I want to help you understand my lament.

I'm hurting, friend. I'm hurting deeply. And I'm being told to suck it up and put away my pain and move on. Rather than call those responses insensitive, I want to help you understand my lament, if I can. 

My heart is so tender, and I'm praying with each word that they will be received in the manner in which I intend. I know a lot of voices are shouting right now. I hope to be a voice that pulls up a chair to chat over coffee and share my heart. 

I occupy a unique space. Here is our family from a couple Easters ago.

I'm white, but four of my children aren't. I was born here into a family that dates back to the pilgrim days, but four of my children are immigrants from Asia and Africa. I have ancestors who fought under the Confederate flag, but I've been targeted online as a "race traitor" for adopting outside of our ethnicity. I easily pass as having no disabilities (though I live with chronic conditions that are invisible yet can be disabling plus I have minor physical disabilities from childhood abuse), but I'm raising children who live with autism and cerebral palsy and HIV and visual impairments, including one who uses a wheelchair. My husband and I are straight and fit into accepted gender norms, but we have dear friends and neighbors who aren't or don't. I'm a Christian, but last year a Muslim friend of mine and her son waited at the preschool until we arrived to walk in with me and Zoe because she was afraid to walk in by herself after the Paris terrorism attacks.

And I occupy one common space: I am a woman who, like 1 in 6, has been raped. I am a woman who was sexually harassed in my workspace and whispered about when I filed a grievance against the man in power who objectified me. I am a woman raised by a father who doesn't "read books by women because they aren't any good." (And I'm a writer, so the hurt is doubled there.)

I am grieving. Many are reading this as being a sore loser. But that's not how I'm feeling. I have voted in five presidential elections, and my candidate only won one of them. It's not new for me to watch election results and see that it didn't go the way I voted.

But I've never felt this way before. And I want you to understand my lament. I want to try to help you grasp the depth of and heart behind this pain.

Before that, let me be clear about what I'm not saying. I'm not saying that I feel this way because the candidate I voted for wasn't elected; that's not the basis of my feelings. I'm not saying that I don't trust God; I do. I'm not saying that I reject anyone who disagrees; I find beauty in our diversity of all forms. 

What I am saying is please don't dismiss my pain or put a timeline on anyone's grief. Hold space. In the words of James 1, please be slow to speak and quick to listen and slow to become angry. 

(And if you're wondering, I've confessed to God and others when I've fallen short there too. I'm not pointing to a speck in your eye while I have a log in my own. I promise. And I wrote these words today instead of yesterday because I couldn't ask others to repent yet then without words dripping with my own sinful arrogance.)

I'm not going to list every way Trump acted or spoke in hurtful ways about groups to which my family belongs. This post isn't about him. He is our next president. I am praying for him. I'm even rooting for him. I genuinely hope none of the grave concerns I have about his leadership, character, and policies will be accurate. I would love nothing more than to be proven wrong.

But I believe Maya Angelou is right when she said, "when people show you who they are, believe them." This post isn't about who Trump is. We've known that for a while. This post is what the votes of white evangelicals have shown me about who they are. 

I don't believe most people who voted for him did so because of his expressions and actions of racism or ableism or xenophobia or misogyny or sexual assault or religious discrimination. I'm not saying that's who you are if you filled the bubble by his name. I want to think the best of my neighbors, so I'm telling myself you were driven by other reasons. 

But? Whatever your reasons, a vote for Trump required a rationalization. 

What he said about "the blacks" is terrible, but...

What he said on mic about sexually assaulting women is awful, but...

How he mocked several people with disabilities isn't okay, but...

His statement that immigrants are rapists and criminals was out of line, but...

I could keep going. I think you get the idea, though. In order to vote for Trump, something mattered more to you than his mistreatment or discrimination of certain groups. Whatever followed the "but..." is why you voted for him. Maybe it had to do with the economy or the Supreme Court or his anti-establishment vibe or [fill in the blank]. I trust that you had your reasons. Some policy aspect of his was compelling (or of hers was so awful to you that you felt like you had to vote for the person with the best chance of stopping Hillary).

