A Blog on “13 Reasons Why”: Consent

***Trigger warning: I will be discussing sexual assault and sexual consent in a non-graphic way. If this triggers you in an unhelpful way please be kind to yourself and click away.

***Spoiler Alert


I binge watched 13 Reasons Why on Netflix this week. I literally could not stop watching this show or thinking about it.

Late last night I finished the last episode and this morning I still find myself shaken by the show.

I know it was a fictional story and a lot of BIG THINGS happened to a small group of people, but I believe there was a lot of truth in that fiction. You see for many years I had the privilege of ministering to teenagers. I went on retreats where I comforted young people as they talked and cried about being cyber-bullied. I cried myself when two different young people I love died in two different senseless accidents. I stayed up nights worrying about who might be drinking too much or smoking pot regularly. There are a lot of things you deal with when you are a teenager and when you love a teenager.

But there is one topic that is stuck in my mind this morning, so much so that I have to write about it.

And that topic is consent.

You see not only have I ministered to teenagers but I have been a young woman myself. So I know what it feels like to have random people grab your body parts without your permission. I know what it feels like to have boyfriends push you to do things you don’t really want to do. I do not know what it is like to be raped, acquaintance raped, or otherwise.

Notice I didn’t preface that statement with “by the grace of God” or any other qualifier because frankly I think I just got lucky. I made plenty of not-so-wise choices that led to me being in precarious situations where I could have easily been raped. And I have friends that were acquaintance raped when they made much better choices and were in seemingly safer situations than I sometimes put myself in.

So the whole issue of rape terrifies me a little because not only have I been a young woman and ministered to young women, but now I am raising a young woman. My daughter will start high school next year and though she is a “good girl,” part of me is scared to death for what will happen to her in the next ten or so years.

Because as much I tell her never to accept a red solo cup from a guy and encourage her to always stick with a female friend when out in public, I know I can’t keep her safe. Because as much as I tell her to choose to be with the guys who treat you well and stay away from the ones who don’t, I know I cannot always control who she will be around and how they will treat her.

I cannot force the young men in her life to respect her and treat her with the kindness and dignity that she deserves. I cannot prevent those she encounters, male or female, from crossing boundaries she did not want crossed by force.

I can only tell her that whatever happens to her I will always love and cherish her. That she can come to me with any story, any situation, and I will always be on her side. That I will always help her see her way through. That she is never alone no matter what she faces because she will always, always have me.

And here is the other thing I can do,

I can talk to my son who is now also a teenager about what consent looks like.

About how you never hurt another person or pressure them to do something they do not want to do. About how, for God’s sake, you never force yourself on another person in any way, no matter what.

Only how do you explain these things to a boy who is still afraid of girls?

The only thing that came to mind this morning in my 13 Reasons Why-induced hangover was to tell him about his Dad.

You see for all practical purposes I married Clay Jensen. And I thank God every day I am lucky enough to spend my life with a good, decent guy. Even if like Hannah I don’t always deserve him.

So maybe the best thing I can do to teach my son how treat someone you are in a relationship with is to tell him (and his sister) what it was like to date their dad.

How his Dad told me on the first date that he usually asked girls if it was okay to kiss them before he actually gave them a kiss. I laughed at him at the time, because God knows no one else had ever done that for me. But now I realize how amazing that was. How he was making very sure that I consented to even this small intimate act he wanted to engage in with me.

I can tell them how their Dad always treated me with respect, never pushing me to do something I didn’t want to do, always looking after my well being as much as and sometimes even more than his own.

For you see consent is about the little things as well as the big things. Consent starts small and follows through to the end.

Consent lasts through 20 years of marriage during which that good and decent boy has turned into of one the best and most decent men I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Treating not only me, but everyone he meets with the same kindness and respect. Never crossing a boundary that didn’t want to be crossed, never hurting another.

You see when I was a young girl some well-meaning adult told me during a sex talk at a youth group meeting that “boys could not help” how they acted around girls. A boy’s hormones made him “out of control” and always seeking one thing. And it was my job to stop them from taking out their desires on me. And if I failed in those attempts? Well, they never answered that question. So I guess I just assumed that it was a part of being a girl. That is was my fault for not being vigilant enough.

But 20 years later I know different.

Boys and men are totally capable of controlling their actions around women. And they should be expected to do so. They should make sure whomever they are engaging in sexual acts with is always in total consent. 

Be a Clay Jensen. Don’t be afraid to ask, “Is this okay?” Always stop when someone changes their mind and tells you it isn’t. Hold the other guys in your life accountable to these same principals, and look out for the girls around you. Show the world there are still good and decent men out there. God knows we need them.


