Power and Responsibility

From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded. ~ Jesus Christ (Luke 12:48, NRSV).

With great power comes great responsiblity. ~ Voltaire (Oeuvres de Voltaire, Volume 48).

I've spent much of my life feeling powerless. Now I know that I was wrong - I am not, nor have I ever been powerless; I just didn't own my personal power. I was busy giving it away, mostly because I didn't know what it was, or even that I had it. The culture I grew up in was not conducive to deep self-knowledge or belief in personal power, especially for women. I grew up believing that my most important role was one of support to any man who happened to be in my life, whether that man was my father, my brother, or - eventually - my husband. I was a secondary consideration, a second-class citizen, even to myself. I look back and see that some of the inability to access my own power came from the way I was brought up, but just as much came from the media, and from other cultural sources like teachers, preachers, and other adults in positions of responsibility. No one made it a point to teach me that I should matter to myself. Maybe no one knew I would need to be taught.

Now the point is moot; my journey has taught me that I have as much personal power as I care to claim. In learning this, I have also learned that with great power comes great responsibility. There was a time when I felt overly responsible for everything - that is a function of having codependency - but that isn't what I'm talking about today. I'm talking about real responsibility. Here are some examples.

I own guns. I like my guns. I enjoy target shooting. I like having my pistols around for self-defense and just for the fun of going out to the range and sharpening my aim. Firearms are powerful, and they impart power to their users. But with such power comes responsibility. I am not at all threatened by the idea of background checks and permits. I already have a carry permit, for that matter, and I'd be happy to fill out paperwork and be checked before making a new gun purchase. I wouldn't mind a waiting period - it's not that big a deal, and there's no firearm on the planet that I need in such a hurry that I can't bear to fill out paperwork and wait for a week to obtain. I abide within the law and I have nothing to fear from such requirements. It is a responsibility that I welcome and even invite.

I have daughters. I can't raise them the way I was raised. The world has changed and is changing more swiftly now than perhaps at any other time in the history of human life. We can't afford to raise our children in the vacuum of our own childhoods. I can't let my daughters grow up unaware of their own personal power. There are two lives in my hands, characters that I will shape. If that isn't power, I don't know what is. I have the responsibility to make sure they understand their own worth and never, ever question it.

I am a survivor of violence. I am no longer a victim; I have a voice and great strength of purpose when it comes to advocacy for those who suffer. With this power comes the responsibility for speaking out, for raising awareness, for working toward a better world. If I ignored or failed in this responsibility, I'd be telling myself that there is no purpose to be found in my past, and no reason to struggle and strive to heal.

We all have the power to change what is around us. It starts within us, not without. We have the power to look at who we are, what we believe, what we live for. We have the power to ask God what wonderful things are happening, and that we might somehow be made a part of them. We have the responsibility to work toward something better. Wherever we are, whatever lives we touch, we have the ability to affect change, to light candles and push back the darkness. With great power comes great responsibility. We can't afford not to act. Look at the world we live in and begin the work of discerning how it can be made better. Speak up. Vote. Call your state and federal representatives and let them know how you feel. Treat other people the way you hope to be treated. Perform random acts of loving kindness. 

Remember that you are powerful and honor the responsibility that comes with power. It won't be easy, but it will always be worthwhile.

A Better Story

I bought a Kindle Touch a couple of weeks ago, mainly because I have limited storage space for books in my small house, and I refuse to give away or trade any more of my long-cherished volumes. Okay, so one could successfully argue about how many copies of The Lord of the Rings or Stephen King novels any person needs, but that isn't really the point. The point is I that love books - I love to read - but my busy lifestyle and limited space dictated the need to come up with a better solution or just stop reading entirely. Hence, the Kindle. The first book I purchased for it was Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. Last summer I received a copy of Blue Like Jazz for my birthday, and I fell in love with Miller's casual narrative style and his deeply personal relationships with God, the world, and the people who inhabit it. A Million Miles quickly became a book I just couldn't put down. In it, Miller talks about what it is like to be given the opportunity to edit one's own life and how that opened his eyes to the idea that he wasn't living a very good or meaningful story. He began to live more purposefully, using some simple elements that he learned about what makes stories interesting. As I read about Mr. Miller's unfolding experience, I realized that I, too, had a similar revelation a while back, and that it had - for a time - changed my life.

About five years ago, I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and decided that my life had no purpose because I had been waiting for things to happen to me instead of making them happen for me. That realization made it possible for me to lose 130 pounds and go back to college as a way of reclaiming my life from the chaos and distractions that had taken over. I had lost my purpose. I had lost my way. In understanding that I could determine my own experience, I found or possibly forged a path that actually led somewhere. In the years since then I have once again become lost. Reading A Million Miles helped me remember what it felt like to live with purpose, to create a worthwhile story for myself.

This realization and remembrance dove-tailed perfectly with this year's Lenten sacrifice, which is to stop lying to myself. Until I promised to give it up, I never understood just how many lies I tell myself in the course of a day. I tell myself that my personal decisions only affect me. That is a lie; the people I invite into my life and the choices I make regarding relationships affect my daughters almost as much as they affect me. I tell myself that I am somehow responsible for getting others to make beneficial changes for themselves. That is totally untrue; if there is one thing I learned from marriage, it's that you can't change another person, and you are not at fault when they refuse to help themselves. I invalidate my own pain by telling myself it doesn't matter that I hurt - it doesn't matter that I'm lonely, that being a single parent is hellishly hard, that some relationships are causing harm rather than joy. I insist to myself that I can handle the stress of full-time work, full-time school, and full-time parenting on my own with help from no one. I tell myself that relationships can be rebuilt even when trust is gone. I demand this level of perfection from myself because I think I should be that perfect, damn it!

But the truth is, no one is that perfect. No one can gracefully or successfully manage a life like the one I tell myself I should lead. The truth, now that I am forced to admit it to myself, is that I am tired. I am sad. I am lonely. I need a break. I need help. I need support. I need to be able to trust for relationships to work. I need the space to be imperfect and to know that it is okay if I go to bed early sometimes, if I miss a meeting occasionally, if I can't meet someone else's needs or demands, or if I go down to the absolute last minute on a homework deadline. A better life-story would allow for these moments. A better life-story would build in fail-safes and support-structures that would take some of the stress and pressure away. A better life-story would still be filled with conflict but would also provide incentives to overcoming that conflict on a journey toward some meaningful goal, not just more of the same day-in, day-out cycle of struggling to stay level and then collapsing with exhaustion at 10:30 every night. A better life-story would acknowledge the wonder and beauty that God brings to my existence just by the fact of his never-ending presence and love.

Telling myself the truth means I have to admit that I am responsible for the shape my life has taken. It also means remembering that once upon a time, I told an incredible story full of conflict and the overcoming of it; a story of personal success and deep spiritual gain. Once, I lived in a better story. I can do that again, if I choose.

So here's to you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for reminding me that there is something more - that God wants more for me - for all of us - than empty experiences stitched together with threads of meaningless distractions. Thank you helping me realize that I do have the power to write - and to live - a better story.

The next installment will be coming soon.