But here's the deal: Your policy stance followed the "but..." Our personhood preceded it.

So to me, here is what I hear:

What he said about Patience, Philip, and Patricia is terrible, but...

What he said on mic about sexually assaulting someone just like you were assaulted is awful, but...

How he mocked Zoe and Robbie and you isn't okay, but...

His statement that Patience, Philip, Patricia, and Zoe are rapists and criminals was out of line, but...

Can you pause for a moment and empathize with how that feels?

You can say I'm being too sensitive. You can tell me I'm taking it too personally. You can try to dismiss my feelings. (You wouldn't be the first.)

I'm writing this because I want to help you understand my lament, though. I do. But it is sensitive and personal and rooted in some valid feelings. So trying to help you understand means I have to be vulnerable and open myself up to criticisms from the cheap seats. 

My heart was broken when I realized Trump had won. I didn't have much time to work through my feelings, though, because I'm a mom. Our kids had been being told by classmates that they would be sent back to Uganda if Trump was elected. I had been responding with truth and compassion, but I also didn't think he'd win. When he did, I had to struggle with how to find the words to help her feel secure and prepare her for how to respond when those kids said anything that day after, emboldened by a Trump win. (This is the same child who had a classmate yell, "go back to Africa!" at her last year after Trump's campaign had taken off with racist undertones.) I coached her white sister through how to respond and how to have her sister's back. I walked them in to the elementary school, and I spoke with my kids' teachers to make sure they were aware of these concerns. 

And then I walked back to my van and wept. 

And then I went on social media and was told that my grief came from being a sore loser, that I was being divisive by sharing my hurt, and that I was more concerned with the gospel of Shannon than the gospel of Christ.

And I wept some more. 

I don't think most of my white Christian brothers and sisters intended their votes as racist or ableist or misogynistic or anti-immigrant acts. But? Overwhelmingly, white evangelicals voted for Trump, deciding that their "but..." reasons trumped discrimination against our family. This isn't an isolated event, though; our previous church supported the adoption of black children but then members became critical of me and my faith when I began speaking out about racial injustice, and every week I hear from families who are asked to leave their church because their children's disabilities are too much to accommodate. That makes me feel like the church - at least the white church - isn't for my family, if their political priorities are more important than our personal pain. 

I knew how to handle it when my daughter didn't feel safe at school. But the church - especially the white evangelical church - does not seem safe to me right now for my family. I'm not sure how to handle that. I am listening to try to learn and love better, but what I'm hearing is often hurting me more deeply. I want to understand you, but I'm being wounded in the process. I really don't know what to do with this.

Right now, I'm feeling like the man left beaten and bloody by the side of the road, while my religious neighbors pass on the other side. A sizeable chunk of my white Christian brothers and sisters - maybe you among them - voted for a man who unapologetically disrespected so many groups to which our family belongs: immigrants, women, people of color, those with disabilities, and sexual assault survivors. It's good that my faith in God is firm, because right now my faith in his church is shaky.

I'm still for the church. I'm just not sure the church - at least the segment that looks like me - is still for me. 

And that's why I am lamenting. 

9 reasons I’m being more selective about conference travel

In the past week, I've turned down two speaking invitations for fabulous events. I wanted to say yes - oh, how I wanted to! - but no was the clear answer for this time and stage. I even tried to convince myself I could do one, and I texted someone I trust deeply for advice. Her reply? "I think you already know the answer but you don't want to admit it to yourself."

Welp.

She was right. I did. So I wrote the organizer to apologize that I couldn't come this year, and then I found myself doing the same thing again a week later. And I grieved, sad to miss these phenomenal events, disappointed that my humanity means I can't do all the things I want to do, and - to be honest - embarrassed to admit my ego was bruised of not getting to be share about traveling to Seattle and Chicago this year. (Another year, I hope, that will all be different!)

speaking at Bifrost Arts' Cry of the Poor conference in Philadelphia in 2013, still one of my all-time favorite conferences ever

Last year, I traveled all over - Seattle. Charlotte. DC. Orlando. Durham. South Texas. DC again. Nashville. - all while holding down the fort back here in between and beginning some intense therapy work to process through past traumas I had hidden away, hoping to ignore forevermore. (It doesn't work that way. The pain demands to be felt eventually.) So why - after making all that work - am I stepping back now?

