Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Marry me?

If I heard those words tomorrow, I would say yes. 

I would share the news with my family first thing, calling home with tears in my eyes and a voice so excited my mom would have to remind me, "Honey, slow down and try to speak a little softer!  I can't understand you!" (Though she'd know, of course, exactly why I was calling.)  I would start planning the wedding.  Summer or winter, in a church or on a farm, here in New York or back in the Northwest.  I would draft a guest list and call together my girlfriends to go wedding dress shopping. 

I would say yes and celebrate and plan the biggest day of my life so far because I can. I can marry the love of my life whenever, wherever, and however I choose.  But many of my friends cannot. 

I have friends whose marriages and lifelong vows to one another are not recognized in every state.  I have friends who hope to marry someday.  If it were legal.  But it's not.  At least, not everywhere. 

I can't tell you the weight this puts on my heart, despite how light I've been the past couple months.  I am living the most wonderful love story right now, and I know that story will someday include a wedding.  But unless things change, the love stories of many of my friends will be missing that same milestone.  Because I'm straight, and they're gay.  And to a lot of folks, that makes all the difference.   But does it?  Really?  In my heart of hearts, I don't think so. 

Argue the intersection of faith and politics all you like, but at the end of the day, I still believe we are all equal, if not in the eyes of the government, then certainly in the eyes of God.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Mollie goes to Haiti (but not without your prayers and moolah!)

Dear Friends and Family,

As you may or may not know, I have had a nagging desire to do humanitarian work abroad for quite some time.  I have also been very intentional about my desire to do work that is sustainable and helpful in the long-term.  Some service programs—faith-based or not—seem to do more harm than help, acting as temporary band-aids for much larger issues.  As a result, I have waited for the opportunity to arise where I knew I could contribute, in earnest, to a small piece of the greater good.  That’s where my amazing church family comes in.   

I have been attending City Grace Church, a small Christian Reformed Church in New York City’s East Village, since September of 2010.  I am blessed to have an amazing support system and group of friends there; they really are my second family.  Our Social Justice Task Force has been engaged in serving the City for some time, but we wanted to challenge ourselves with a larger project overseas.  After careful consideration, we decided Haiti was the place to go, especially in light of having weathered Hurricane Sandy together just a few months ago.

From July 27 to August 2, I will be traveling with ten other folks from City Grace to work with kids and families and help with some construction projects.  We are working with Praying Pelican Missions, an organization which partners with 398 individual church communities in Haiti, connecting them one-on-one with groups like ours (you can watch their promo video below). Despite billions of dollars in foreign aid following the earthquake in 2010, there is still much work to be done.  Our week of service will be uniquely tailored to our group’s gifts and to the specific needs of our assigned community.  The advantage of this sort of individualized, grassroots approach is that it allows for a more long-lasting connection to the community we serve.  We will establish relationships with our host community and will likely return to serve there on a yearly basis, as long as there is a need. 

Haiti will be my first mission trip of any kind, so as you can imagine, I expect to have a challenging, worldview-reshaping experience there. I am only one person.  And I know there is very little I can do in a single week.  But if there is one thing I have learned over the last ten years or so, it is to not put God in a box.  While I may affect very little immediate change, God will use my efforts to impact the big picture.  I expect to leave Haiti changed.  I hope my time there broadens my consciousness of human need.  I hope it deepens my compassion.  I hope it shakes me out of my comfortable, First-world mindset.  I hope it stretches the limits of my understanding as I learn a new culture.  I hope I can help, but I am just as hopeful that my time in Haiti will undoubtedly draw me closer to God, teaching me to seek, trust, and glorify Him more each day.  And you can help me with all of this. 

By the end of June, I am responsible for raising $1,200.  Airfare accounts for half the budget and the balance will cover food, lodging, and gifts to the local community in Haiti.  Collectively, our team needs to raise $13,200.  Would you please consider a small gift?  A gift of any size would mean so much to me.  Honestly. 

