I Can Still See Your Halo

The other day Beyonce’s song “Halo” came on through my music stream. Every time I hear this song I think of my great-grandmother.

Grandma Harris

My great grandmother died when I was around 10 years old, but to this day I think about her anytime the strong emotions hit me—joy, fear, sorrow. Those days when I feel “all the feelings” I also feel Grandma Harris looking down on me with her halo. I am not Catholic, but she is the one saint to whom I pray.

In my first decade of life, I saw Grandma Harris almost daily. To me, she represented unconditional love, consistency, and safety. I could always find a welcome spot on her lap where she would give me the kind of all consuming hug that only she could give.

Grandma Harris had six children, who all went on to have children of their own, who all went on to have children of their own, who all went on to have children of the own. She is like Abraham to me. Her descendants now are as numerous as the stars.

And even with all those grandchildren and great grandchildren, Grandma Harris made sure each one of us felt like her favorite. That’s the way she loved.  

Today Grandma Harris’ descendants have the diversity that you find in an extended family that continues to grow and expand. We have different political views, different sexual orientations, and even people with different ethnicities have been folded into the flock. One thing I know everyone in my family can agree on is how much we all love Grandma Harris. She is our rock. Our matriarch. Our angel.

It can be easy to put Grandma Harris on a pedestal. She means so much to me. But I know that she wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Grandma Harris would use the n-word has casually as one might say “pass the butter.” But then on the same day, she would take me with her to go hang out with the black woman who lived two houses down. They would chat while I played with her neighbor’s purse collection.

Grandma Harris taught me the words of divisiveness but she also demonstrated the beauty of unity through her friendship with her neighbor. This juxtaposition seems to be the way of life.  Today the same faith that has led me to love those around me and advocate for the oppressed is also teaching people to discriminate against those in the LGBT community and advocate for the dismantling of their rights.

Grandma Harris didn’t talk about politics from what I remember. In fact, the only time that I remember her mentioning politics was during the 1992 election. Grandma Harris had fallen asleep during a speech from Ross Perot. By the time she woke up Perot’s speech was over and the Pope was on. Grandma Harris, thinking this was still the same person and the same program, shared her concern that Ross Perot thought that he was God.

That story always makes me laugh. It also reminds me that no one we vote for is divine and neither are we.

As we press on in these divided times my goal is to love with the sincerity of Grandma Harris, to laugh at the thought Ross Perot in a Pope costume, and to remember while are not divine, it is the divine that connects us all to one another.

Lord, hear our prayers.  

You Are Not Alone: One Friend Shares her Story to Help Break Stigma

When it comes to mental health, people often suffer needlessly because stigma prevents them from seeking the help they need. But that doesn’t have to be the case.

My friend Heather wants to share her story to help break stigma.

My longtime friend Heather recently shared her story with me in hopes that it will help break the stigma surrounding mental health for others.

I’ve known Heather for 25 years and in that time she has always came across as strong and tough. From the outside I never would have pegged her as someone with anxiety. Heather said that anxiety always existed just beneath the surface.  

“I would worry about everything and always think the worse,” Heather said. “I’ve just always been like that.”

Heather describes her anxiety as persistent, but manageable. But a 2014 house fire pushed her anxiety to the brink.

Heather was in her house with her daughter and mother when they heard the explosion that led to the house fire. They survived the fire but their house didn’t.

“After that I wasn’t sleeping at all,” Heather said. “Any time there was any sort of loud noise, once I heard it I would go into a panic attack.”

Heather said the smell of smoke also caused panic attacks and even little things seemed to throw her off the handle emotionally.

“I had no control over my emotions what so over,” she said.

Like many people, Heather said that she felt as though she should have control and resisted seeking help.

“I was scared,” she said. “I just tried to ignore it.”

Fortunately, Heather had a friend who persistently encouraged her to seek help.

“I’m very grateful that I had someone pushing me in the right direction,” Heather said. “I don’t know how bad I would have gotten.”

Heather made an appointment with her primary care physician who prescribed her medication for post-traumatic stress and anxiety and also offered resources for talk therapy.  

Heather stayed on the medication for six months and then was able to come off it. Now she said she can better recognize her triggers and manage her anxiety without medication.

“I’ll still have days where I just get really overwhelmed,” Heather said. “It’s just one of those ongoing issues for me.”

Heather shared her story with me for this blog because she wanted to encourage others who are scared to seek help for mental health issues.

“The biggest thing I want to share is that they are not alone,” Heather said. “There are so many people that are facing the same thing that they are. It’s okay to reach out and to get the help that they need.”

My Failed Fall Re-Boot

Pumpkin spice lattes are now available, which I believe means that fall has officially arrived.

I wanted to do a fall reboot this year. I’ve been in a funk and had hoped that Labor Day would signal a new era in the life of Arley Hoskin—one where she eats meatless meals and the interior of her car remains spotless. I want to be a person who cares about the planet enough to eat less beef and who has it together enough to see the floor board of her car.

