I probably still owe Columbia House money. 12 tapes for a penny? Sign me up! I just wanted to lock myself in the basement alone for hours, pouring over lyrics in tape jackets and practicing riffs until my throat stung.
Three things solved my teenage angst: Singing, writing, and friending.
I sang and sang with my mom's yellow Walkman, preparing to harmonize Xscape songs in the back of the choir room.
I wrote poetry that got A's and creative writing that got C's. "That's somebody's A, Ashley, but it's not yours," Mrs. Simmons responded to my shock.
I kept friends close, which was the only way to survive. My nicknames? Jolly green giant and Big Red. Boys met my chest before they met my eyes. And not because of the cleavage, let me assure you. There's no area of my life untouched by a friend.
I got sober twenty years ago this month.
I'd left my first 21 years in the heart of the Carolinas and washed up on the shore of Santa Monica, begging God for a new life, precisely what he didn't give me. There was no deliverance. No miracle. No debts were wiped clean.
My recovery has been slight and daily. Nothing grandiose or special.
I met Jesus for the second time at a P.F. Chang's in Los Angeles circa 2002. To be more specific, I'd gone to support a friend's drag show where he played Crack Whitney. I parked in the Von's across the street from the venue, not knowing Los Angeles thrives on parking tickets and tow fees. The grocery store security guard towed my car, and my friend George from Chang's drove me to get it.
On the conservative end, I'd put back a few. (Or a fifth.)
Storming through the small shack full of keys and dead dreams, I railed on the huge man behind the counter. F-word after f-word, spit, hair, and earrings flying, he almost yawned before he said, "Are you done? Cause that'll be $350." I forked it over, and another friend drove my car home.
I'm sure I ate a snack because that's what you do after a night at the club and an encounter with a hard-headed tow man. Then, I wrote. I sang. Clarity comes in the space between drunk and sober. It's like the liminal space between dreaming and waking. The pen in my hand wrote the truth about my life. And just before bed, a song set me free.
I wondered to myself, Is God like George? Does he stay close when we do bad things? Does he love me like I am?
The hymn that guided my childhood came to mind, "Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me and that thou bidd'st me come to thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come." Just as I am. Could it be possible?
Seemed worth the risk, so I called George the next day, "Can I come to church with you? You're the kindest Christians I've ever met." My co-workers loved Jesus. It was no secret. They weren't even annoying. We went to dinner, coffee, hung out in people's homes, and those jokers used to come to the club, drink Diet Coke, and drive my drunk behind downtown to my single on Flower Street.
I arrived late and hungover to the 12:30 pm service and never looked back. My friends were sober, and in my view, free. I began the road home to myself that day. My miracles came little by little, starting with a word, a song, and a friend.
I've observed that loneliness doesn't have a face. It comes for us all.
The junior year of Covid is still disrupting churches, businesses, and schools. Many people no longer keep a rhythm of gathering with a faith community, and for the last six years, I've heard more grief about loneliness than I can remember hearing before.
Maybe I see it more because I'm a middle-aged woman with three little kids. (By the way, 61% of people aged 18-25 suffer from loneliness. The next highest group? Mothers of little children.) Or perhaps it's just the world we live in, and we are finally seeing the aftermath of the false intimacy digital media creates.
Over the last two years, the digital nature of my life shaped me in ways I loved but mostly hated. So, I'm changing. Again. The internet is here to stay, so I want to dwell in neighborhoods that center on goodness and grace. I want to learn and lead the way to become a better neighbor. After Hours is born from this.
It was after the club that I discovered love. It is not in the church but after church that encourages me to belong. After work, it is happy hour where I've laughed hard with co-workers, heard their stories, and found ways to help others. Lingering after dinner with people fills me with hope in hard places.
It is my desire that no one suffers silently or loudly from loneliness.
We desperately need each other and a better way to relate in a polarized, weary world. Together is the way we heal. Intuitively, and from experience, I've always believed that we cannot experience the fullness of God without enduring friendship with others.
Personal intimacy, patience, solitude, praise, and trust are recognizable spiritual formations. Power and life lie within these practices. What does not is the cure for loneliness.
God will not personally walk you out of a Hamburger Mary's drag show, watch you cuss out a 300-pound, 6'5" man at a tow yard, drive you home, then save you a seat for church on Sunday. But somebody who loves him will.
The only cure for loneliness is others.
Waiting on the Lord for the courage to belong to others is like watching a workout video while praying for abs. (Reader: do we hate when people use fitness analogies?) Praying and resting in the presence of God is transformative indeed, but nary once did it bring a meal to your door after a death in the family or hold your hand while you break down. We've got to do things to be close.
Age only complicates the matter: careers, kids, anxiety, exhaustion. My friendships changed during Covid, along with my desires, and I am struggling to figure this out, too.
I am thankful for the wonderful friends I do have, and we're working hard to find the natural intersection for stable connections with others. Otherwise, what is the point of life? (Or paying $5 a gallon for gas in Los Angeles? Dear God, help us.)
If you're begging God for a new life, I hope you get it. The chances are high that you won't get it soon. You've likely already discovered, as I have, that new life is hard-won. May the little miracles be yours. I hope you find the balm for your angst, the comfort of knowing all things are made new. Most of all, I hope you find a few good friends.
God is with you always, Beloved, and you are most welcome here. Share your life and thoughts with us.
Until next time,
Ashley
P.S. To learn more about what we’re building here, read this.
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