Why A(nother) Blog?

Because I am a writer.

It is hard to put into words just how scary that is to see written out.  I can feel the anxiety creep in, even now.  I have been avoiding the label “writer” for a long time.  I had fallen into the trap of believing that one has to make a living writing or possess the ability to write exceptionally well in order call oneself a “writer.”  But I have come to believe that being a writer has less to do with precise grammar and exquisite turns of phrase than with processing the world through the written word.  And I don’t hold myself to similar standards when using other labels, like mother, wife, friend, singer, Christian.  I’m not sure I do any of these things particularly well (and I certainly don’t make a living doing any of them), yet I use these labels freely.

I am a writer.

I learned to write when I was in in grade school – when I diagrammed sentences in sixth grade, when I learned how to support my arguments in high school literature classes, when my mother guided me in how to write a proper thank you note.  I became a writer in college – when I would curl up in my loft and write letters and essays and poetry to help me work through a tumultuous sophomore year.  I developed as a writer in my genetic counseling career – when I authored journal articles and book chapters, when my writing became more clear and precise.  I realized I was a writer when I left my job – when I no longer had the outlet of scientific writing, when I found myself getting lost in the swirl of ideas in my mind, when I longed for the time to sit and write and for the clarity that would bring, when I felt the catharsis of occasionally posting my thoughts on Facebook, when my friends would respond to my writing, “Me, too.”

I am a writer.

Last year, I made the decision to let my genetic counseling certification lapse.  When I made thisannouncement on my Facebook page, I said I didn’t know what would come next and was grateful for the flexibility of time.  I wondered aloud about learning to use my camera and picking up my guitar again.  I said service would take a big role in my life.  (It will.)  But what I didn’t say was the one thing I most longed to, the scariest thing I could imagine saying out loud: I want to write.

But that nagging feeling that I was ignoring a calling grew too intense.  It started to drown out the doubts.  And everything I read seemed to be about tackling the one thing you’re afraid to, that you fear you’re ill equipped to take on.

I am a writer.

I’m not beginning this blogging adventure because I have aspirations of being read by thousands or making a living through blogging or getting a book deal.  My thoughts may never reach more than a few dozen, and that’s okay.  (If anything, I’m more afraid of the tremendous responsibility that would come with more people paying attention to what I’m saying.)  I’m writing because I’m a writer.  I process the world best through the written word, and part of this process is sharing my words, seeking connections with people.  I’m finally ready to say that out loud and do something about it.

I am a writer.

Testimony: Stories

(Shared July 14, 2011.)

On Sunday, I provided the following testimony on the power of our stories. The experience I recounted was so powerful to me that I spoke through tears. I shared it then and now with trepidation because it is so intensely personal. But it was received with such gratitude and hope that I feel like I should continue to share it. In particular, one woman's comment will stay with me forever. With tears in her eyes, she said, "Thank you. Thank you for sharing your story. My daughter 'Liz' married her partner last year. Maybe I should speak up more often for her, but I hate to make an example of her because, to me, she's just my Liz. Thank you for speaking up for her." My testimony.  Please, be gentle with my heart...

I have been learning, over the last year in particular, how to have meaningful interactions with people online — especially in a wonderful online community called Momastery. Glennon Doyle Melton blogs at this site and is a wife, a mother, a lover of Jesus (with what most people would call a relatively liberal theology), a recovering addict, and a reckless "truth teller and hope spreader." Glennon's hope that Momastery will be, among many other things, "a place to practice disagreeing with love and respect" is largely realized because of her one simple rule for participating in the community: Try not to be a jerk.

In May of last year, Glennon posted a piece on a subject dear to her heart: homosexuality, especially how this issue is informed by her faith. When I dove into the comments section, searching for real conversation, I found what I expected: civil comments, with virtual high fives for those with similar views, but far more talking past each other than any apparent interest in true discussion. And then I found "Rachel."

Rachel obviously had very strongly held beliefs about this subject, but when I gently suggested to her that saying the Bible is "clear" on a subject effectively shuts down conversation before it's even begun, her response wasn't "But the Bible IS clear." It was more akin to "Oh, I see what you mean. I didn't mean to come across in that way." Here was someone who was interested in having a conversation. We chatted briefly on the blog but quickly realized we should move our conversation to email.