What We Really Learn on Middle School Field Trips

This past weekend my daughter attended the State Science Fair at UGA. When we found out she had made it to state, we were of course proud and happy. I remember my thinking being “Wow, what a great experience for her academically!” followed immediately by, “It will be even better for her to go away on her own for a weekend.”

You see I can be a little overprotective of my girl. And she can be a little overly attached to us as a family. So when I heard that the kids from her school were to ride up on a bus together and stay in a hotel together while being chaperoned only by their teachers, a part of me panicked. But the rest of me said,

“It is time. Let her go.”

So away she went Friday morning at 5:30 am on the big yellow school bus ostensibly to further her knowledge in science and engineering.

We texted a few times. She let me know they got there okay. We told her “goodnight” and “good morning.” But that was pretty much it.

On Saturday our family drove up to see her awards ceremony and then we packed her up in the car to head home. Once we were in the car and headed out of town I asked her, “So how was science fair?” A part of me actually expected her to tell me thing she learned about, you know, SCIENCE.

But here is what followed.

“Well, the bus ride lasted forever. And Jenny say with the boys in the back of the bus and not with the girls which I thought was weird. And then we met some cute boys while we were waiting to be interviewed by the judges. O wait, I just found one of them on Instragram. You think I should follow him? The hotel food was really expensive so we ate all our meals at the mall next door. I ate orange chicken for dinner and breakfast and lunch! It was really good orange chicken but now my stomach kind of hurts.  We walked around Sears for an hour and sat and talked in all their lawn and garden displays. Sears is awesome! The boys were so crazy all weekend. Why do boys act so crazy?”

Yeah, this went on for about an hour until she finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Too much orange chicken and gossiping in the hotel room at night. Not enough sleep.

I was irritated for about a second that no one made her eat anything other than fried chicken covered in orange flavored sugar sauce for a whole weekend and embarrassed that she had tormented the sales people at Sears.

And then I remembered my own story.

My eighth grade year our brave teachers took all the kids in the honors science classes on a field trip to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama. A pretty cool field trip for sure. There are a few things I remember about actual Space Camp. I remember the machine that pushed you into the wall with centrifugal force and then dropped the floor out so we were supported only by the Gs gluing us to the wall. I remember eating freeze dried ice cream.

But mainly I remember this:

Our teachers had us staying four kids to a room at this cheap hotel. I was in a room with three of my best friends and all of us had a crush on the same guy. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He even had a little facial hair coming in. We were over the moon for him. And as fate would have it his hotel room was right next to ours.

I cannot remember whose idea it was to sneak out of our room after “lights out” and knock on the boys’ door. We were all pretty much good girls so that fact we did this at all still surprises me. The proximity of all that testosterone and cuteness must have been more than our adolescent selves could handle.

So sneak out we did and the boys were more than glad to host us in their room. Now let me say nothing really bad actually happened. We just sat on cheap hotel beds and talked and giggled. And apparently we giggled loudly because after about 15 minutes of adrenaline filled rule breaking, we heard a loud knock on the door followed by one of our teacher’s voice demanding we open the door.

All I remember was the panic I felt. I am sure we were all scared. But most of the kids stayed to face their doom while myself, the future minister, and my buddy Quentin, the future lawyer and judge, both ran for it. Quentin and I ended up cowering in the shower together hoping we would be conveniently overlooked.

A word about Quentin and I’s shower encounter. I didn’t think anything of it at the time other than I was hiding with my friend and hoping not to get caught. But looking back on it now it was a bit of a revolutionary of moment. You see I was a young white girl and Quentin was a young black guy. Now my parents would have been furious about me hiding in the shower with any guy no matter the race, but if Quentin and I had been in the shower together for whatever reason 50 or 100 years before good old 1986, my reputation would have been tarnished for life and Quentin would have likely been arrested or shot or worse. We were in Alabama for crying out loud. But thanks be to God and Martin Luther King Jr. in 1986 the son of a former slave and the daughter of a former slave owner could not only sit together on the red hills of Georgia, they could hide together in the showers of cheap hotels in Alabama.

But the bonding moment ended all too soon when we heard the door to the bathroom open and our teacher’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor. I am sure it was a bad moment when the other kids got caught in a hotel room together. But let me tell you when your teacher rips open the curtain to find your young girl self hiding with a boy in a shower, it is nothing less than mortifying.

Our teacher didn’t say much to us that night. She didn’t have to. We were all embarrassed and scared to death she would call our parents. But she didn’t. Because I guess she already knew what I am learning now. That sometimes the thing a book smart kid needs most is to learn how to live their life on their own. How to make choices and face the consequences.

25 years later I realize how important this moment was. The moment when I had my first taste of freedom. The moment I made a few less than perfect choices but lived to tell the tale.

And I have to say I don’t regret a second of it (Sorry Mom). Because we all turned out just fine. One of us has a career in law enforcement. One is a lawyer. One a stay at home mom.