To give:

1.      Click here.
2.      Scroll to bottom and click the “here” hyperlink to give. This will redirect you from City Grace's website to a secure system called “easy tithe.”  
3.      From the panel on the left of the screen click “quick give.” 
4.      Select “Haiti Support – Mollie McComb” in the drop-down menu, and fill in the rest of your info as directed.

Even if you are unable to donate your money, your prayers and well wishes are always immensely appreciated.  If you are of the praying persuasion, please pray that a) I would seek out God through this process and not shy away from what he might show me and b) our team would gel and experience true community serving together.

This trip would not be possible without the support of my friends and family, and I thank God daily for the amazing people like you that He has put in my life.  Love and endless thanks to you all.

With the fullest of hearts,


Tuesday, December 18, 2012

On the topic of God's purported absence from our schools

I see "Christian" jargon like this being disseminated across the internet from time to time, particularly following events like the recent tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut.

A few days ago, a friend of mine quite appropriately asked some very important questions about the message on this particular t-shirt.  She made no apologies about the fact that she felt insulted and infuriated by this sentiment.  It applies a seemingly personal, direct blame against her, given that she does not call herself religious or a Christian, and she has no problem with God not taking front-and-center in our schools.

I appreciate the time and thought she put into the questions she raised, as well as the anger she was brave enough to express.  Here's what I had to say in response:

Simply put, a statement like that is bad theology. It projects certain attitudes onto the character of God when, really, we have no business saying just who God is or what he has allowed. Bad things happen all the time because we are broken people. We’re flawed and complicated and often do not operate under anything but blind selfishness. There are certain things that as people of faith, we just have to accept as unknowable. I can try to wrap my brain around this world and God and all the hurt, but try as I may, I will never understand all of it. God is God, and I am not.

And you’re right. The assumption, “God isn’t written into the curriculum or etched into walls, therefore, he isn’t here for us” is absolutely wrong. We can write God out of every textbook and sideline him from formal public conversation, but that does nothing to deter God’s love or his desire to see us live full, long, meaningful lives as we were created to have.

The statement tastes just as bitter and mean to me as it does to you, and I’m a Christian.  I resent every insinuation and sentiment those words express. They do not speak for me and the God I’ve grown to know and love. These are the small, foolish words of small, foolish people who have taken it upon themselves to literally attempt to speak for God. I, too, am a small and often foolish person, but I’m long past thinking I have the authority to announce the will of my Savior.

I am sorry that you feel judged, accused, blamed, and disrespected. Sentiments like the one you mention are so politically loaded and theologically skewed that, to the majority of us, they paint a picture of holier-than-thou Christians peering down their noses at the “unbelievers.” You have every right to feel infuriated and insulted. Just know that I respect your perspective. You’re speaking out with very valid anger as a compassionate human, a mother, and a person who doesn’t stand for anyone—religious or not—who walks around waving a big stick like they’re some sort of god.

At the end of the day, I think the thing we need to remember is humility. We need to listen more than we speak. We need to ask more questions and make fewer arrogant pronouncements. We need to be present and mindful in the midst of our neighbors’ pain and anger without trying to mitigate, justify, or sensationalize the tragedy they are dealing with. I read this article yesterday and found it very appropriate and helpful in responding to the situation. I hope it is helpful to you in reiterating some of my thoughts as mentioned earlier. 

Keep asking the tough questions, loving those girls of yours, and sticking up for what you believe. And know that it’s okay to be angry, to have more questions than answers, and to wrestle with God. He’s not going anywhere.

Friday, October 19, 2012

space soup under my bed

If you didn't already know, my mom is pretty terrific.   I mean, really.  She's a cut above the rest.  It's not like she sent me to New York with a credit card or pays my rent or buys me designer purses.  Because she gets me.  And she knows I'm not about money and "stuff," just like she never has been.  We both care about the small things, the thoughtful tokens that say, "this made me think of you today" or "I know this silly little thing will make your life a bit easier this week" or "I just love you. THIIIIIIIIIIIIIS much."

