this blog post is not meant to belittle the experience of any people group or historical oppression or to try to equate myself in any way with the suffering of indigenous and minority peoples everywhere. I see you, I see your struggle as greater than my own, and I am sorry.
About five months ago I skyped my parents as I prepared to leave for Palestine.
My dad told me then that he would probably be leaving Reedwood.
Reedwood, for all intensive purposes-despite how messy it can be-had been the most constant source of community in my life for fifteen years. It was on those old orange pews that I sat through countless open worship times and learned to appreciate and love the Quaker process. It was in those classrooms where I learned bible stories from foam figurines, and Friends history from paper puppets, that I first learned that it was okay (and essential) to question one's own faith.
Reedwood is the place that gave me a voice. Where recitations taught me the importance of annunciation and the power of words. Where being the only girl in youth group taught me to see myself outside of traditional gender roles. Reedwood saw me as more than just "Ken's daughter" and let me speak my piece if necessary. They empowered me. They held me through the angsty teenage years and the questioning and searching college years. They celebrated the big things, and mourned the hurts.
I knew there would always be a hug, a jar of jam, a kind word, and at least a few dinner invitations when I came home.
But that all changed five months ago.
I graduated college and came back to Oregon without a church home. My family being displaced by church politics and power dynamics. This summer, it has felt like (in so many ways) like i'm coming home to an empty house.
Last Sunday was the first time I sat on a pew in Friends church since December. It wasn't my church. And the whole time I sat there I choked back tears as I thought about how lonely it is to be displaced.
There's not a lot of difference between being a refugee and being diaspora. The two things relate to being displaced and leaving homeland because of hardship. But while refugees often live in camps or are offered services by governements; the diaspora is left to fend for itself.
I can recognize that I am loved. That NWYM is my spiritual home. That I am a Quaker through and through. But being displaced and expelled from the place that instilled that in me has been hard.
It has been hard not to be angry. Not to be calloused or flippant. It has been hard to answer questions like "where do you go to church" or "what does your dad do", because very few people care to hear the hardship that you've endured at the hand of an overzealous elder's committee.
I can recognize that it was probably time for us to leave Reedwood, that this provides a space to redefine my faith community and to be vulnerable in ways I have not ever had to be in church. But it is hard to enter into a new building and to feel like they already have what I had--and how will I ever catch up, or fit in, or feel safe again?
I miss those bright orange pews and my dad's cluttered office.
I miss feeling secure in where I attended and knowing exactly who I was.
I miss the security of having a place that was mine, instead of always being the visitor.
And all I can do right now is just to be honest about the hardship of that.
