Author: swithrowking

isolation

~ swithrowking ~ Leave a comment

Isolation is a sign and symptom of two particularly difficult struggles in my life, food addiction and depression, and sure, they feed each other (feed! get it?!), but they manifest themselves in very different ways. And while the isolation that results from addicted behavior is always unhelpful to me, the isolation from depression can either be dangerous or productive.

When food addiction isolation takes hold, I basically just want to shut myself up in a space and eat. I do this in my office many days – that afternoon snack that I don’t want anyone to see me eating (“Do you really need that, fat girl?” says the imaginary-surrogate-authority-figures-whose-approval-I-crave-as-much-as-salty-fat). So, I close the door, inhale the food, and then open it up again when I’ve cleaned up all the evidence of my wrongdoing. Or I might stay up long past everyone else in the house, stand alone in the kitchen, and graze by the light of the refrigerator. There is nothing helpful or healthy about this behavior. Nothing.

Depression isolation looks a little different. There’s more sleeping and less shoveling involved. It’s a slow-paced isolation, without the racing heart and shame.

Today’s isolation was the unhelpful kind. Last night, I was awake until four am…first watching a very dark, but compelling television show and then obsessing over updates about the Malaysia Airlines flight that has gone missing, particularly drawn into the horror of imagining being on a flight with my own child as it dropped into the sea. Staying up late and sleeping late is one way to ensure I face people the least amount of time, because I can only come up with so many half-truths to explain how I feel or am doing on any given day, and it’s exhausting.

I had every intention today of locking myself away to catch up on some of the school writing that I’ve let slide for weeks (this is a reasonable and healthy kind of isolation to which we will turn in a few moments). In fact, I ditched a training and the opportunity to have my friend Beth kick my ass at the gym in order to be productive. I was going to isolate FOR A GOOD CAUSE! I didn’t, really, though. Today was mostly an obsessive internet surfing, excuse-making kind of day.

There are some days, when you open your eyes and know you’ve already failed. That’s the kind of day this was.

Last fall, I spent several very productive and restorative weekends at a spiritual retreat center about 45 minutes outside of Philadelphia. I went to read and to write, and I mostly felt really good about the time there. I’d call Giehl to check in here and there, and on Saturday if I had been very good, I’d buy dinner at Whole Foods and speak to the cashier there, but other than those short interactions, those weekends at the hermitage were just me, my wifi-less laptop, and God. I even managed to keep distractions to a minimum. I will read anything with words, from tween dystopian drama to bird watching guides…anything to avoid hearing my own thoughts. On these trips, I brought the books I needed for research, a Bible, and nothing more. I wrote and wrote and wrote and prayed and listened and wrote some more.

But the last couple of times I went, I cut my time there short. I started to feel alone and afraid in the woods. I craved the warm light of my own living room, the soft fur of my dogs cuddled beside me. I felt something like a sense of panic before I frantically packed up the laundry and locked the keys inside the cabin on my way back to the city. The silence was too much. I felt the kind of vulnerable that comes just before I plunge off a cliff into the darker depths of depression. Instead of face the fear with Jesus in the woods, I left.

So now, I’m trying to figure out how to find a disciplined, monastic space in the midst of my daily life. Trying to discern if I should risk going back to the woods. Trying to figure out where I’m going to write the rest of this damn book that I’m supposed to finish in two months.

Just as soon as I’m caught up on my Hulu queue.

ag gag laws, lent, and journeying with jesus

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My brother and I have never been particularly close, despite the relative proximity of our birth years, but one thing I’ve always admired about Jesse Joe is his ability to throw himself whole-heartedly into loving another. It is always my tendency to hold back.

I think others might also have a hard time being vulnerable, exposed, whole-hearted. Our hardness and caution is demonstrated in a thousand tiny ways every day, but for me, one of the most in-your-face demonstration of cutting ourselves off from the experience of others is eating flesh. And it’s *literally* in our faces, isn’t it?!

Intentional ignorance about where our food comes from is a barrier to our reconciliation with God’s creation. But possibly worse is punishing those who enter into the suffering of others in order to expose cruelty and abuse. Imagine watching your supervisor show you how to shock a lame cow to force her to move a few more feet; being shown how to slam a baby pig into the ground until he was dead; asked to sort male from female chicks from a conveyer belt and told to throw the male chicks alive into grinders. Imagine being in the suffering of a factory farm or a slaughterhouse for days, in order to expose what agri-business doesn’t want consumers to see.