And Quentin? He was a hot shot lawyer bringing justice to Atlanta for many years until he recently became a judge. Every once in a while I will see him on TV being interviewed about a trial or being honored for something. When I do I inevitably shout out to my kids, “Hey, I hid in a shower with that guy on a field trip back in eighth grade.”

I only hope my daughter’s memories of her first big trip by herself will last as long.





My Favorite Sermon on Lent: The Hero’s Journey of Bilbo Baggins

A few days ago we entered the church season of Lent. Maybe you went to a Mardi Gras party or Ash Wednesday service. Maybe you have decided to give something up to help you focus on this season of penitence and reflection. According to my Facebook feed I gather that social media is a pretty common choice to give up this year.

Or maybe some of you are like me and have decided to take on a practice to bring you closer to Jesus during this 40 day journey towards the cross. My daughter and I are doing a program called 40 Acts that gives you a challenge of kindness or generosity by email each day. Others may go to a Lenten study or commit to reading their Bible more.

Whatever you choose to do to celebrate Lent, I can guarantee you that there will come a day in the next 40 days when your choices and your journey will become difficult. When you will wonder why this matters at all and contemplate just throwing in the towel. Does God really want us to struggle with sacrifices and challenging ourselves? Can’t we just rest in grace?

It makes you wonder if there was a point during Jesus’s 40 days in the desert when he thought about giving up. I can’t imagine isolating myself from my community for 40 days, going without food for 40 days, resisting temptation after temptation for 40 days. It must have been exhausting. You wonder if it brought Jesus to the end of his Son of Man rope.Well, Jesus was not just Son of Man but Son of God, so maybe the 40 days was easier for him.

But the one I really wonder about in today’s Scripture readings is Noah. Long long ago there was a time when things on earth got so bad that God decided to start over. Noah and his immediate family went into the ark with two of every animal. This part we like. We romanticize it as a children’s story. Noah and the animals. In fact my baby shower was Noah and the ark themed as my kids came in twos.

But what happens when we think about the time after Noah was shut up in the ark and before the dove came back with that olive branch. What must it have been like during those 40 days of rain and destruction?

When I think about these scriptures about Jesus and Noah another story comes to mind. And though this story is fiction, I think it carries a lot of truth.

It is the story of Bilbo Baggins the Hobbit and his Unexpected Journey.

I love this story so much because I see so much of myself in Bilbo. I too am a slightly chubby creature who likes nothing better than being at home and having tea and cookies. I too do not like it when unexpected things happen like wizards visiting or dwarves coming over unannounced for dinner. I like a nice, quiet, boring life sometimes. But life for Bilbo was not meant to be boring. The wizard Gandalf and the company of dwarves talked him into setting off on a journey. A journey in which they would hike many miles across the land to the Lonely Mountain in order to steal a precious jewel from the fierce dragon Smaug.

Now when I first read this book I thought no way is this Hobbit going to make it against a dragon. He doesn’t have it in him. But as I read on I noticed the Hobbit began to change. You see the dwarves and Bilbo did not go from Bilbo’s Hobbit hole straight to the Lonely mountain and take the jewel and the mountain back from the dragon straight away. Like any good hero’s journey they had many side adventures first.

In my youth, this annoyed me. I wanted them to go from point A to point B, get things done and move on with life. But as I have aged I have learned that the path is often windy and filled with unexpected things. For Bilbo it was first an encounter with mountain trolls, then a scary mountain climb where he almost dies, and then a long pass under a dark, tomb-like mountain filled with orcs.

And each time Bilbo faced a new foe or difficulty, he rose to the occasion. The once lazy, slightly apathetic Hobbit became quicker and more clever. He learned how to use his gifts and rely on those around him to support his weaknesses. Sure there were many times that Bilbo wanted to give up and just back to his cozy Hobbit hole. But he pressed on with the journey. And spoiler, in the end it turns out he has what it takes after all. And when he finally makes it back to his cozy Hobbit hole, he is never the same Hobbit again.

Because for Bilbo, it was never about defeating the dragon or getting gold. It was about taking a journey that would transform him into a new person.

I think it must have been like that for Noah too. After all, did it really have to take 40 days to destroy everything on earth and start over? God made the world in seven days in the beginning, surely 40 days were not necessary to recreate it? And did Noah really have to go through the agony of bobbing around in that little ark while the rain of all rains pummeled the earth?

I find it interesting that the rain that fell during the flood was not just any rain. Back in Genesis 1 we see the third act of creation is God creating a dome called sky to push back the deep, dangerous waters of Tehom, the waters of chaos to bring a place of safety, order, and life to earth. God then contains other waters into oceans so land can be formed and life can live outside of the deep, dark waters.