1. Writing is my first passion.

Friends, colleagues, and strangers keep asking when I’ll write my first book. I have several proposals I’ve started over the years but then set aside. I meant for this past year, with all the kids in school for the first time, to be devoted to writing. That didn’t happen. I love to travel, but it takes a lot out of me. And I generated a lot of new speaking content this year, which took time. I’ve realized to get back to writing, I need to step back from speaking so much.

2. I need to make space for the personal work I’m doing.

I’ve been open about being in therapy. Given some recent vulnerable posts, some of you can guess some of the topics. Others will never be offered for public consumption.

My therapist is a total Godsend, but there’s no way she can make this process easy for me. Trauma work is hard. I’m learning a lot, realizing a lot, healing a lot, and grieving a lot, all at the same time. I need space in my life to give myself the time needed for this important self care.

3. I’m not convinced ministry breakout sessions offer a large enough impact to justify my travel.

Consider a children’s ministry conference. I’m the special needs ministry guru, often the only one. Every goes to the main sessions, which cover the topics deemed most universal (and, to be honest, which feature the speakers whose name recognition lend credibility to the conference as a whole). Inclusive ministry isn’t a main stage session. It should be, given the stats and the need. The people who come to special needs ministry sessions? They’re mostly the people who already see the need to welcome families like mine and would seek out the resources we provide at Key Ministry, whether they ever met me or not. The people who are still explicitly turning away special needs families or implicitly making them feel unwelcome? They need to be challenged from the main stage.

Because I don’t think it’s worth my time to be the lone disability advocate preaching to the choir in a small back room, I’m starting to say no to conferences unless special needs issues will be addressed in the main sessions. I love being the one to do so, but I’m totally fine if it’s someone other than me. I’m just certain that the impact needed for the continued growth of inclusive ministry means that the topic can’t be an afterthought or sideshow.

(For other conferences, smaller settings work wonderfully, so I'm not opposed to presenting workshops ever. But I'm finding that I must evaluate the impact before I can say yes, especially for longer distance travel. And I don't want to be a token voice on disability issues just so the organizers can say they care about families like mine, when nothing in their main session content demonstrates that.)

4-9. Jocelyn, Patience, Philip, Robbie, Patricia, and Zoe.

One has recently started coming to me, little hands balls into fists against skinny legs, and whispering, “Mommy, I need help. I’m having feelings.” Another crawled into bed with me this past weekend to cry in my arms over the ending of the book Bridge to Terabithia. I want to be here in moments like those. My little people are ages 4, 5, 7, 7, 9, and 9. I already have the rule that I don’t travel on their birthdays. But I want to be around on more of the other days too.

(That said, I think it’s healthy for them to witness the work I do. It matters. But I always want them to rest assured that they matter more. In this season, staying home more does that. In another session, I might be able to travel frequently while still affirming their value as greater. It’s a balance, and this is where I land right now.)

I hope none of this sounds like I’m ungrateful for the myriad of opportunities I’ve had. One glance at my speaker page will reveal that I’ve gotten to go some amazing places with some inspiring people. I’m beyond thankful.

I’m also certain I will travel. Just not as much in this season. God designed me to need rest too, and my kids and writing deserve more of me right now. 

3 things we say when our immigrant children express fear about Trump

"Mommy," a small voice said from the back of the van. "Um, I was talking with [two Hispanic classmates] at recess, and they're scared about what will happen if that Trump guy becomes president."

"Oh," I said, totally as filler to give myself a moment to think. "Why's that?"

"Well," she paused. "They say he wants to send some of their family back to Mexico."

I waited, giving her space to say what I knew she needed to say. Surprisingly, the rest of our kids held space too. They all seemed to be willing her to ask the question, as they waited for my answer.

"If he becomes president, will me and Philip and Patricia and Zoe have to leave the country?"

I'm glad I was driving. If she had seen the anger in my eyes, she might have thought she had done something wrong. I wasn't angry with her, though. I was furious that the hateful anti-immigrant rhetoric by a leading political candidate had made my girl question her place in our family and country.