It's hard to imagine two people starting further apart on this subject. But we shared our stories. I told her about my upbringing in a "love the sinner, hate the sin" home. I relayed a story from my time researching genetic deafness when I spoke to a woman who was far more curious about her extensive family history of gay relatives than about the history of deafness. I told her about my former pastor who has a gay daughter in a committed relationship and who preached love from the pulpit in a way I had never before heard. Rachel heard how my experience with that pastor forced me, once and for all, to wrestle with the, so called, "clobber passages." I shared how the peace that passes understanding washed over me as I felt the Spirit revealing to me that God blesses gay relationships. I told her about my desire to have more conversations about this subject and continue to learn and grow. Rachel shared with me her ultraconservative religious background, her view that being gay is a choice, her interviews with men going through reparative therapy, including men she was convinced were successfully becoming straight, the passages in Scripture she felt supported her view, and her lost friendships.

The conversation was intense. It was personal. It was, at times, graphic. I often felt like we were discussing subjects that were irrelevant to the larger topic. But we plugged along. We listened. We questioned. We admitted our gaps in knowledge. We investigated. We grew.

We exchanged many, long emails over the course of two months. But then life interfered, and we put our conversation on hold for the fall. We checked in with each other a couple of times but didn't really advance the discussion.

Now, had my story with Rachel ended at this point, I would consider it a tremendous success. We had done something I feared was impossible. Here were two people on opposite ends of a divisive spectrum who actually talked. We gave each other the benefit of the doubt. We were respectful. We never got angry. We remained always kind. We learned from each other. We opened our hearts and minds. We had done a beautiful thing.

But our story doesn't end there. In December, when Rachel and I began emailing more regularly again, she told me something I thought I'd never hear from her: She changed her mind. Her biggest question now is not whether or not being gay is a choice or even whether or not God calls gay people to be celibate; it's how she moves on from here after being such an outspoken voice against gay people. I can only imagine how scared she must be. I pray that she is met with grace.

I have no delusion that I changed her mind. This was the Spirit at work. He was at work in Rachel's heart and in mine. Rachel told me that when she first started emailing me, she thought she could change my mind. God had other plans. And He worked through our stories. Sure, we discussed theology and biology and Greek translations and historical context, but we did that in the framework of our stories. We learned about each other as people, not just as positions -- people with our own hurts and struggles and questions and doubts and fears and nuances. There is no doubt in my mind that Rachel was open to rethinking her long-, strongly-held beliefs because she was not met with judgment or shouting or contempt but with love and kindness and patience. She learned that we have more in common than that which divides us.

I'm going to keep at it. I'm going to keep sharing my story -- not just about this subject but about about a host of others -- because I've learned just how powerful a story shared in kindness can be. It is disarming. No one can argue its validity. It's your truth.

Thank you for letting me share part of my story.

On Truth and Clarity and Homosexuality

(Written May 30, 2012.)

(I feel like I must start with a disclaimer: I do not mean to lump all Christians who believe that homosexual relationships are sinful into the same category.  I recognize that people's beliefs on this subject are varied and complicated and nuanced.  I know there are many who hold this belief who humbly admit that this is their human understanding of God's teachings, and I know that many have found peace in this belief.  Although I disagree with their views on homosexual relationships, I have a great deal of respect for them, and I believe that differences of opinions are necessary for the health and growth of the church and of us, as individuals.  The following piece is about a recent encounter with a group of people who do not project that humility and peace.  I do not think they are unique, but I understand that they do not represent all who believe that homosexual relationships are sinful.)

I love a good debate.  This is something that I've only recently learned about myself.*  Lately, what has me reading and thinking and debating is my faith and how it frames my interactions with the world, including my political leanings.  And there may be no hotter topic right now than the debate about homosexuality.  For various reasons, most of my discussions have taken place on line.  It can take some work to find civil forums for online discussion, but I'm happy to say I've found some.