Less than a week before Ash Wednesday and the start of the Lenten season, Idaho governor C.L. “Butch” Otter, a member of the Roman Catholic church, signed a controversial “Ag Gag” bill into law, making Idaho the seventh state in the U.S. to penalize individuals who use undercover footage to expose abuse on factory farms and in slaughterhouses.

As a native of Idaho and a lifelong Jesus follower, I’m embarrassed and disappointed that my home state and a fellow Christian would choose to imprison and fine advocates attempting to curb abuse of God’s fellow creatures. That Otter signed the bill into law just days before Christians around the world entered the Lenten journey is bitterly ironic.

Through the pain of Lent, we begin to prepare for the restorative, transformative Easter morning. It is a time of shadow and struggle undergirded by eschatological hope. It is a special time of intention, in which we move with Jesus towards the suffering other, to the hill on which he was hung, and ultimately to the reconciliation promised by the empty tomb. In Romans, Paul reminds us that the whole creation groans for this reconciliation. In fact, the whole of the scriptures are woven through with admonitions to care for God’s creation, praise for the miracles of God evidenced through God’s creative work, and clear indications that though humans may be specially privileged with the imago Dei, all of God’s creation sings in praise to their almighty and loving Maker.

Though these creatures will one day bow and confess at the foot of the throne, countless undercover investigations of factory farms and slaughterhouses have revealed systematic, horrific abuse of the nonhuman animals we breed, raise, and kill for food. Mercy for Animals, PETA, Humane Society of the United States, and Compassion over Killing are just a few of the groups who have documented animals being kicked, bludgeoned, dragged, shocked, mutilated, thrown, sexually assaulted, and more by farm and slaughterhouse workers.

It was the Mercy for Animals investigation of a Bettencourt Dairy location in Idaho that led to the introduction and passage of that state’s Ag Gag bill. The video footage of Bettencourt revealed workers viciously beating and shocking cows, violently twisting their tails in order to deliberately cause pain, using a chain attached to a tractor to drag a lame cow by her neck, and the sexual abuse of animals on the farm.

Yet despite the clear evidence of wrongdoing, Otter wrote that he has “confidence in [Idaho farmers’] desire to responsibly act in the best interest of the animals on which that livelihood depends. No animals rights organization cares more or has more at stake than Idaho farmers and ranchers do in ensuring that their animals are healthy, well-treated and productive.” Decades of undercover investigations on farms big and small from coast to coast paint a very different picture of the real priorities of agri-business: profit at any cost.

Last week, ashes in the sign of the cross were placed on my forehead, to remind me that I am made from dust, and to dust I shall return. In the short time I am on earth, I am charged to journey in the dust of Jesus’ footsteps.

One of the very astonishing facts of Jesus is that he calls his followers over and over and over again to embrace those who are “othered.” In first century Palestine, he stood with widows, orphans, children, tax collectors, lepers, and Canaanites. Jesus’s love stretches from the gates of heaven to the depths of hell in order to retrieve and love the lost, the lonely, the abandoned, the forgotten, the unseen. I like to imagine that when the stone was rolled away from the tomb, after the women had come and gone, perhaps a few lambs, chickens, cows, pigs, and sparrows grazed on that holy ground.

The Ag Gag fight may soon make an appearance in your state. There is legislation currently pending in Arizona, New Hampshire, and Indiana. Eleven states defeated similar legislation in 2013. In six states, including Iowa, it is a crime to be hired at a farm under false pretenses, thanks in large part to this investigation, which prompted the not-exactly-super-animal-or-people-friendly McDonald’s to drop a major egg supplier because of the egregious cruelty and filth the investigator exposed. If you get a chance to weigh in on the Ag Gag debate in your state, please remind your lawmakers that Jesus journeys with those who suffer, as he admonishes us to love “the least of these.”

And this Lent, consider going vegan. Consider forgoing flesh in favor of foods that don’t require suffering and death. Here’s how to get started.

lonely

~ swithrowking ~ Leave a comment

When did I start to feel lonely in crowds?

Did it creep up on me? Is it related to the isolation that comes with depression? Am I just less friendly and adventurous than I used to be?

