30 before 30 :: the songs

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These are the defining songs of the last decade of my life.

They aren’t necessarily my favorites. There’d be some overlap but, mostly, that would be a different list. These are the songs that shaped me, that found a spot in my heart and stayed. These are the songs I have a visceral reaction to — they bring me back to moments, remind me of places, or make me think of humans who, even if they’re not in my life anymore, helped create who I am.

There’s Hamilton. Of course. For half of this decade, I listened to this album more than anything else. I know every word and I worked embarrassingly hard to be able to kind of rap ‘Guns and Ships.’ I sobbed to ‘Burn’ in the back corner of a theatre in Chicago, fresh off the biggest heartache of my decade. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or where I am, ‘Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’ will make me cry every time. This musical has pushed me to write, create, and take chances I didn’t think I could (or should).

There are the songs from college: ‘I Won’t Give Up’ is a song I can’t *stand* now but was all I listened to when my college boyfriend and I broke up. ‘Call Me Maybe’ brings me back to the middle of the crowded Old Broadway dance floor, buzzed on Wonder Woman shots and hoping I’d run into Cute Justin, my rebound crush. ‘Some Nights’ reminds me of the endless runs that Megan and I went on the summer before our senior year, and the talks we had as we tried to sort through what the hell we were going to do with our lives.

There are the Portland songs: ‘This Is The Beginning’ is Steph and I in our empty apartment, before we brought in our haphazardly-assembled furniture and before we made a life in that city. ‘There Will Be A Light’ is sitting in the pews at Salt & Light Lutheran Church, a building that became my community.  ‘Rivers and Roads’ is my final drive away from Portland, through the Columbia Gorge when I wondered what the hell might be waiting for me in Minnesota.

There are the songs that accompanied me on the big lessons of this decade: ‘The Climb’ reminds me that I shouldn’t run a half-marathon if I haven’t run a single mile in a long while. And that I don’t actually like running long distances at all. ‘Give Me Everything’ by Pitbull and ‘Bitch, I’m Madonna,’ ironically, remind me about deep friendship and the lifesaving role of my circle. ‘Heavy’ reminds me not to abandon myself for anyone or anything that makes me feel inferior.

I could add 31 more songs to share stories about from this decade. I could make lists of lyrics or books or quotes or places or even the food I’ve consumed that’s somehow shaped me these last ten years. Maybe I will, and maybe you should too, even if you’re not turning 30 on April 1st. If anything, this exercise has reminded me that everything has purpose. I believe it’s all part of shaping who we are, even if it feels small or insignificant at the time.

When I listen to ‘I Can Change’ on repeat for a month straight? That’s probably going to help me believe that I’m capable of change. When I reread ‘Tiny Beautiful Things’ every year? Those words are going to stick close to me and come to me when I need some wisdom. The fact that I’ve had the same salad for most weekdays of the past four years? Well, at least I’m getting my vegetables. It all stays with us, inside of us somewhere.

And. One last thing. It’s not a fair question to ask of myself, and yet, my very favorite song on this list? ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. There are so many core moments from the past ten years connected to this song: it’s been my karaoke selection in so many cities, singing my heart out to a crowd of strangers and watching them sing along with me. It’s the song I dance to in my bathroom as I get ready for an exciting or hard day. It’s an immediate mood booster when I hear it out in the world, like in the grocery store or in the middle of a workout class.

And while this song is lighthearted, its words are also a reminder of a journey I’ve been on this past decade. Because I do wanna dance with somebody, and I do want to find someone who loves me. But another journey I’ve been on in my 20s? I’ve learned how to love and dance with myself — and that’s been just as worthwhile.

there will be a light.

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1 In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, 2 the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. 3 Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.
Genesis 1: 1-5

4 John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 5 And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 6 Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. 7 He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. 8 I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Mark 1: 4-11

I’ve never spent much time in darkness.

Growing up, a night light constantly burned in the corner of my room. It was hidden between a dresser and an end table, the smallest sliver of space that let out the same-sized sliver of light. It wasn’t bright enough for me to read in bed, but it was enough to assure me that there weren’t monsters or ghosts or bad guys in my room with me. That light, even the smallest sliver of it, brought comfort and security.