When God sends the rains in Genesis, he is essentially ripping a hole in the dome called sky and letting the deep, dangerous waters of chaos re-enter earth and destroy all everything on the land and in the air. It is an undoing of creation.

While the epic waters fell, everything Noah had ever known died. I wonder if Noah ever wondered in the midst of the never ending rain and destruction if God would get carried away and destroy him too?

But during this time all Noah really had was God. All he could do is pray and wait and trust God with his future, with the world’s future.

I think that all that time and waiting and trusting must have changed Noah. Anytime you go through an ordeal like that it changes you. It makes you a new person. And Noah needed to be a new person, for he was entering a world made new. As the person charged with carrying on life, he needed to be close to God, to trust God with any and everything.

Maybe the 40 days weren’t for God, they were for Noah.

And so it is for us. As we look ahead to this season of Lent, we know that it is given to us for our transformation, for my transformation and yours. It is to take me from the slightly chubby, sometimes lazy, and often fearful person and change her into someone who is bold to reach out in love and generosity to the world.

It is to take you from where you are to a few steps closer to who God wants you to be. And of course this journey will be challenging and full of unexpected things. For that is how all 40 day, change you into someone new journeys always are. The trick is to keep walking the path, keep looking to God, keep letting God make us into the person God knows we can be.

When Christmas Turns Upside Down

In the famous words of Joni Mitchell, “It’s Coming on Christmas.” It is the time of year when we deck the halls and sing the carols and watch the heartwarming movies and trim the tree. And these are good things as they remind us of the hope and light and love in the world and how it comes to us.

But this year I just can’t.

I’ve tried. We have the tree up in our house. It is up with about half of its pre-lit lights not working and totally undecorated.  I went to Lowe’s to buy some outdoor decorations in the spirit of Clark Griswald. But the wreaths and bows are still laying in the floor of my garage.

What is the problem you wonder?

I could blame it on two sinus infections in two months or how I struggle with depression in December, but I think its more than that. This year there is a bigger block.

I don’t know how to sing Fa la la about Jesus’s coming when so many people in this world are still suffering on their different crosses.

This week we watch as modern day massacre plays out in Aleppo. A massacre that would seem unbelievable were it not for the very real details laid out on social media. I struggle to even imagine what is happening much less how to respond.

For months we’ve watched as our nation’s indigenous people have suffered trial after trial in trying to protect the small amount of land they can call their own from outside forces that they believe would cause their land and people harm. I try to understand how after so many years of mistreatment these souls can have the courage to peacefully endure tear gas, rubber bullets, and water canons in sub freezing temperature to protect the heritage they hold dear. Even though the Native community has received some good news of late, I still feel no peace about their long term future.

Much closer to home, in the state of Georgia in the last month six police officers have been killed in the line of duty. Two at a traffic stop, two responding to a dispute between neighbors call, and two responding to a domestic dispute. These were good guys doing what was for them a regular days work. Now they leave a hole in the lives of their families and communities.

I would try to cheer myself up out of my gloom and tell myself it is not my problem. Except as a Christian, as a human, I know that it is my problem.

I’ve done a good bit of supply preaching of late and the Scriptures have been filled with not cheer, but warning and exhortations. Stay awake! Pay attention to what is happening around you says the first Sunday of Advent. The warnings go on to tell us what we do to the least of these we do unto God.

Then John the Baptists comes and tells us to repent. To prepare the way of the Lord. Prepare for the same Lord who tells us the story about the least of these. And the exhortation to get ready coming from a guy who lives in the woods wearing camel’s hair and eating locusts and honey.

And then we hear the story of Mary and Elizabeth. A story that could be sentimentalized were it not for Mary’s great magnificat. A poem that tells about bringing down the powerful and and lifting up the lowly. Talks about filling the hungry and sending the rich away empty.

So in the midst of these words and warnings I think I’ll just keep that tree bare for now and be okay with that.

Maybe it is alright to cry a little in Advent. Maybe it is okay to feel the pain of the not yet, the pain of a world in need of its redeemer. A world that needs Jesus to come again and again until all things are made new.

When Christmas comes I will celebrate. For God has come to be with us. Even in our tragedy. Even in our pain. And this presence is our hope and salvation.

But for these last days of preparation, I will tell my heart it is okay to be sad. For my sadness means I am paying attention to the wounds of the world. I am seeing the places that need to be covered with healing and light and love.

Because Jesus’s coming does not mean I get to just sit back and drink eggnog and be happy about the birth of a baby.

For this is the baby born in the dirt of a stable to backwater parents who had very little rights in their own home land.

This is the baby that with his parents had to flee from their home and run for their lives. The refugee baby that was sheltered in a nearby land while countless others were massacred.

This is the baby that when you look in his eyes, it makes you get up and walk a different way for you have seen the world in a whole new light.