Over the last couple of days, I've jumped into another on-line debate about this subject, but rather than leaving me energized and enriched and challenged, as the best debates do, this one, despite remaining civil, left me drained and discouraged.  I wasn't discussing Greek and Hebrew translations or whether homosexuality as an orientation was recognized in Biblical times or how to weigh Old Testament teachings with New Testament teachings, as I enjoy.  In hindsight, perhaps, that isn't surprising, as all of that information is widely available to anyone who is interested.

Instead, I found myself discussing issues of truth and clarity.  I humbly cautioned people about their use of the phrase "The Truth."  I explained that one can, indeed, believe in one, ultimate Truth and still recognize that we are all mere humans wrestling with ideas far beyond our comprehension.  I explained that I use the phrase "my truth" not to suggest that there are multiple truths but to mean "my interpretation of the Truth."  I wondered aloud how one sincere seeker's interpretation can be declared to be any more truthful than another's.  I requested that people stop saying the Bible is "clear" on the issue of homosexual relationships.  If it were, we would not be debating the issue.  And declaring something "clear" has the effect, intended or not, of shutting down any further discussion.  I explained that I don't have to ignore verses about homosexuality or cave in to a "feel good" society's pressures in order to hold my beliefs that homosexual relationships are not sinful.

I was completely and utterly spent.  I wasn't sure if I should scream or cry.  I just could not wrap my mind around how some people didn't believe that others could reasonably come to differing conclusions, how they didn't recognize the perceived hubris in declaring a monopoly on the truth.

As I was becoming overwhelmed with frustration, what I believe I was witnessing finally hit me.  When humans are faced with a threatening situation, we are programmed to fight or flee.  These people I was struggling not to judge as close-minded or arrogant were fighting with every bit of strength they have.  Whether they recognize it or not, I believe they feel threatened.  They probably feel scared.  I can't imagine what that must be like.  I can't imagine what it must feel like to worry that, if you "lose" this battle, your faith will become less meaningful. They are feeling pressure from secular society and from liberal-leaning Christians, and they probably feel the tide shifting.  It must be terribly unsettling.

And just like that, my feelings of frustration, bordering on anger, shifted.  My heart softened.  And I felt sympathy.  I've felt threatened and scared in other situations, and it's a horrible experience.  I don't agree with their beliefs on homosexual relationships (including the frequently implied notion that where one stands on this issue is critical to calling oneself a Christian), but I can offer compassion from one scared human to another.

So I'm going to take a deep breath and think about whether or not and, if so, how I continue this debate.  I will not stop reading and seeking.  I will not stop discussing the subject with those who approach me with an open and curious mind.  I will not stop demonstrating what I believe it means to be a Christian, by loving and serving the best way I know how.  I will not stop striving to be all I was created to be.  But maybe I will think twice about initiating this particular debate.  Regardless, all of this I will do with a more compassionate heart.

And to my friends who, today or tomorrow or a few years from now, may find themselves reexamining their long-held ideas about homosexual relationships (as I have done over the last several years), I hope that, if you land on this side of the issue, your experience will be like mine.  It has been a soft place to land.  A loving, peaceful place.  A place where I have never once felt like I was not being true to the teachings and life of Jesus of Nazareth.  May we all be so blessed as to find this place in all areas of our lives.

Peace and love, my friends.

* To my parents and sister: If you find yourselves reading this and laughing out loud about that second sentence, let me suggest that the tendency to argue with a pole (which, reluctantly, I admit I will do) is entirely different from an interest in a civil exchange of ideas.

A Very Good Week

(Written May 29, 2012.)

Years ago, I heard a story about a mother who took her son to a therapist because she was having issues with disobedience and disrespect, more so than she had had with her other children.  At the end of the initial intake appointment, the therapist looked at the mother and said, "So you're telling me that your son attends school every day, maintains decent grades, doesn't drink or do drugs, has friends you like, and goes to church with you every Sunday?"  That was the last appointment.  It's not that the therapist was dismissing the mother's concerns; she was just putting them in context.  That mother had a good kid -- a kid who, from time to time, made some rather routine, lousy decisions.

