How to Breathe through the Chaos

faith, anxiety, and doing our part

September delivered one of its best surprises when Si decided to join us on Sunday mornings at our Holy Alliance Bible study. Not only does this require waking up early (a true sacrifice for every Martin,) but it inevitably invites a dash of chaos to what Christians commonly believe should be a day of peace. This was never more evident than on Sunday, when “Jack” crashed in on a bleary-eyed wave of curse words, dropping his doughnut in a powdered sugar trail that ended at Ruby’s feet.

For at least fourteen years, Cory and I have been keenly aware of the parenting mistakes we might be making. Our kids don’t speak Christianese like we did. They can’t rattle off the books of the Bible like I could from the age of four. They aren’t scared to death of Hell like we were (and sometimes it really shows, yikes.) But they feel at home reciting the Lord’s prayer with fifty incarcerated people, they even choose it sometimes, and that feels important in ways that are harder to define but more likely to impact how they move through the world.

By 10 a.m. I was back in my kitchen, baking scones for a virtual tea with British friends. A reminder popped up for an appointment I’d long forgotten - we could still make it if we left right away. By 10:30 we were sitting in a church across town listening to a Palestinian man share about his arrival to the States a little over one year ago.

He scrolled through photos of close friends from University, co-workers, family, and neighbors - a PowerPoint memoir. Then came the sucker-punchline. Every person he shared had been killed over the last eleven months. In years past, when occasional attacks broke out, his large family gathered in one home and took turns running out for necessities in order to minimize the collective family risk. Now that all hope has been lost, they run errands together, desperate to be together with destruction comes for them.

We spent the afternoon with our grandson, swinging at the park and eating cheese.

It is astonishing, the range of emotions just one day can deliver.

On Monday I awoke to the news that Israel had bombed a designated safe zone – again. When we hear of traumatized people clawing through the rubble for their beloveds, is it possible to not smell smoke? At work, I cored and sliced peppers for hours on end. Later, I sat sunny on the bleachers and watched Si play tennis.

Tuesday brought a doctor’s appointment. I tried to scratch a few clumsy words into a slow-blooming file on my laptop. I listened as an immigrant friend casually shared about the exploitation she and others encounter in the very factories they help keep afloat. That evening, we met up with friends who help us feel normal and remind us to laugh. Then we hustled home to watch the debate.

About that.

I had done an informal poll on Instagram, asking if people planned to watch. Roughly 60% said yes – higher than I expected. What stuck out to me were the dozens of messages saying they “couldn’t” watch because it made them too anxious. I understood. Just the thought of it made me feel twitchy. But I keep learning the value of bearing witness to things I’d rather avoid. It’s not that I don’t feel the dread. I just try not to let it shut me down.

I grabbed a jar of emotional support pickles and settled in. My favorite part was when Silas plopped down beside me, asking good questions as he stared into the glare of a country that chose chaos over connection. My second favorite part was toward the end, when DT was ranting about Kamala wanting to defund the police.¹ “That’s not true,” I heard her say from a muted mic. “I’m speaking,” Trump shot back, using her past words against her. There on the split-screen, I saw her break into a knowing grin, “Don’t lie!” she interjected, sounding exactly like a mom, knowing he wouldn’t listen.

I went to bed confident it was time well spent, though it would have been easier not to watch. Of course, this is just one example of bearing tension. If we’re going to steer humanity in a better direction, we’ll need to fan out across the chaos each day delivers. My focus will not always be yours. Still, this election is monumental. It impacts all of us. We need to stay afloat over these next months and beyond.

We cannot control what life throws at us.  

But we can prepare.

We can steady ourselves for the onslaught, the bottomless multitudes.

If you’re prone to telling yourself you “can’t” do X,Y,Z, because “it’s too much,” or “your heart can’t take it,” I am not here to shame you. That sentiment has long been a friend of mine. Absent a miracle tonic to quell the harm and soothe the panic, something we can offer this madness is the willingness to see it in full color, to register its pleadings.

Engaged presence is a solid starter plan.

As we choose minor discomforts, our window of tolerance opens, inch by inch.

We begin to trust that pressing into tension conditions us for deeper connection.

We learn the kingdom of God is paved not with gold, but with rough-hewn bricks of empathy and solidarity.

I’m being led by my kids as they engage in the spiritual practice of embracing complexity. My parental load will always include worries about their faith formation. But I’m also choosing defiant belief that the God we have is even greater than the God we think we have (to paraphrase Father Boyle.) In other words, I’m finding it easier to trust that I don’t actually have the power to screw everything up. It’s going to be okay.

If we want to keep falling in love with this world, we’re going to have to increase our capacity for its ferocious abundance. The only way to pull this off is to keep filling our lives with soul-sustaining things. This is our prescription for not toppling over.

I’ve started a running list: “Things that made today more bearable.” This is more than gratitude. It’s a pledge to keep moving toward the pain, believing God is already there. It’s an inoculation against cynicism and despair. It’s a cannula streaming oxygen and fortitude into the capillaries of our precious, impossibly small, knotted-up lives.

In order to keep building, we must keep breathing.

Three things that kept me breathing this week:

1.      Plunging my face into the cluster of roses blooming outside my front door.

2.      Stopping to talk to Heather through my rolled-down van window.

3.      Answering the phone when my sister called in the middle of the afternoon.

What about you?

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This + That

:: Last night I watched the Bad Faith documentary and I highly recommend it for anyone wondering how we ended up in the throes of Christian Nationalism.

:: This Steak and Snow Pea Yakisoba was simple and delicious! I subbed dried Lo Mein noodles found at Kroger and added some chopped garlic and ginger. Silas inexplicably always thanks me for making dinner, even when he doesn’t like it. On this night, he thanked me three times. :)

:: I’m on a roll with excellent books, lately! One standout is James by Percival Everett, a retelling of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn told through the eyes of Jim, the enslaved man. It was a difficult read in many ways (another opportunity to embrace discomfort!) and it was also profound. You can find a running highlight of all of my completed books on my Instagram.

1. If you’ve heard mixed commentary about whether Kamala wants to defund the police, this might help. (I use Snopes.com every week to wade through misinformation and get a handle on various topics.)