Even for most of my adult life, I’ve been pretty good at avoiding the dark. The world we live in makes it easy to do so. I rarely rise out of bed in the mornings when the quiet darkness still hovers over the streets and buildings and all of life. I am frequently out in this city at night, doing errands or meeting friends, but the headlights and streetlights and porch lights take away encounters with real darkness. And, while I don’t have a night light in my room anymore, my phone screen or its flashlight feature or my headlamp stay awake with me until I close my eyes. Those lights, even the smallest slivers of them, are deeply entwined in my routine, bringing comfort and security.

But there is another darkness—a deeper, harsher, grief-laden darkness—that’s more than what happens when you flip off a light switch or walk outside in the middle of nowhere, away from person-made light. This darkness is harder to avoid. It is darkness that exists in broad daylight. Darkness that sneaks up on us, or, rather, slowly grows, right in front of us, right in the light, right when we believe that darkness can’t or won’t catch up with us. Darkness that pierces us.

Not even a week into this new year—a time that signals renewal and newness and light for so many people—and darkness continued to pierce me, to pierce us, in our chests and our hearts.

On January 7th, a bomb was detonated outside of an NAACP office in Colorado.
On January 7th, guns went off inside the offices of an alternative newspaper in Paris.
On January 7th, a beloved member of this community, Anthony Gilmore, left our presence.

One day. One 24-hour cycle. Day and Night. A day that doesn’t even account for the darkness that occurred on January 6th or January 8th, or the darkness that occurred before I started writing or that’s occurring while I’m writing or what will occur when I stop writing.

This darkness fills God’s world, God’s community, God’s heart. 
This darkness fills our world, our community, our hearts.
We ask, “Where is God in this? Where are the promises of Jesus? Where is our light?”

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind of God swept over the face of the waters.”

This darkness, this Deep and Dark with capital D’s, was all that there was. This is where our story begins. In a formless void. In the deep, dark waters of the earth—that were perhaps desolate, perhaps chaotic, perhaps wild. And so that was where God was—in those places. 

From the beginning, God has held the darkness. 
God still meets us in our darkness.

And then, in today’s Gospel, we meet Jesus. 

“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.” 

But before Jesus could come up out of the water, before he heard a voice from heaven, before the Spirit descended, he had to go down. I envision Jesus going deep into the Jordan—the “close-your-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-your-nose-before-you-go-down” deep. Jesus was submerged in the waters—waters that were deep and dark—before he came back up and saw the light, heard the voice, felt the spirit. 

God met Jesus in that darkness.
God still meets us in our darkness.

Just as God held the earth in its darkness, just as John the Baptist held Jesus in the waters, God holds us in love. God holds us—holds on tight—during the darkest nights. And darkest days. And darkest moments. God sits with us, breathes with us—breathes into us and, sometimes, if we need it, for us—and stays with us through the darkness. God is with us in evening, and in morning. God is with us in mourning. God was with us on January 7th, and the 6th and the 8th, and right now.

God stays with us, but that does not mean we stay in darkness forever. Because of God’s presence, we can go somewhere new. “Somewhere new” might not always be out of the darkness, maybe not right away. But to a new place where we can begin to glimpse the light. Where we can see that tiny sliver of a night light, piercing through to remind us that there will be a light.

God said, “Let there be light!” not, “Let there only be light!”—the darkness stayed. The darkness had, and still has, a place in our lives. It has a place in our days, as we go through each cycle of sunrise and sunset, although now we spend less time in darkness as our days get longer. It still has a place in our hearts, as we grieve the death of Anthony Gilmore, although we take comfort in knowing he is Home.

Living in the darkness sometimes, learning to walk in it, might not get easier. I don’t know for sure; I’m just learning about what darkness looks and feels like myself. But I know that leaning into the truth that God meets us there, and stays with us, and holds us, allows me to look at dark nights a little differently. I still seek the night light, the comfort and security of God’s love, but I also feel like I can “close-my-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-my-nose-before-I-go-down” into darkness, knowing God rests there too.

But Just as God called forth light — “Let there be light!” — from the darkness; just as God called forth love — “You are my Son, the Beloved!” — to Jesus; God calls us into light, love, and life each day. God promises to stay with us through all of it, so we may live.

God promises that there will be a light.
So, let there be light.

The title of this sermony thing was inspired by Ben Harper's song There Will Be a Light. Salt & Light Lutheran Church, which is part of the larger Leaven community, frequently sings its refrain during worship as we remember that God is light, and there will be light.