in the waiting room.
Hi. It’s Kelley. It’s been more than two months since my last confession post.
The last few weeks, I’ve been wholly self-absorbed. My youngest squirrel graduated from high school. We sold one house and bought another (much smaller) one. We discovered none of our furniture would fit in the new place, so we spent hours shopping for a bunch of new stuff (which is not nearly as fun as it sounds) (first-world problems).
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I brag about my kids on Facebook.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve posted many, many times about my high school senior, Bekah. Yesterday, in my ongoing attempt to dispel my kids’ assertion that I have a favorite child, I posted about my college sophomore, Emily. I mentioned how smart she is. I mentioned how much she’s learning and, consequently, teaching me. I mentioned that she’s a queer woman.
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It took me eight years, but I finally did it: I gained back every pound I lost. All 30 of them.
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I’ve been arguing with myself all evening about writing this post. I’m always, always, always afraid of saying something stupid/offensive/ignorant, particularly when it comes to issues of social justice. But then I decided that if we don’t talk about stuff, nothing’s going to get better. So, here I am: Talking.