For years, I had a perception of myself as an extrovert. I thought I was fueled by being around people. I thought I feared being alone. I thought that fear might be hiding a fundamental spiritual or emotional deficient, so I did my best to be with people.

Looking back, I can see signs of my impending introversion. I spent every minute that I could with my nose stuck in a book. I calmed my anxious or angry heart by taking long drives along the Mackenzie River. When I finally moved into my own tiny attic apartment, at 24 years old, I relished my solo Saturday morning routine, walking to the Harris Teeter for breakfast or to Fair Grounds for a cup of coffee, reading the New York Times, sitting in the sun and quiet with my cats. No cell phone, no television, no internet or Facebook or laptop.

But last week, at a conference of like-minded Jesus-and-justice people, I found myself feeling very lonely. It struck me first in a crowded meet and greet for conference speakers, which I crashed with a friend of mine who was on the speaker roster. The hotel suite was packed with people speaking animatedly in groups of two or three and I was in a corner, wishing there was a ficus to hide behind, as I watched the conversations happen around me.

Maybe it’s because I find small talk hard to handle. When people ask what my organization does, I don’t want to tell them, “I think we’re having a bit of an identity crisis.” When people ask me how I am, I don’t think they will take it well if I reply, “Oh, you know, thanks to the pharmaceutical industry, I can manage to drag myself out of bed at ten am, but most days I feel like I’m walking through concrete.” I don’t know how to fake it, so I withdraw.

I don’t know how to make friends in groups of strangers anymore. This hasn’t historically been the case. I started a new school in the third grade, then in the middle of the year my family moved from Idaho to Oregon. I made friends just fine. Even in high school, when I started as a freshman at a different school than my middle school classmates, I managed.

In fact, my whole lovely high school experience started that first day of school, when I was brave enough to ask two girls if I could eat lunch with them. I had met Sarah once before, at a mutual friend’s house, but I didn’t know Amanda from Adam. They introduced me to their friends, who became my friends, too, and I managed to make it through the four years of high school with nothing but very happy memories.

Could I do that again today? In some ways, I have. I made friends at Circle of Hope and at Palmer Seminary. In both cases, I walked into rooms of strangers and, by the grace of God, walked out with dear beloved companions. So what’s the difference between the crowded mixer and a crowded classroom? Are the people in each space fundamentally different? Do mixers attract plastic people while the real ones congregate in classrooms?

No. I think all of these spaces are probably filled with people like me, who are choosing whether to be their authentic self or to project an image that helps them feel safe.

I think the difference in my experience is me. I choose whether to be real. I choose whether to try hard to be charming and funny or to just be myself (which is still pretty charming and funny). I choose whether to imitate fakery or display authenticity. And when I choose vulnerability, honesty, and openness, I make friends. Sometimes that authenticity might not work for other people. It might cause some discomfort. And that’s okay.

I still don’t know if I’m an introvert or an extrovert. I think that might change with the seasons. But I do know that I’m not the only one who feels lonely in a crowd. So maybe next time I’m standing in corner by myself, wishing for a ficus, instead of focusing on passing judgement on the plastic people, I’ll look in the nooks and crannies for other loners who might also be looking for someone with whom they can share.

anxiety

~ swithrowking ~ Leave a comment

I’m traveling tomorrow morning, early, to the west best coast, first to go to a conference and then to visit my family in Oregon.

I used to travel with abandon and without a care in the world. I’d throw a bag together and head out for an impromptu road trip, eagerly anticipated opportunities to go overseas, and relished the adventure of wandering through new places alone.

These days, that joyful excitement is tinged with a hefty portion of anxiety, particularly when I’m heading off without Isaiah in tow. I start to feel it in my belly weeks in advance – that crunching, churning, acidic fear. I feel my heart race. My sleep is restless and filled with disturbing dreams. I feel guilty for leaving my son so much, even though he’s here with his dad and a half-dozen surrogate parents who genuinely love and appreciate him. I know I’ll wake up the morning of travel, in the early morning hours, and feel a deep dread. I know when the plane takes off and lands, or hits a little patch of turbulence, I’ll cling to the arms of the tiny seats and pray “Please Jesus, please Jesus, please Jesus.” I’ll try to remember my friend Lily’s image of angels carrying the plane on their wings (even though I know, I know…physics). I know when my son and husband get on a plane a few days later to come meet me (forgetaboutit burglars, we have an awesome house-sitter), I’ll fret for their safety until I meet them outside of the security area in the airport. I know I have life-insurance and a living will and that if I do die, they’ll get through it. Life will go on.