The last week or so in the Welch household has had its ups and downs.  Which is to say, it's been fairly typical.  I've been called "stupid" and "mean," watched my 4 year old hurl a toy utensil at his grandmother, witnessed an ugly, pre-nap tantrum that included throwing a bag of Pull-Ups down the stairs, been kicked out of anger, been blamed for things that are utterly absurd (like losing a school paper I had never been given), told a child that he may not throw paper airplanes in the kitchen only to see him do it again less than a minute later, listened to the big boys call each other names, discovered a bathroom drawer coated in toothpaste and petroleum jelly and full of half used tubes of toothpaste and sticky toothbrushes, been told by the seven year old that I treat him like a slave (when I asked him to clean up his own mess), and heard "no" and "It's not fair" more times than I care to count.

Sometimes, I just want to pull my hair out.

But this is what else happened this week: I woke up next to my four year old (the big boys took turns sleeping in our bed while Daddy was in China), and when he realized where he was, his eyes widened, a grin spread across his face, and he gently stroked my face, saying "I love you, Mommy."  When the four year old got up from his nap, he picked up every strewn Pull-Up without being reminded.  The seven year old asked what he could do to help with dinner and didn't complain when the answer was "set the table."  When the four year old was an inconsolable mess before dinner, the baby crawled up to him and rested his head in his lap.  The four year old asked if he could have a picture I drew and whispered in awe as he held it delicately, "It's beautiful."   The seven year old came to me trembling with regret, asking for forgiveness for kicking me.  When I couldn't snuggle with the four year old who was upset that it wasn't his turn to sleep next to Mommy, the seven year old lay next to him until he calmed down and then left his little brother with a beloved stuffed animal to make him feel better.  And there have been countless, spontaneous hugs between brothers.

Sometimes, it takes my breath away.

There will always be days when I will need a friend or a family member or teacher (or maybe even a therapist) to help me keep things in perspective.  But I'm going to work on playing this role more often in my own life.  Remember the good parts.  Remind myself that these little people are awesome.

"Don't become so concerned with raising a good kid that you forget you already have one."  (Glennon Doyle Melton of Momastery)  Amen.

In Honor of International Stuttering Awareness Day

(Written September, 19, 2011.)

To my precious Froggy,

          I need you to know that you are my hero.  You’re only 3 ½ now, so you’d probably laugh if I told you this and tell me that you can’t fly or climb walls and that you don’t own a cape, even a dress up one.  So I hope you don’t mind that I’m letting everyone else in on my little secret now, until you’re old enough to understand, with the promise that I’ll tell you when the time is right.

          I will never forget that moment, three months ago, when you started to stutter.  I remember stopping in my tracks and wondering, “What was that?!”  I remember that heavy feeling of worry that descended over me.  I remember crying a lot over the next several days, as I thought about how challenging your life would surely be.  And I spent A LOT of time on the internet and on the phone and devouring everything I could about stuttering from everyone I could.  Because that’s what your mommy does: I cry and I research.

          And then one day, I looked up from my haze, and I saw you.  I saw my snuggly, thumb-sucking, loud, jigsaw puzzle-solving, tower-building, Star Wars-loving, Bubba-shadowing, crazy, long-lashed, stretchy-faced, independent, stubborn, precious boy.  This boy, so unlike me, so fascinating to me, the VERY SAME boy you were just a few long days ago.

          Since then, I have watched with amazement the patience, persistence, and determination you have demonstrated on the bumpiest of days and the simple joy you express when you have a smooth day.  And there is no doubt in my mind that, stutter or not, you will thrive.  You will never let anything get you down or anyone tell you you can’t.  You are a truly awesome little person, Froggy.

          Some days, as my mouth is telling you that I don’t want you to grow up, something inside is screaming, “Hurry up and grow up because I’m so excited to see what an amazing adult you will be!”  I’m so anxious to see what you will teach me next, about myself, about you, about the human spirit.  You are uncommon, Froggy.  You are a gift.  And I love you to heaven and back a million times.  I win.  No, really, darling.  I win.

Love,
Mommy

Phases

(Written September 1, 2011.)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about phases.  Phases our children go through.  And it’s no mystery why: Monkey hit the five month mark yesterday and with the milestone came the realization that he really doesn’t need to be nursing three times per night anymore.  So after this weekend, I’ll begin weaning him from his nighttime feedings.  And because we’re heading out of town for the long weekend, tonight will, in all likelihood, be the last night that I feed any of my babies in my beloved, well-worn, yellow glider.  As Bubba likes to say, “It’s bittersweet.”  It is, indeed, darling.