(Lest you argue that maybe her friends' family members weren't here legally, please know that I've heard from dozens of adoptive families whose children are asking the same questions. Some have been told outright on the playground that they'll have to move back to their birth countries if Trump is elected. These incidents have been on the rise throughout his candidacy. His rhetoric is emboldening hateful language from others. Our kids are seeing it. Feel free to discuss the issues here, but our children's real experiences aren't up for debate.)

Some people don't think of our kids as immigrants. But, trust me, they are. We know the paperwork. We've filed documents and paid thousands of dollars to the US Citizenship and Immigration Services department of Homeland Security. We can share stories of the first moments each of our children by adoption spent on US soil. They know too.

After all, this is our family - hailing from the US, Taiwan, and Uganda - while we were still living on African soil:

So what do I say when these questions come? After helping them name the emotion and validating it with empathy - "Wow. It sounds like you might be scared and curious about what you heard. I'm so sorry you're feeling that way, and I'm so glad you told me." - here are the three truths we stress:

1. Our government system involves checks and balances so no one branch can make unilateral action on immigration.

2. You are now American citizens so you are treated as such under the law, even though you weren't born here.

3. If all else failed and you had to leave this country, we would ALL leave, because we're a family and we're in this together.

Our kids need to hear the truth about our government system, the truth about their legal status, and the truth about their standing in our family. We came back to these truths when one of our children had "go back to Africa!" screamed at her by a group of classmates on the playground this past spring. And we returned to them again recently when they overheard something on the news while at a friend's house.

Immigration isn't just a political issue. It's a personal one. Whenever you're tempted to lump one group of people together - either lauded in praise or burned in effigy - pause. Because it's hard to love a group, but it's much easier to love a person.

And if your kids are asking questions, pause then too. Listen. Help them name their emotions. Validate them. Offer empathy. And then affirm the truths of the situation in a way that answers their questions without dismissing their real feelings.

what my youngest daughter taught me about grief

I opened the email and might have uttered a cuss word under my breath. It had already been quite a week. The news that our daughter's hippotherapy pony had unexpectedly passed away?

Not what I wanted in my inbox.

I seriously considered not telling her. I just didn't want to deal with that.

At least, not this week.

But honesty is one of my core values, so I couldn't stomach telling a lie when we arrived at her session that day and she asked where her favorite equine friend was.

An hour before therapy, I sat down next to her chair. I asked her to turn off her tablet. I looked into her deep brown eyes through her petite pink frames, and I took a deep breath.

"Today, you're riding, but you won't be riding Rambler."

She looked away and started to pout.

"I'm sorry, Zozo. Rambler is dead. You won't get to ride him anymore."

She grabbed her tablet and threw it at me. Then she grabbed the lone goldfish cracker left on her tray and flung it too. I tried to make eye contact again, and she grunted "NO!"

I told her she'd probably get to ride Peanut, the pony she rode the first time.

She said, "No," still not looking at me.

"No ride. No Rambler. No ride."

Then her lower lip pooched out, and the sobs began.

I held her. We cried together. Eventually, she calmed down.

We went out to the barn, not sure how she would handle it.

I second guessed my decision to tell her, wondering if a lie would have been so bad after all.

We got there. She saw Peanut. She told her therapist, "I ride Peanut. No ride Rambler. Rambler dead."

I might have cried a little. But that wasn't the moment that will be forever embedded in my soul.

After her session, I said, "See Zoe. It's sad that Rambler is dead, but it's okay because you got to ride Peanut. That was fun, right?"

As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I hate when people try to wrap hard things in pretty packages instead of being willing to dwell in the discomfort, but that's exactly what I was trying to do. I winced at my own hypocrisy.

"No," Zoe said again. "No. It sad Rambler dead. I like Peanut. But it not okay Rambler dead. It sad Rambler dead. Rambler my friend. Peanut my friend but Rambler my friend. And Rambler dead."

"I like Peanut. But I sad Rambler."

Not either/or. Both/and.

Amen, sweet girl.

RIP, Rambler.