I don’t want to be afraid of dying. I don’t want to dwell on the thought that my son might die before I do. But I do. I do.

And while some might say that makes me a bad Christian, I say it makes me pretty human. A human with a slightly defective brain who tries her best to use crushing anxiety and chronic depression as opportunities to learn to trust, to release the idea of control, in a world that wires us for FEAR! FEAR! FEAR! and to chase the lie that we are our own gods.

There’s been a lot of nasty weather around here lately (cough-climate change-cough). Earlier today, a little band of thunder and lightening rolled through the region. It was loud, and a little scary, but not catastrophic. As expected, the local 11:00 am news spent the bulk of their 30 minute newscast talking about the lightening-heard-round-the-city and showering us with information about the storm and its aftermath (one downed power line, from what I gathered).

Yesterday on my drive in to work, a local radio personality was interviewing an automotive writer about driverless technology in cars and during that interview she said, “Any technology that will keep us safer is a good thing.” Not to go all tin-foil hat on you or anything, but when we start thinking that way, we’re only a skip and a jump away from allowing technology (and the people and institutions who control that technology) to rule us. Safety is our god. Power is our lord. And information technology is our savior.

Gosh, does that sound familiar? I can’t help but think of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in Genesis 2. God’s creative power has resulted in a peaceful, nourishing, cooperative paradise. Men and women are partners with other created beings. They are all cared for and in loving communion with the One who gave them life. But their desire for control, to “be like God,” outweighs their appreciation of these gifts. And so the story of human history is now the story of brokenness and longing. Longing for more power, but also for reconciliation and restoration. A constant tug-of-war.

That conflict is in me. I know that the illusion of control is dangerous and, ultimately, doomed to be disappointing. I know that I can’t predict the future, that my son or I or anyone I love could keel over dead at any point, anywhere, no matter what I do or don’t do. That wars ravage the globe and injustice runs deep and wide. My goodness, my preparedness, my checklists and procedures and precautions don’t add up to security.

“I waited patiently for the Lord;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.” (Psalm 40:1-3)

Security comes from the author of the universe. And we learn through Jesus that it doesn’t always look very secure. Jesus was crucified, many of his early followers were martyred. Jesus-followers today put themselves in harm’s way to be peacemakers and reconcilers. Think of this lone priest in Kiev, standing between police and protestors. That doesn’t look very secure to me. Think of medical professionals who enter countries ravaged by poverty, colonial rule, and war, called to minister through their vocation to those in desperate need. Think of the men and women who stand between warring gangs in the inner cities, trying to stop gun violence.

And think of the everyday people, like you and like me, who face everyday battles fueled by a culture of fear, violence, and injustice. Double- and triple-checking our doors and windows are locked at night, jumping a little bit every time the school calls in the middle of the day, choosing isolation over participation out of our fears of rejection or failure.

I hate to sound like a cheesy valentine, but I think the remedy for this fear is love. “God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.” (1 John 4:16b) God doesn’t abide in those who have it all together or get it all right. If you live in love, God lives in you. “Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgement, because as he is, so are we in the world.” (v. 17) Bring it on, crappy, broken world. Bring it on. I’ve seen perfect love in Jesus, and I’m trying to live in love the best I know how. You can’t throw anything at me that love won’t absorb. “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love.” (v. 18) I know I won’t reach perfection in love. It’s far off, but I know that love abides in me, and that if I listen to that love when fear is screaming at me, trying to get my attention…my heart rate drops, by breath calms, and my mind starts to focus on something besides the chaos I create.

So, tomorrow morning, I’ll try listening to love instead of fear. And we’ll see what happens.  And I might listen to this a couple more times, too.

Intention Isn’t the Point or the Problem

~ swithrowking ~ Leave a comment

Let’s keep calling them like we see them!