So if your Christmas has been turned upside down, Take heart. You are not alone. Let’s keep watching and waiting and looking for the Christ child in our midst.

For he is coming. One way or another. He will always come.


A Sermon on Psalm 121: From Night Wrestling to Mountain Blessing

Just a week and a half ago a hurricane hit our state for the first time in over a hundred years.

Like many of you, I grew up visiting our beautiful coast regularly. As a youth I often went to summer camp at Epworth By The Sea on St. Simon’s. It is a sacred place to me as I grew up in God’s grace under those old live oaks. But it is also special place to me as those oaks saw me not only grow in grace, but also just plain grow up from a child to a woman. I went from a scrawny girl away from home for the first time sleeping in a tabby cabin, to a teenager getting her first kiss on the Epworth pier during a youth weekend, to a young women attending her first ministerial retreat for Methodist clergy, all under the oaks of Epworth. That is a lot of life for trees and piers and tabby cabins to hold, but hold it all they did.

As a child my family vacationed in Savannah for a week every year. And then as young woman I returned to Savannah to serve my first church. Jason and I lived in our state’s first city for four years and through ministry and life I fell totally in love with that beautiful town and its people. On my Fridays off I would often meet Jason downtown for lunch and then spending the afternoon in Forsyth Park to read by the fountain and soak up the beautiful life that park holds. But occasionally on Fridays I would drive out to Tybee to take communion to one of our shut-ins in a nursing home there. After reading Scripture and praying and taking the bread and wine with my parishioner, Barbara, I would walk the beach and let the sand and waves carry the cares of my week away.

So the night that Matthew hit my beloved Tybee and St Simon’s, I was as sleepless and restless as Jacob long ago.

Would everything be okay? Would my friends and family on the coast be hurt? Would they lose their homes? Would the landmarks and touchstones I knew and loved so well survive? Would I recognize the world I woke up to tomorrow?

The fate of the Georgia coast was not the only thing that kept me up that fateful night. As the hurricane hit our coast, more chaos and scandal hit our nation in the storm that has been this year’s presidential election. As I drifted in and out of sleep the winds of the hurricane and the winds that have been whipping our nation merged into one big storm in my mind. A storm whose potential damage kept me wrestling with fear. I wish I could say as morning broke I was a changed woman. That I received a blessing. But our life is not always as quickly resolved as the Biblical narratives. I continued to worry and struggle for days even as we left for not the coast, but the Georgia mountains for our fall vacation.

On the way to our cabin I read over the Scriptures trying to find something that would speak to us all. Some word from God that would shine light on these confusing and changing times. So as I looked for comfort in Scripture as we crossed out of the Piedmont into North Georgia I came upon today’s Psalm. “I will lift my eyes to the hills, from where will my help come from? My help comes from the Lord.” And for the first time in days I took a good, deep breath.

I don’t know about you, but the mountains have always brought me peace. Something about their largeness and ancientness reminds me of God. Their constant presence reminds me there is a God much bigger and stronger and older than me that can do mighty things. And this God that made the mountains is with me still. Through my every day. Through our every storm. If God can make mud into mountains, surely God can handle the chaos in my life now.

The mountains were a sacred place for the Israelites as well. When people wanted to draw close to God they went up one of the Holy Mountains and miraculous things took place. Bushes burned. Laws were given. God was present in real ways. So I had always read this Psalm as one that offers us the mountains as a comfort. I will lift up my eyes unto the hills and then remember my help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth.

But after reading commentaries this week, I found Psalm 121 can be read another way. Psalm 121 is one of the Songs of Ascents, a group of Psalms that were prayed when pilgrims would travel to Jerusalem.

Now any journey is dangerous, but especially so in ancient times. One never knew what was lurking around the bend. So in this context I wonder is the mountain a comfort, or an obstacle on our journey?

This makes sense to me too. As much as I love mountains, there have been moments on what were supposed to be peaceful hikes that the terrain got tough and I was praying hard to God to “let not my foot be moved” for if my feet slipped on that windy perilous path I might very well plummet many feet to my death.

So is the mountain then a call to prayer for God to help us through the hard places in our journey? For setting out on any new journey brings fear and worry. For we know at some point the times will get tough. Unseen danger may arise. And we wonder on the pilgrimage if we will ever come back and find home like we once knew it again. For you see pilgrimages are times of change. Change for people and places and nations. And if you are like me you don’t want the things you have known and loved to change.

You lay awake at night wondering if you will ever see the live oaks at Epworth again or if the fountain at Forsyth park will stand. You just want something Unchanging you can hold onto while everything uncertain swirls around you.