At any given moment, my boys are each in the midst of several phases.  Bubba is still wet at night, he’s obsessed with the Science Channel, and he’s certain that he’s called upon to help more around the house than any other child his age.  Froggy sucks his thumb, began stuttering two months ago, and can’t EVER remember to flush the toilet.  Monkey has reflux and wakes several times per night to nurse.

When I hear most people use the word “phase” (me included), there is definitely a negative connotation that goes with it.  [“(sigh) We hope it’s just a phase.”]  Maybe that’s because we’re clinging to the hope that these tough periods will be short lived and not lifelong struggles.  And how many times have I thought that if I just knew how long the period would last, the phases would be so much easier to get through?  (“Okay, Katherine, mark September 5 on your calendar because that morning Bubba will wake up dry and never be wet again.”  Woo hoo!  One more week – that I can do!)

Maybe we, also, use the word negatively because we hope that positive periods aren’t just phases.  I fear that, one day, Bubba will decide that he no longer wants to hold my hand or snuggle in my lap.  And Froggy will get too old to sleep with his beloved blankie MiMi and will stop blowing me sweet kisses (“mwah shhhh”).  And Monkey will wean himself.

The truth is that the end of every phase – even the hardest ones, the ones I fall asleep every night hoping will be over tomorrow – is bittersweet.  My babies are growing up, faster than I could have ever imagined.  And the passing of each phase means they are rapidly approaching the end of the phase I dread most our leaving behind: my boys’ precious childhood.

Where Were You, Mommy?

(Written September 10, 2011. Reposted September 11, 2014.)

My dearest boys,

One of these days, perhaps in the not so distant future, maybe after you’ve learned about September 11 in school or heard a report about the anniversary on the news, you will ask me if I remember.  And I will tell you “yes.”

I will tell you how Daddy and I had been married only seven months when I dropped him off at work and watched him walk into his building carrying a birthday cake for a friend.  I will tell you how the sky was blue and the air clean on a day full of the promise of a cool autumn to come.  I will tell you about the disbelief that washed over me, as I realized that the sense of safety I had unknowingly lived with my whole life had vanished in an instant.  I will tell you about how surreal it was to watch the Twin Towers fall on a television in the staff lounge as a deaf-blind colleague made himself a bagel.  I wonder if he knew yet.  I wonder who told him.  I will tell you about wanting to tell my family I was okay when phone lines were overwhelmed.  I will tell you about driving back across town to pick up Daddy from work and being astonished at how deserted downtown DC was.  I will tell you about driving to work the next day, under overpasses draped with American flags and into a city teeming with military police.  And I will tell you how I cried.  Every day.  For a long time.

But then I will tell you that heroes are real.  And they don’t wear capes.  They wear uniforms.  And they run into burning, crumbling buildings, hoping to find even one person who needs help finding his way out.  They carry briefcases.  And they bring down planes so other families won’t have to feel the loss theirs soon will.  They drive minivans.  And they do their best to create a sense of normalcy for their children who have lost their fathers, though they have just lost their husbands.

I will tell you what it felt like to live in a country where differences were put aside.  Distances between people shrank.  Strangers helped each other.  The definition of neighbor changed.

I will tell you that I learned to live in a world in which I feel vulnerable.  I learned that God doesn’t guarantee our safety, but he promises to walk through the storms with us.  I learned that that promise must be enough.  I learned that I will miss life if I live scared.  And I want to live.

I hope I will be able to tell you that that day was the beginning of the end of our world’s fear of cultures and religions different from our own.  I pray that I can tell you that we learned that a group cannot be defined by its most radical members.   I will tell you that I have learned these things.  I have forgiven.

I will tell you that you should ask and we should remember.  But just remembering isn’t enough.  We must act.  I will tell you it is possible to mourn and celebrate at the same time.  I will remind you to hug your family and tell them you love them.  And I will do just that, my precious boys.

All my love,

Mommy