Kathy Khang's avatarMore Than Serving Tea

“I’m sorry if…”

“I didn’t mean to offend…”

“I didn’t intent to hurt anyone…”

“I’m sorry, but…”

“I’m not racist. My best friend is (fill in the blank)…and I love eating (fill in the blank)…”

It’s not your intention. It’s how messages are received and interpreted in the present and later as history. If intention was the problem, sins of the father and mother like slavery and genocide wouldn’t be an issue because I’m told folks back in the day really, honestly, truly believed with no malice that White was right. And some slave owners were doing what was required of them to make a living, right? They didn’t intend to create an unjust, unequal system that generations later remains broken. Lots of harm, but no foul because they didn’t intend harm, right?

No. NO! Wrong! WRONG!

Yet the defense of  ignorant – if not racist, racially-insensitive, questionable, unwise, or…

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four rules and a mess of an internal dialogue

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After an epic tantrum because our little homebody didn’t want to go grocery shopping, a brief post-meltdown nap in the car, and some food, Isaiah and I hung in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and talked about four simple guidelines for life:

  1. It’s okay to feel angry.
  2. People can’t hear you when you scream at them.
  3. People can hear you when you stay calm and use words.
  4. Sometimes, you just gotta’ do things you don’t want to. And that’s okay, because we’re all in the same boat.

And then, a caveat talk about peer pressure, the differences between obeying mommy and daddy versus strangers and desire versus danger, and a reminder to scream at the top of his lungs if someone ever tries to take him.

Or something.

That last part feels fuzzy in my head because I was also having an internal dialogue about whether or not I should complicate matters, but then thinking that there are important distinctions to make and I want him to have the self-awareness/groundedness/good sense/compassion/skepticism/courage/independence to stand up for himself and for others, even if it means going against the prevailing powers. But he’s five, and how much of this can I distill into four-word concepts powered by a mnemonic device or some other trigger so that he can actually remember or it becomes a part of his DNA? And how much is one parking lot conversation going to matter? No, it matters a lot, because it’s these small moments that make up the fabric of his life and understanding, that form who he becomes.

Hard not to feel overwhelmed.

Safety is so much more than light sockets and hard corners.

Living in fear isn’t an option. For me, or for my child.

Thankful for a community of parents who I know are thinking and wrestling and having similar conversations, and that I’m not the only one feeding him positive messages. It’s not Giehl and I against the world (it’s not even me against Giehl). Isaiah has friends whose parents will see and seize similar opportunities, who reject the idea that since Isaiah isn’t their biological offspring, he’s “none of their business.” Thank God for those men and women (and children, too, who also do their fair share of teaching).

two things

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Two things:

First, I’m sorry to whoever has to be in or near a room with me in it tomorrow (and especially sorry to my fellow Circle of Hope Public Meeting team members), as I have made and enjoyed this oddly delicious garlic lemonade, in an effort to shake a persistent and cramping-my-style cough.

Second, Rod will be delighted to know that I’ve got this gem stuck in my head.

Here’s what the lyrics mean:

From starry skies descending,
Thou comest, glorious King,
A manger low Thy bed,
In winter’s icy sting;

O my dearest Child most holy,
Shudd’ring, trembling in the cold!
O Great God, Thou lovest me!
What suff’ring Thou didst bear,
That I near Thee might be!

Thou art the world’s Creator,
God’s own and true Word,
Yet here no robe, no fire
For Thee, Divine Lord.

Dearest, fairest, sweetest Infant,
Dire this state of poverty.
The more I care for Thee,
Since Thou, O Love Divine,
Will now so poor be.

I don’t know yet why I needed a reminder that Jesus didn’t come the way folks expected Jesus to come. But there it is. Perhaps as I face the uncertainty of the years ahead and the unanswered questions, I can remember that, in some respects, forming expectations is a fruitless endeavor. Perhaps the cries of a needy God-baby are a reminder that what’s right in front of our faces, the very moment we are in, is where we are needed most, where we can learn the most, and where we can find the most contentment.

getting published

~ swithrowking ~ 6 Comments

Well, eventually…

One of the many, many things that I love about Palmer Theological Seminary is that I have been able to explore the intersection of animals and theology throughout my two and a half years. Pretty much every paper I’ve written (even in Church History) dealt in one way or another with human relationships to nonhuman animals. As a result, by the time I graduate in May, I’ll have most, if not all, of a book written on evangelical animal liberation theology. They’ve given me the tools and opportunity to start to work out some pretty big questions. 