What she's really great about is coming through just when you know you need her--or didn't know you need her, but you do.  For instance, even if I feel ridiculous doing it, if I need to, I can call her at 3 in the morning, and she'll be just as happy to hear from me as she would be if it were 3 in the afternoon.  She's also good at knowing how to keep me truckin' when I really slow to a grind.  Like when she visits me and insists on putting $40 on my Starbucks card because she knows sometimes, I'd really benefit from a little caffeine but, often, I can't bring myself to fork over the cash.  

Another classic example is an enormous package I got from her last year.  She'd hosted one of those parties with her lady friends--you know the kind: with the candles or kitchenware or kitschy jewelry... Anyway, this one was about easy-to-prepare meals.  Open the box, add 6 cups of water, heat, and BAM! Instant dinner.  Well, because she hosted the party, she got this enormous prize package of food.  And what did she do?  She had it sent straight to my apartment in Harlem.  So the UPS guy showed up one afternoon with enough food to get me through a small apocalypse (assuming I have access to basics like water...and cream cheese and milk). :/

Admittedly, being the make-it-from-scratch-when-you-can foodie that I am, all this super-prepared, preserved, freeze-dried, dehydrated astronaut food kind of creeped me out.  But without fail, every time I've found myself pinching pennies at the end of the month--or simply too lazy to go to the grocery store--there's something just right in that giant box of food under my bed.  

Tonight, I surveyed the kitchen, only to find I'm down to half a block of aged Gouda, three eggs, some carrots, pasta, and marinara.  There are a few more things, sure, but not much to pull together a passable meal (I already had eggs for breakfast, thank you).  And that's when I remembered the box under my bed!  Success!  After a mental shout-out to Mama, I decided on potato cheddar soup.  Sure, I'd rather make the real thing with whole potatoes and a block of cheese, but this will totally suffice for tonight. Thanks, Mama!

All this to say that there are probably lots of little things your mom--or someone else who loves you--does to make your life a little brighter and less complicated.  Like providing that silly little box of scary-yummy space soup.  So offer up a hug or a thank you, a phone call, or an old-fashioned just-because card to let them know you noticed their little gift to you.  Gratitude makes everyone feel good.  Pass it on. :)

Thanks for reading. Love you all.

I am a woman, and my body does not define me.

It only takes one ugly comment to sour my night.  

All in all, I've had a glorious week: great fellowship with friends, plenty of hearty laughs, and a couple good drinks to boot.  Plus, one of my dear friends from home is in town, and when I finally get to see him, it's gonna be like Christmas.  But for a minute tonight, on my walk home, I forgot all that.  In an instant, my cheery, confident attitude shrank to something small and angry.  I walked past a rowdy group of young men and heard this: 

"Damn! I'm gonna be ninety-eight and still scoring pussy like that.  Ha!"

He said it loud enough for me and all his friends to hear.  And suddenly, I was in a twisted fit of rage and embarrassment.  But because there was nothing I could say or do to take back what he said, I kept walking.

A few days ago, before Romney's Binders Full of Women debacle overtook social media and our collective American feminist conscience, I posted this article from to my Facebook wall.  To many of you, male or female, catcalling may seem a rather benign issue, unworthy of much public scrutiny.  Indeed, the most recent comment on my link to the article was a condescending, belittling one from a high school classmate of mine: "Meanwhile in Afghanistan..."  By no means do I wish to detract attention from the major socio-political crises of our day.  At the same time, I don't think "smaller" issues in our own country involving our own people deserve to be overlooked.  In fact, the problem of catcalling stems from a much deeper global crisis: the world over, to varying degrees, women are treated as second-class citizens.  It's not a new problem, and we've only begun the work to solve it. 

Generation after generation, misogynistic cultural mores continue to engender negative, shallow attitudes towards the value and purpose of women.  That's why catcalling comes so easily to many of the men of our day.  It's been ceaselessly tolerated--even condoned--by our male-dominated society, and only in the last two or three decades have women really been granted an arena to voice their disgust. 

