When Being Normal Hurts

"Everybody's special, Dash." (Mother)

"Which is another way of saying no one is." (Son)

These movie lines from Pixar's The Incredibles (2004) hit me hard this afternoon. Ten-year-old Dash begs his mother, Helen, for permission to use his incredible speed in school sports. He desperately wants to prove to the world that he is good at something-not just good, but excellent and in this case, incredible.

Middle school musical tryout results posted and I'm trying to console my daughter with the same words. "Everyone's special." "It doesn't matter which part you get, you are still wonderful." "The directors just haven't seen your full talent yet." But she gets it-just like Dash.

Through sobs and snot she cries...

All I've ever wanted is to NOT be in the "ensemble." Remember in the church Christmas program, year after year when I wanted to be Mary, the mother of Jesus? I mean, my name is even Mary, you would think I would get to do it at least one year. But no, I was part of the "ensemble."-I didn't even get to be a shepherd. Or the school play when I was in the "chorus." Or in our class read-aloud when I was part of the "crowd."

And my heart breaks. I've been there. We've all been there. Every now and then, the world reminds us, we are just normal. But we are not just normal, which is why it hurts so much.

I guess I'm not like you.

How do I pour out my heart without breaking yours?
How do I tell you I feel betrayed without offending you?
Will you even hear me? Is it worth me telling? Will any good come of it?

Many of you know I have taken the results of the election pretty hard. I'm a passionate person. I feel deeply as I know many of you do. I want you to know that I love you. I also want you to know that I don't feel safe with you anymore and the reasons why.

I've been wearing a scarf over my head since the weekend after the election. When hate speech and racial attacks bubble up from the hearts of some of the voters claiming victory, I grieve. When protesters vandalize because their own anger overflows, I grieve. When the response I hear over and over to my own pleas to hear my grief is itself full of the boastful pride of winning, I grieve.

As my headscarf symbolizes mourning, it also doubles as my personal visible sign to you, my brothers and sisters in Christ, the visible Church of our Lord Jesus, whom I deeply love; I don't want to be associated with your overwhelming voice in the election.

I never felt like I had to choose between the "lesser of two evils." I don't understand why you did. Perhaps you cared more about winning than I did. I didn't think the Christian life was about winning. I thought is was about being kind and merciful to others. I thought it was about caring for the poor and defending the weak. I thought it was about goodness, not greatness.

Maybe you cared more about saving the babies than I did. Maybe you think the Christian way to save babies is to make a law and force life. I thought the Christian way was welcoming life with joy and providing a safe and loving environment for life to be received. I thought saving babies is done by having deep love relationships with each other-so that when unwelcomed pregnancies happen, the mother and child would be supported emotionally and physically by each other-so that the growing child would not feel the stress of the mother, the judgment, the shame. I thought the Christian way was loving people, not lording over them.

I guess I'm not like you.

I heard you. You didn't care that he cares about winning more than being good. You watched him publicly just as I did. I don't have to remind you. You have wielded your most powerful act as an American and declared: character isn't the deciding factor. You have spoken. You chose winning over decency.

I thought you cared about me.
I thought you would defend me.
I thought you would say, "You are more valuable than rubies."
I thought you would say, "No one should ever be treated like that."

I thought my life mattered.

Perhaps I'm too sensitive.
Perhaps I'm overreacting.
Perhaps I have unresolved childhood issues.
Perhaps the scars of abuse in my own life cloud my perception.

But one thing I know. I love you, but...
I'm not like you.