As we were driving along Ga 400 and I was reading Psalm 121 another memory came to mind. I told you that during my time in Savannah one Friday a month I would go and visit my parishioner, Barb. Barb was not much older than I am now but she was quite sick. In fact Barb was so sick that we all knew she had already started the journey that will lead her from this world unto the next. As I visited with Barb every month in that nursing home by the sea, she would always ask me to read Psalm 121. I would read it from the King James and she would say it by heart along with me. “I will lift my eyes unto the hills, from whence commeth my help? My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth.” And every month as we said these words together she would squeeze my hands with tears in her eyes and small smile on her face. I would often look at her and marvel that though so much had changed for her and so much uncertainty lay ahead, this Psalm brought her such peace. It was if she could see into the distance, see that last mountain to cross and look at it without fear because she knew. She knew she was not alone. The Maker of Heaven and Earth was with her. And no matter how bad and scary things got God would be helping her feet make every step of the way.

And when you know in your core that the God who made the mountains is keeping you and everything in this world in God’s hand, even the mountain slopes and the storms aren’t so scary anymore.

Because no matter what changes the journey will bring, the unchanging God will be with us.

Loving us, helping us, keeping us. And that is more than enough peace and strength to keep us walking on our way. Amen.

What It Means To Take A Knee

I will admit that when I first heard about Colin Kaepernick taking a knee during the national anthem before one of the 49ers footballs games, I didn’t quite get it. Part of the reason for this is the way the media and everyone else was phrasing it. Kaepernick didn’t stand for the national anthem. Can you believe it? Does this guy hate America or what?

As I heard more about his actions, I began to understand that Kaepernick was doing it as a protest against racism in America. An understandable action for sure. But during the national anthem? That is a pretty sensitive moment for most Americans. A moment for national pride and respect.

And then I went to a USA Women’s soccer game in Atlanta. On the ride up my daughter, her friend, and I were all taking about our favorite players and how we couldn’t wait to see them in action. My daughter’s friend told me how her favorite player was Megan Rapinoe. She went on to say how she was worried about not getting to see Rapinoe play as Rapinoe had been taking a knee during the national anthem and her coaches weren’t pleased. Just to clarify I asked her, “Why is Rapinoe taking a knee?” Our friend replied, “Oh you know because of all the racism in this country. All the bad stuff happening to black people. She wanted to support Kaepernick in his protest of all that is going on.”

We went on to talk about a girl in her class who is taking a knee during the pledge of allegiance every school day because there isn’t actually “liberty and justice for all” right now. Apparently her teacher is not impressed.

We went on to talk about the Constitution and its Bill of Rights and specifically our First Amendment right to peaceful protest. We talked about our right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, what it means to be the land of the free and the home of the brave, and other such things.

And then we got to the game and I forgot all about our conversation. We were so excited to be in the Georgia Dome and see our women play! And then the national anthem was playing. And there before my eyes was Megan Rapinoe silently, humbly, bowing down on one knee while the national anthem was sung.

And I don’t know it if was because she was a white woman or because she was on a soccer field or what, but suddenly I got it.

You see my kids play soccer. My son started when he was quite young. At that age kids often got hurt and fell down. Maybe they tripped or got tripped or were hit by the ball. This happened so much in the game with little kids dropping like flies that the league had a certain practice. When one kid saw that another player was down they immediately took a knee. One benefit of this practice was to alert the ref that there was a hurt player on the field (after all there are ten little kids running constantly, it is hard for one ref to keep track of them all.) Also, it helped to keep any other the other kids from accidentally running over the hurt kid and making things worse (they were little kids, these things happen).

So when I saw Megan Rapinoe taking a knee that night it all  clicked.

She was taking a knee to alert those in charge that there were people in her country, on HER TEAM so to say, that were injured and hurting.

She was letting everyone know that it was time to stop the game, check on the hurt person, and see what was needed to be done to heal their injury. Because we need them to be strong and well. Because they are a part of OUR TEAM and we need all our team healthy and strong to play the best game.

It turns out Rapinoe did play that night. She came in during the second half. And the boos raised the roof of the dome. And the girls got sooo upset. I told them to calm down as Megan had thought through what she was doing and surely knew there would be consequences. She just believed in what she was doing enough to face those consequences. Those are the ropes of social protest. And so they cheered for her throughout the game as loud as they could to counteract all the repeated boos.

Flash forward two weeks later and we are at a high school football game in another town as a part of my husband’s high school reunion. As the national anthem played two things happened. My son put my hand over my heart (To be honest I never quite know what to do during the anthem. I grew up standing at attention to the flag and singing along. I guess things have changed). One second later my daughter turns to me and says, “Should I take a knee?” I looked at her with big eyes and said, “Do what you think is right baby.” I watched as she slowly lowered half way down, panicked, and then stood back up again.

