Day 001: Fury

It feels like swallowing a hurricane of razor edges.  Every single day.

Our Covid numbers keep rising and people keep dying and I am imprisoned in my house by the selfish choices of strangers. 

Excuse me for saying so, but our personal “rights” end when those “rights” put other people in jeopardy.

We do not have the right to drink and drive. We do not have the right to stand and dance in the middle of a freeway. We have to wear a shirt and shoes to get into most stores. We can’t scream fire in a crowded theater. (But we shouldn’t be in crowded theaters these days anyway. ) Certain vaccines are compulsory. I couldn’t get into Uganda without a Yellow Fever shot. We can’t pursue our liberty and happiness at the expense of other people’s lives.

I thought one day I might write a dystopian novel.  I just didn’t think I’d have to live it, and then write it as a memoir.

Welcome to the pandemic purgatory that is Florida where our leaders protect their own political futures at the cost of the lives of their people. 

I truly don’t want to move.  I don’t want to leave behind my dear friends. Or the graves of my parents.  But neither do I want to join them 6 feet under prematurely.

I don’t want to uproot and start all over.  Even the thought is exhausting. I don’t want to become displaced just so I can keep breathing.  But those choices may be made for me. 

Because neither I can tolerate an unending reality confined to my home so stressed I could spit nails.  I refuse to accept that as my future.

I’m giving it 24 months, 730 days.  I think I can stare at these walls that long without losing what’s left of my mind.  I hope. 

These days will be filled with relentless purging and saving every penny I can… while working my butt off to build enough steady, sustainable income that will allow me to move to a place probably 2-3x as expensive out of state.

Unless by some mercy the situation improves here. But given the entrenched lies and political power plays, I doubt it will for at least the next decade.

That will be my focus.  That will be my escape plan.  That will be my survival strategy.  Anger and fear and loathing and frustration can become its fuel.

And I’ll be writing about the journey through this dystopian hell for the next 2 years as a practice to gather the remaining threads of my sanity.  I mean that’s what writers do. We process by splatting our pain on a page so that it might remind you that you aren’t alone in yours.

Not for a second. No matter how isolated and frustrated you feel.

I will be unapologetically outspoken. I will talk about uncomfortable topics. I will tell you exactly what I think of the monster of Christian nationalism and cultural evangelicism. I may use adult adjectives with great degrees of intention. It will be raw and messy and you can choose to walk away at any time.

I’m done mincing words or dancing around sensibilities or trying to be nice. D-O-N-E. Our self-centered independence is weaponizing what would already be a bad situation and turning it into a horror movie.

I’ll be writing from this hell in which my 2 shots gave me no antibodies.  My doctor said the shots didn’t work on me.  So if I get Delta or a worse variant, I’ll very likely die. (And if you email me with trite platitudes about faith and death, I will reply with the full force of my honesty).

Last week’s non-Covid sinus infection gave me walking pneumonia, so…

Welcome to month 20 of my 2020.  Hopefully, I’ll one day find life again outside my walls.  But regardless, perhaps these words can make a difference anyway.

Here’s to… day 1 of 730 in the diary of a public health refugee.


I hid in the back corner of my bedroom closet, crouching as low as I could, squeezing myself smaller and smaller until I disappeared. The forest of clothes dampened the volume of the screams that shook the closet walls, and the walls of my being with them.

If I pressed far enough into the back wall maybe I’d fall into Narnia.

There was a thud down the hall. Our walls were so thin you could hear a hanger scrape on a metal closet rod 3 rooms away. I was very careful to crawl beneath the clothes so no hangers were disturbed from their resting places.

Maybe I’m the broken one. Maybe I’m the one who caused this latest explosion of fury. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe if I just disappeared everyone would be better off.

Shame whispered all the maybes that day.

I just wanted an adult to come and find me, and tell me shame was a liar. No one did. The adults were otherwise occupied.

There are many ways to be lost in a closet. There are many ways to be trapped in the middle of your own story.

I’ve been thinking a lot about shame these last weeks.

The shame that shrouds our souls and makes us hide from the very connections with one another, and even ourselves that are the beginnings of a journey forward towards wholeness. Shame wounds us in relationship, and then isolates us from the very thing we need most to heal… relationship.

Shame sets us up to feel at home in closets and cultures designed to keep us small.

Shame feasts on fear and chokes out creativity. It is visceral and soul-crushing. It smothers all other storylines under its weight.

The shame we weave into our theologies and religious structure separates us from even our own personhood. It cuts us off from the sense we could ever belong, especially if God is involved.

The shame that strangled me in one very broken family system would set me up for shame to feel familiar and be more readily accepted in other kinds of abusive and unhealthy situations later in life. Because obviously, if there is a problem in the picture, it was me.  If someone was to blame, it was me as well.

Shame is an inherently ego-centric, soul-sucking bastard.

Nowhere have I personally seen it be more pervasive than inside many evangelical expressions of Christianity.

Shame makes you shave off parts of who you are to fit. Fitting in is to belonging what pharisaical door-guarding is to the open-armed welcome of a Creator God who is Love.

I want to start to unpack this thing of structural shame and how it affects our humanity, creativity, and theology, in part by getting brave and telling some of the ways it has shaped my own story, even without me knowing it.

Shame can stop us from showing up in the ways we most desperately want to.  It confuses our perception of our own story.  It makes us doubt our own intuition.  It has as its zeitgeist utter disempowerment. Shame is the ultimate gaslighter.

I’m slowly realizing I can’t write meaningful anything while leaving 3+ decades of my life hidden in a wardrobe simply because I have grown past some of what my 30-ish-year old self talked about quite loudly a decade ago.

Shame-induced blank slates erase central parts of our stories. Parts, that if we hold and nurture and one day let them speak, they might become the voice that shows up for someone else wishing for Narnia while hiding in a closet.

And for me, that is a risk worth taking.

Up next: Why theologies of shame are at their core anti-Christ. I’m getting saucy and breaking out the hermaneutics because the problem in the garden isn’t sin, it’s shame.

Transparency, and Other Risks

The internet is forever. So is publishing a book.

A few weeks ago, a good friend from this season of life picked up the books I wrote while still in Africa. And my heart felt like it plummeted straight through the floor.

I don’t regret writing those books. I am absolutely grateful for generosity of my publisher, my editors who taught me how to craft a manuscript, and all that I have learned from the experience. The stories I told were true and accurate to the best of my ability— and I would not trade them for the world. I cherish my years in Africa. And I am completely humbled by the way readers have been encouraged by the lessons shared in those pages.

Those books were a reflection of where I was at the time, thoughts shared with a very specific audience for a specific purpose. But they were also a time capsule of the echoes of the brokenness of the box that then framed my world, the voices that shaped the movement I was in, and the theology that was held sacrosanct within it.

Words are permanent things once they escape onto pages. Snapshots of where we were when they were written. A measuring notch on the wall reminding us how far we have grown beyond them. And that too is humbling.

Transparency is a dangerous risky choice. Letting your journey be seen by others. I get it. It can be terrifying. But it’s the only way for our hearts to become fully alive.

I’ve been hesitant to write here, holding a part of my own heart at bay, lest these words be judged by a structure I am no longer a part of.

But coming up on the year anniversary of my Mom’s death, it really is time to talk more about the things that have been rooting deep in my soul. Some for well over a decade.

I have a renewed push not just to spill words at the edges of my days, but to write consequential things. Things that give you permission to ask questions that stretch your comfort zones. To move deeper than accepting easy answers and farther out from the four familiar walls around you.

I’m not here to give you my answers. I’m here to provoke you to ask your own questions. And I hope find more of who you are in the process.