While I admit I’ve never had a clean car, I did used to be rather crunchy. I used to buy local, grass fed beef from farmers I actually knew. I used to use cloth diapers and tote everything in canvass bags. I used to work on exciting projects on social issues I cared about.

These days I’m hitting up McDonald’s about once a week. We seem to be in potty training limbo using disposable pull-ups that will probably linger in some dump in China for thousands of years. My biggest project right now is remembering to turn off all the lights before I leave the house in the morning.

I guess in a lot of ways I was hoping that my re-boot would be more like a rewind to a time where I had enough energy and memory to be socially conscience. I only have one child and yet I have started to call her the wrong name before. In my defense it was the name of my youngest sister who also used to be a toddler. Totally a legit mistake, right?

I firmly believe that life is exists in rhythms and seasons. The church recognizes this through the liturgical calendar. Right now we are in a season of “ordinary time.” It’s the time after the excitement of the Holy Spirit’s arrival at Pentecost and before the anticipation of Christ’s arrival during Advent. We are in ordinary time.

I am in ordinary time. This is not a season for huge social activism or the busyness of projects. Yes we can, but for now I need to take a break and ask my 2-year-old if she needs to use the potty. Of course I still have my crunchy convictions, but they don’t seem to be playing out in exciting, sexy ways these days. Nope, these days my crunchy convictions are playing out in the most suburban of ways—I ordered a recycling bin off of Amazon Prime yesterday to help stream line my recycling. I’m actually very excited about this purchase.

Maybe it’s not a re-boot that I need. Maybe I just needed a little re-focus—a reminder all seasons have their purpose and all seasons have reason to celebrate. I have plenty to celebrate during this ordinary time. And celebrate I will, while I sip on a pumpkin spice late and toss the cup into its appropriate bin on my new recycling container.

Was the Orlando Shooter Bipolar

Did the Orlando shooter have bipolar disorder?

I’ve heard this question tossed around since his ex-wife told the media that she “saw his bipolar.” When mass shootings occur we want to know why. We want an answer to what caused the horrific event and what could prevent it.

One camp of Americans demands gun control measures while another camp says that we need to focus on mental illness. And I’ve noticed that no where in the discussion do we really talk about mental illness. What is mental illness and better yet what is the difference between mental illness and psychological distress. You may think the two are the same, but they aren’t.

I have a mental illness. In 2005, I enterered the University of Kansas Medical Center’s emergency room in a state of mania with psychosis. I asked the triage nurse for a paper where I scribbled “Jesus loves Karl Rove.”

My diagnosis came easy for the residents. I had experienced a six month depression and then became manic after a couple months on an antidepressant. It was a text book case they told me. And I was treated with a textbook drug.

I’ve been in therapy ever since and I can tell you that much of what I talk about in therapy has little to with my illness and everything to do with psychological damage from my past, or psychological damage from an unhealthy way of thinking.

Growing up with a theology that said I was born depraved, deserving of death and hell did a doozy on me. It took years to find a place of self acceptance from the damage of a faith that at its core tells us God loves us unconditionally.

I share this to say that we all have psychological issues in which we are dealing. Certainly, so do perpetrators of mass crimes. But I don’t hear that as part of the conversation. I don’t hear us a society saying what psychological issues cause someone to become so violent? What predispositions does a person have to have to get to this point? And how can we cultivate a society that promotes a safe, welcoming culture to help prevent this behavior?

Maybe all of these mass shooters have antisocial personality disorder. That fits the bill way more than bipolar. I don’t know. If that’s the case I think we need to look at the early signs of this condition—domestic violence, lawlessness, lack of remorse. We need have tough discussion about to treat people with this condition and I believe part of that discussion includes whether they should have fire arms. It’s a slippery slope, I know, saying someone with a mental illness shouldn’t have fire arms.

The truth is, I don’t have the answers. I doubt any of us on the internet do. I’m a firm believer in gun control. A firm believer.

But I also think we need to look into the psychological states of these shooters and ask ourselves if there is anything we as a society can do on that front to help prevent these occurrences.  I know there are experts doing just that. But I think the psychological distress is something we should bring into the larger discussion, especially as we discuss mental illness.

Did the Orlando shooter have bipolar disorder? We really don’t know. But we do know that he had psychological distress. 

Uhhhhh, not Chick-Fil-A

I love being a mom. It’s truly amazing—all the warm fuzzy stuff is real.

But equally real is the pressure that forms in my head every time we have a rainy weekend. My lovely two-year old has entered into a bit of a whiney phase.

“Uhhhhhh,”  is not a word, I told her recently.

“Sweetie that’s verbal clutter,” I said. “Let’s use words.”

Um, yeah, Saturday morning she didn’t want to “use her words.” And mommy quickly felt like her head was going to explode. I knew Althea was tired and just needed to run out some energy and then take a nap. But where was she supposed to run it out?

The nearest McDonald’s didn’t have play place. (Seriously. Get it together McDonald’s). Then my boyfriend uttered a word that always makes me cringe.

Chick-fil-A.

The nearby Chick-fil-A has a play place.

Are you fucking kidding me? Is what I wanted to say, but I knew little ears were listing.