We all talked about the anthem moment in the car later. It turns out my husband was thinking the same thing as my daughter but backed out too. My daughter’s reason was this: She was already in a place where no one knew her or her heart. She already thought she stood out in a sea of pretty conservative white people (she is Chinese adopted and a socially liberal 13 year old). “I think they would have just ended up hating me and not understood what I was trying to do,” she said.” She obviously remembered the boos from the GA Dome. I talked about how I was again surprised it was time for the anthem to play (I really don’t get out enough) and hadn’t had time to think things through.

And such is the dilemma of social protest. Will people understand what you are doing? Will you change the way people see things or will they just hate you?

I guess that is why most social protests are planned well in advance with a lot of thought and with preparation to face the consequences.

So, Now that I have had a few hours to mull things over, I have made up my mind and am prepared to face the consequences.


Here is me belatedly taking a knee.


And it is not because I hate America, or because I don’t respect out veterans or troops.

I love my country. My Dad is a Vietnam vet. Half my friends are either vets or active duty military wives (we live in an Air Force town) and I respect and support them to no end.

I am not taking a knee because I hate America. I love my country. If I hated it I would just leave.

But I love my country and all of its people so much that I know we can do better. We HAVE to do better.

I believe in our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution and our National Anthem so much I want them to ring true for all our fine citizens.

And the hard truth is right now they don’t. Some of my fellow Americans are hurting right now.

And it is not just the police shootings. (By the way I don’t hate police either. My most beloved friend is in law enforcement so I get it is a hard, hard job. Cops have my respect, love, and support too.) The shootings of late are the tip of an iceberg of institutional racism in our country. Racism that manifests itself in many different forms but boils down to the fact that many white people see and treat black people as “other”rather than “neighbor” or “team mate” or “friend.”

I truly believe we can stop the game for a minute to look at the hurts of our black brothers and sisters and then try to all heal the hurts together. I truly believe things can be better if we ALL roll up our sleeves, join together, and do the hard work of trying.

We have done it before. We ended slavery. We stopped many ingrained racist practices in the 60s like segregation and Jim Crow laws. We just need to try again and change the hurts that are happening today.

I believe in our country and I believe in its people and I know we can do better . We MUST do better to be who we say we are.

So here I am down on one knee with my hand over my heart, singing about the land of the free and the home of the brave, hoping, striving for it to be true for all Americans.

Will you join me?


Adventures in Anxiety and Depression: Switching Meds

After I filled you in on my med change decision in  The Search for Normal: A Struggle With Anxiety and Depression I felt I needed to give an update. I am almost a week into my journey of changing anxiety and depression medicine after getting my results back from Genesight. Overall, the week has gone smoother than I may have thought, but there have definitely been bumps.

Some of those bumps of course are self created. During my appointment with my psychiatrist we decided I would move from taking 20mg of my current medicine (a full dose) to taking 10mg for four days and then taking 5mg for four days. We hope by then we would be ready to start the new med.

I gotta tell you that first night I went ahead and took the full 20mg again. My husband seeing me take the 20mg pill just looked at me and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be weaning down?” I replied, “Yeah, but we have a lot going on tomorrow, I’d better go with 20mg tonight.”

If you can’t read between the lines, I’ll  just tell you I was scared of weaning down. Scared of how it would make me feel. Scared of how I would react.

The next night I didn’t feel much braver, but the hubs looked at me and said, “Take the 10mg. It’s labor day weekend. We’ll be around with you for days.”

Sidenote: I really love my husband. He should be made a saint or something. 

So I opened the 10mg sample bottle I was given for just this task and took the leap. Then I chased it with my nightly dose of Klonopin and went to bed. Best not to overthink these things.

The first couple of days were not that bad. From time to time I could feel myself “checking my emotional temperature,” but nothing catastrophic was happening. I was a little cranky and anxious but I think a lot of this came from my own nervousness about the endeavor.

For here is one of the horrible truths about anxiety. You are often your own worst enemy. Since I have had bad experiences going on a new med before (read previous Search for Normal post for Paxil nightmare story), my mind and to some extent my body remember this trauma. They tense up and brace for it to happen again. The fear that is created by the dread is enough to make me feel worse. It is a self perpetuating cycle.

So I tried to simultaneously keep my self busy and be gentle with myself. There was a lot of movie watching and reading and cuddling kids and dogs. Mostly I just pressed on with it all. Two days of 10mg down, two to go. Just keep swimming.

All this while I know there is another step coming. My doc told me to drop off the prescription at the pharmacy right away as she knew there would probably be some dance between her and my insurance company on getting them to cover it. She thought that since we had the genesight results and my reports of side effects from my current med that we should be okay.

Well, let me just tell you. It was not okay. After haggling back and forth my insurance company told her that they were refusing to pay for my med. Even though it was on their formulary. Even though Genesight called it one of my best. Even though she has seen patients do great on it, recommended it for me and asked for me to be given the drug.