The author of "Stop Catcalling Me" validated many of the internal struggles I've faced living as a single woman in New York City, apart from the safe, appealingly insular community of my mostly WASPish college campus.  For me, the entire article was spot-on, but here's what really put a lump in my throat:
I suspect it’s difficult for men to imagine a world in which their bodies have long been inextricably linked to their value as an individual, and that no matter how encouraging your parents were or how many positive female role models you had or how self-confident you feel, there is an ever-present pressure that creeps in from all sides, whispering in your ear that you are your body and your body defines you. A world where, from the time of pubescence on, you can feel the constant and palpable weight of the male gaze, and not just from your male peers but from teachers and sports coaches and the fathers of the children you baby-sit, people you’re supposed to respect and trust and look up to, and that first realization that you are being looked at in that way is the beginning of a self-consciousness that you will be unable to shake for the rest of your life.
I can guarantee that no man has quite understood that "constant and palpable weight" of being watched like that.  But I can assure you that every woman of a certain age absolutely has.

Growing up in a small town with a strong father and teachers and friends who looked after me, I didn't really have to deal with negative, subjugating attitudes about myself or my sexuality, at least not on a regular basis.  Even in college, I was pretty sheltered; the guys were polite, intellectual, and thoughtful, for the most part.  But I distinctly remember the first time I knew I was being looked at that way.  

I was nannying away from home for the summer, and one night, after the kids were in bed and their dad had one too many beers, I sensed a shift in his attitude toward me.  Nothing tangible happened, but my gut was screaming at me that the way he smiled and the ease with which he chatted at me was wrong.  He had the position of power, and I was made to feel small and foolish.  He was a married man.  I was barely twenty.  It was his behavior that was inappropriate, yet I was the one who suffered the silent humiliation.

After I moved to New York, I quickly learned that it doesn't matter what you wear, where you walk, or what time of day it is--men will shout at you all they like.  None of this really bothered me much until I moved to Harlem.  I don't claim to understand the cultural intricacies of why this behavior seems more acceptable in upper Manhattan--I'd like to know--but I noticed the difference as soon as I moved into the neighborhood.

Last summer, on my way home from a late-night shift at work, I got off the train at 145th Street to walk home.  It must have been about 2am.  I can't remember.  What I do remember is the man standing there on the corner as I reached the top of the stairs.  He called for my attention, and, assuming he was asking for the time, I answered.  To make a long story short, he made more than one very direct, explicit, entirely unsolicited request for oral sex.  He actually offered to put me in a cab so we could go "to your place or mine."  It was, by far, the most despicable, humiliating thing I'd ever experienced.  And to make matters worse, I was wearing my work T-shirt, and he made mention of it.  

Afterward, I called 911 to file a sexual harassment report.  And for the rest of the year, I couldn't bring myself to get off at that stop after dark.  And I started taking a change of clothes to work.   I only shared what had happened with a couple of my closest friends here.  Even my mom is reading this for the first time (sorry, Mama).  

I don't pretend to know the all the pain of what it sometimes means to be a woman.  Believe me, there is a history of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse in my family that keeps me grateful for every day of safety and respect I'm given.  Even so, I have no shame in admitting that I've been hurt, and every violation of my dignity and privacy only galvanizes my desire for a serious shift in how our society treats women.  My future daughters deserve better than this.

If what I've said in any way appeals to your conscience, here are a few small things you can do to help:
  • If you want to compliment a woman, “you shouldn't tell her she looks pretty. You should tell her how nice her outfit is because her outfit is her choice whereas her face isn't” (Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower).  
  • Resist the temptation to gush over how "pretty" or "cute" or "adorable" little girls are.  I read an article once that encouraged adults to engage young girls in conversation about their favorite hobbies, music, or school subjects, not just the color of her favorite tutu.  They're more impressionable that we realize, and we should inspire their minds, not their makeup collections.
  • Don't catcall.  As Kendall Goodwin writes in "Stop Catcalling Me," "when in doubt, keep it to yourself."
  • If you're a man and you see your friends objectifying women, see if you can get them to think twice about what they're saying or doing.  We need all the allies we can get.
  • And because it's election season, give serious thought to whether your candidate of choice will really look out for women (equal pay, access to health care, a new national law demanding paid maternity leave, etc.)

As seems to be the trend for me of late, this was not a "light" blog post.  So if you've read this far, thank you.  You've blessed me just by hearing me out.

Love you all. xo