So, back in November, in a feat of bravery and optimism, I prepped and submitted a proposal to an editor contact at Baker Books (one of the biggest Christian publishers). I heard back from the editor today, who said he had taken it to the editorial team, and though the topic was important, they didn’t feel there was enough of a market for the work.

I’m discouraged and encouraged.

I’m encouraged because I got past step one. This is HUGE! I got someone not only to look at my proposal, but who thought it decent enough to bring to a broader group. I am thrilled that it wasn’t chucked out at first glance. 

And yet, I still had to fight these demons after I read and processed the email. It was a rejection. There’s no getting around that. I’m not used to rejection, because I don’t frequently do stuff that risks failure (see: resolutions). For a few seconds, I thought to myself, “Who do you think you are? No one will want to read this…you’re arrogant for even trying.” Etcetera etcetera etcetera, ad nauseam.

Then I got bored with my own self-doubt. Fuck that. And yeah, I mean to use harsh language. That shit’s the devil dancing in my head and that particular club is closed.

How many other evangelical Christians are committed to animal liberation? How many others have my experiences, at ESA and at PETA in the U.S. and Europe?  Not many. And while the number of Christians who are rethinking the human/nonhuman animal relationship is growing like wheatgrass in Berkeley, there aren’t many (yet) who are willing and able to beat the drum loud and long. Jesus gave me these passions for a reason. I’m on this path with confidence that my purpose is ordained by God. 

Maybe I’m too used to short-term victories. Quick payoffs. This is a long-haul kind of endeavor. So, after I replied to the kind man at Baker, I sucked up my self-pity and submitted queries to two literary agents today. And I’ll keep risking, writing, thinking, talking, and sometimes shouting as long as it freaking takes.

Bring it on, rejection. Bring. it. on.  

serenity prayer

~ swithrowking ~ Leave a comment

I dig this:

God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed,
courage to change the things which should be changed,
and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other—
living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time,
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
taking, as Jesus did,
this sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it,
trusting that You will make all things right,
if I surrender to Your will—
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

bedtime

~ swithrowking ~ 2 Comments

Last night, I cried while I stood next to Isaiah’s bed and he drifted off to sleep. I was feeling the weight of what it means to be a parent. Fretting over the lifelong implications of behavior patterns he establishes now. Sure that a rocky week in Kindergarten foretells teenage hooliganism, succumbing to peer pressure, and drunk driving.

Tonight, it was Isaiah’s turn to cry while he went to sleep…well, while he started to think about going to sleep anyway. Since the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, Isaiah was also distraught about Really Big Things. The questions and comments came fast and furious, his little brow furrowed and his little body restless:

  • “I’m just really sad because I’ll never be a dog and be able to curl up like a dog.”
  • “When people die, do they become dogs?”
  • “Why didn’t you and daddy make me a dog?”
  • “How did you and daddy make me?”
  • “Are there heroes in heaven?”
  • “Where do heroes live? Do heroes live in your heart?”
  • “If nobody gets hurt in heaven, are there heroes and ninjas?”
  • “Will I die when I’m twenty?”
  • “What happens when we die?”
  • “I just really wish I was a baby. I wish I never had a birthday.”
  • “I wish we had a baby.”
  • “I just really like dogs and cats and babies because they’re so cute. Kids aren’t cute. I wish I was never a kid.”

Golly, dude. I’m sorry. Nights like these, I stand there in the dark, stroking Isaiah’s back, singing a song (here’s our current favorite lullaby), and remember my dad coming into my bedroom, sitting by my bed, singing to me, urging me to stop thinking, to close my eyes, keep still, and let myself drift off to sleep. The baby books tell you that “sleep begets sleep.” And I’m pretty sure in those list of begats in the Bible, somewhere it says, “And insomnia begat insomnia.”

 

The album description of our lullaby (Stay Close) says: “Our journey with Jesus often contains stretches of doubt, alienation, and loneliness…This song is a petition to be renewed and for a rich sense of God’s immanence to remain during a difficult season.” I think somewhere, deep inside, I’m desperately hoping that Isaiah doesn’t battle the same demons of depression that I face…and that, if he does, the plea from this song will fuse to that depressed DNA that I passed along, giving him a fighting chance for peaceful nights.