They refused to pay.

Why? Because the drug is expensive and they want me to try every cheaper option first. Even if it is not the best drug for me. Even though there is a chance the cheap drug will either not work as well or give me difficult side effects.

After losing the fight with my insurance company my doc called me and left me a message that we were going with a new drug that she thought my insurance might cover and to stop by to get the script so I could drop it off right away. Because of the dance.

But instead I had a panic attack. Because it had taken several minutes of my Doc giving me a pep talk on how she felt good about this new drug and how it was going to be great for me and how it wouldn’t cause horrible side effects like I’ve endured before or even the less horrible side effects of weight gain or loss of labido. . . .

(Okay, let’s just pause a minute and let it soak in that I’ll tolerate gaining 50 pounds and having to be talked into being intimate with the love of my life because both the experience of acute anxiety/depression and the side effects I’ve endured from other meds, yes you Paxil, were so bad that being obese and unsexy seemed like workable and even preferable options.)

It took this five minute pep talk to convince me this new drug was going to be okay. That I was going to be okay. Because I could trust the science of the Genesight test. Because I can trust my Psychiatrist. There was a lot of trust that went into me agreeing to change to this new med.

And then. Then my insurance company goes and blows all that trust building and bravery out of the water by refusing to cover this new med. And to pay it out of pocket would cost $200 a month. Or $2,400 a year. We could do that. But why should we have to? When I have an illness and there is a drug that will treat that illness but my insurance company just doesn’t want to spend that much money on me even though I pay them a buttload of money in premiums each month for just this sort of thing.

So after getting the phone message from my Doc I am crying and having a panic attack in the bathroom where my children can’t see me, frantically looking up this new med. A med I have not had a five minute pep talk about. A med that was not the first one my Doc pointed to and said, “I really like this one. This one will work really well.” And as I’m reading reviews on the new med which I know nothing about they are very mixed. Some people had horrible reactions, for some people it just didn’t work, and some called it a life safer.

Because here is another horrible truth about anxiety and depression. Even though there are wonderful meds out there that can help treat the illness, finding the right one for you is really a crap shoot. The drug that saves one person’s life causes another to fall into a suicidal hole. The drug that calms one’s person’s raging fear can ramp another up into a nightmarish fit of anxiety and irritability.

I cannot even describe to you what some of the side effects of psychotrpic drugs feel like. I can only tell you that the experience of them was so bad I would not wish them on my worst enemy. The best I can approximate is that it is like a drug trip gone VERY wrong. And my experience was not even worst case scenario.

And the worst thing is you are not experiencing these roller coaster rides as a strong, healthy individual. You go in already weak and broken and then the drug messes you up even that much more. 

Until you either ride out the first few weeks of your body adjusting to the drug and finally hit stability and then healing or you find the right med that works for you with no bad stuff on the side.

And then it is like a miracle. Because you suddenly feel so much better. And you never had to feel so much worse to get there.

And that was the real hope of the Genesight test for me all along. That I would find the right drug that made me feel so much better without having to deal with so much worse. Not even 50 pound weight gain and decreased labido.

After a talk with my husband (saint I tell you) I work up the courage to drop off the second drug at my pharmacy this morning. Because Genesight said it was good and my Doc choose it second. And I have to believe she wouldn’t send me home with anything that was bad for me even if it isn’t best.

And as I’ve typed this post I’ve gotten not one but two automated two from my pharmacy telling me they cannot fill this med until they get prior approval from my doctor. As if her prescription were not approval enough.

And while I wait for my Doc and my insurance company to agree on SOME medicine I can take for my illness, not my inconvenience nor my personal problem, but MY ILLNESS, I press on. I keep taking the 5mg of my old drug for a few more nights even though I can feel a difference now. It is nothing horrible or unmanageable. I can just feel that this net that was keeping me lifted up above the abyss of sadness and angst is slowly loosening its hold. It takes less to irritate me or work me up now. I feel a little more fragile. I cannot do as much in a day without coming to the end of myself.

So I’ll keep reading fiction and watching movies and drinking herbal tea and breathing deep and singing along to the radio loud and doing the hundreds of things I’ve learned through years of therapy and trial and error that keep the abyss at bay. And I’ll hold tight to the family and friends that surround me in a delicate time and hold me up and push me on and keep me going.

But there are moments when I am just so angry. Angry I have this disease of anxiety and depression. Angry that science and medicine are still so clumsy in treating it. And I’m furious at my insurance company that when I need them most they do their job in providing for me the least. That they refuse to do their job so they can improve their bottom line. That they take sick people’s lives which are already hard and make them even harder.

I pray that one day mental illness will get the treatment it deserves. Both from good science and research and from insurance companies who do their damn job.

Until then friends, just keep swimming.