Instead I said, “Uhhhhhhh.”

Althea gave me a knowing look as if to say, “Mommy uhhhhh is not a word.” And then started whining and clinging to my leg.

I packed the bag and put her in the car to go to Chick-fil-A. I usually don’t go to Chick-fil-A because they have donated money to campaigns against marriage equality, amongst other things.

I programmed the GPS in my phone to Chick-fil-A and as I drove there I added this to a list of my recent moral failings.

After two years of cloth diapering I switched Althea over to disposable pull ups. The potty training process is taking longer than anticipated and it’s like I can just see all those pull-ups piling up in the landfill. And that’s nothing compared to the months of unsorted recycling that never made it to the recycling plant. Some days I feel like I should walk around with a sack cloth over my face.

I grew in a very legalistic church and home. I was taught to walk the line. And during my transition to liberalism I discovered a whole new line to walk. Sometimes it feels as though my carbon emissions haunt me way more than the idea of Hell ever could.

About two blocks before we got to the Chick-fil-A I saw the beloved McDonald’s golden arches and a play place alongside it.

“Thank you Jesus!” I silently declared. “It’s an Easter miracle.”

Because, you know, I don’t to be one of those moms who eat at Chic-fil-A just for the play place.

My therapist has informed me that anytime I use the phrase “I don’t want to be one of those…..” I’m likely being a judgmental bitch. I mean, she didn’t use the words judgmental bitch. She didn’t have to.

And the person I’m usually judging is myself.

By the time I pulled into McDonald’s Althea was already asleep. I drove around for about a half an hour to let her sleep. As I did I thought about the Chick-fil-A, the diapers, the recycling, and my toddler.

Some days I walk in the living room to see Althea walking around in my shoes. She is literally following in my footsteps. And as she does, I want her to know that it’s not a tight rope that we are walking—it’s a dance.

Convictions are good. It’s great to be led by your convictions. It’s horrible to be drug into a state of shame by them. Next time I’m feeling like I “don’t want to be one of those…..” I will remind myself of this.

Celebrating the Good News

Last Easter I set out to explore the winding trail that has been my faith journey.

I wanted to retrace my own path so I could better understand how to cultivate a healthy faith and spirituality for my daughter. It didn’t seem like a good idea to start out with “mommy doesn’t believe in atonement theology” if you know what I mean.

So I went to a variety of churches—many that I used to attend— to see what had initially captivated me about Jesus. I visited churches that were Nazarene, Assemblies of God, African Methodist Episcopal, Baptist, Emergent and Mainline Protestant—all types of churches that I had participated in at some point in my journey.

I went to these churches, soaked in all that they had to offer, reflected on the experience, and then wrote about it. I hope that these writings will someday be published as a book. But even if the only people who ever read them are my friends and family, it’s been a tremendous success.

This journey has reminded me of so much. It has reminded me of my belief, doubt and wonder. But most of all it’s reminded me of how enthralled I am with the message and presence of Jesus. As someone who has an unapologetically liberal theology, I take the scripture seriously but not literally. And seriously, the Gospel is good news.

Jesus seems to be teaching us a radically different philosophy about life and it is so, so good. Jesus lifts up the marginalized, advocates for the oppressed, and teaches his followers to seek peace amidst the storm.

Yesterday marked Good Friday. Tomorrow is Easter. I guess that means that today is the day that, according to the liturgical calendar, Jesus is in the grave.

Growing up I was taught that after Jesus died on the cross he spent three days in Hell suffering to atone for our sins. And the real catch is that this atonement was good, but sort of not good enough to completely appease God. It would take a real, genuine following-Jesus-as-my-Lord-and-savior to actually get us out of Hell. Jesus death and dissension into Hell, really just opened the door for God to send out the invites to heqven.

I don’t believe in this theology. It doesn’t make sense to me. And I don’t think it really jives with the Gospel either, at least not Luke’s account.

There is an interesting dialog between Jesus and one of the thieves being crucified next to him.



“Then he said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.'
"Jesus answered him, 'Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'” (Luke 23:42-43)



It’s interesting that Jesus doesn’t say in three days you will be with me in paradise. He doesn’t say, once I atone for your sins in the pit of Hell you will be with me in paradise.



No, Jesus says TODAY you will be with me in paradise.



I’ve been thinking a lot about Jesus and Easter—about death and resurrection.



I think maybe the point of it all isn’t Jesus death or resurrection. I think maybe the point is this powerful message and the presence Christ that we can still experience.



Today you will be with me in paradise. Jesus offers the opportunity for us to believe in what he’s teaching and in doing so—in practicing this path to enlightenment—today, right here and now, we can be with him in paradise.



This, my friends, is good news.



I don’t discount the sacrifice of Jesus’ death or the power of resurrection. I just have come to believe that they have different meanings.



My journey visiting these different churches from Easter to Easter has reminded me that I love Jesus, that the scriptures enthrall me, and that this mommy doesn’t believe in atonement theology.





But I do believe that today we too can be with Jesus in paradise and that is worth celebrating.
Happy Easter!