The Goodness I keep and The Singing Cop
I moved 13 times before I graduated high school. There was pain I won’t detail here, and I’ve spent years doing the work to heal it. And when I look back, I don’t only see the pain.
I see the joy too.
Both are true. Both are mine. And I’ve stopped using one to cancel out the other.
What I learned
Here’s the part that took me the longest to understand. The people who gave me the hard parts were the same people who gave me the good parts. My parents, grandparents, siblings, friends - all the relationships came with good and bad. And I learned that they can both exist at the same time. Especially with my parents.
I remember being in first grade scout troop, anticipating a field trip, and I was late for it. Really late. My mom arrived home and drove me to the field trip even when she knew we’d never make it in time. We missed the whole thing. She took me anyway, hopeful, because showing up mattered to her even when it wasn’t going to go as planned. The woman who had just said goodbye to my entire troop met us there. She didn’t sigh, and she didn’t send us home. She said, well, let’s give you a field trip.
So we walked. I picked flowers. She made me feel like I belonged, on a day when there was no way for me to get there on time.
My mom was hopeful. That woman was hopeful. Between the two of them, I learned something I still lean on: show up anyway. Even when you’re late. Even when it isn’t how you planned. And welcome people who show up late.
That’s who my parents were. Not perfect. Not even close. Not always on time. And they kept going. They kept learning and growing and healing. They kept reaching for the people around them, trying to love them well, even when they didn’t know how yet. Even when things didn’t go to plan.
When have you had to hold two truths at the same time?
What I carry forward
When I look back at the joy and the hope, I can see where my values came from. My beliefs about people. My quiet assumption that there is goodness in the world, and that it will find me.
When I look back at the pain, I see something else. A pull to protect my heart. To hold it close and not give it away so easily.
That pull is real. But it doesn’t win.
There are too many examples of goodness in my life to stay closed. Too many people who showed up even when things went haywire. Too many moments that taught me the world is kinder than my hurt wants me to believe.
Here’s one of them.
The Singing Cop
My earliest memory of spirituality is my parents happy, playing with my brother and me in the back yard of our house on East street in Hastings, Michigan. The joy we experienced made me believe in the goodness of life. We also played outside a lot together and that became my church - going outside. Though my parents were raised in church, and I’m sure we went, my vivid memories with them are outside.
My earliest memory of church is from Fostoria, Michigan. It seemed like they only had two churches so it was either the Methodist church or the Baptist church. I’m thinking it was the Methodist church because my friend Holly went to the Baptist church and she talked about breaking her record albums in front of the whole congregation. That sounded completely scary to me. I could not imagine myself going to a place that would break records. I could not understand for the life of me why she would do that. I thought to myself that it isn’t like any one of them had ever even listened to her records. What would they care about her records? Anyways, that is why I think it was the Methodist church where I went to one summer. They were kind and included everyone. That was more my jam. Still is. I went to church in the summer time for a church camp. I went with friends. Probably not Holly. And we would do crafts and eat snacks then have a church service of some kind at the end of each day. It sounds like the roots of Vacation Bible School.
I was sitting in the front row of the church. There were tan pews, white flowy curtains and drapes and a bunch of kids jammed into the pews. I was watching the speaker, who I now know was the pastor, talking about a special guest. Low and behold, who is it? It is a cop. He comes up and introduces himself as the singing cop. He stands up in front of us and begins to belt out the tune of Amazing Grace. I know this song because my mom sang it with my grandma and Auntie. I have never heard or seen such an amazing thing as that cop singing Amazing Grace in his uniform. I decided right then and there that I like this church. This is nothing like what poor Holly is going through.
Well, that cop decides he is going to hand out a mini blue bible to anyone who is paying attention. I never paid so much attention because I wanted that mini blue bible he was holding up in his hand. At the end of his song, he leaned toward me, jutted out his hand and his face looked big as the moon. He was smiling and said, “What is your name?” I told him, he scribbled in the blue bible book and said, “here you go.” I was so surprised and also pleased with myself. I had clearly been paying attention. Truth be told, he would not have had to give me anything to pay attention to his singing. I am still pleased as ever with myself. The kids around me looked at the tiny book in my hands as I opened it up and looked at the cover where he had written in the book. He had written to Kelly and signed it from the singing cop.
It was a great day at church. I treasured that bible. I still do and I still have it. Even though I moved houses 13 times before I graduated high school, I somehow managed to secure that away each time.
I know talking about church doesn’t automatically mean spirituality. But that singing cop meant it for me. He showed me love, joy, fun, smiling in church and giving things to people. I learned a whole lot that day from a stranger who I had never met before. I realized that going outside was great for learning about life and church could be too.
Looking at the Both/And
So much of healing asks us to look back and find what went wrong. That matters. I’ve done that work and I’ll keep doing it.
But if that’s all I look for, I miss half the story. I miss the field trip. I miss the singing cop. I miss the parents who kept trying.
I don’t have to choose between painfully honest and grateful. I can be both.
I’m grateful for my parents. For the pain that taught me and the joy that carried me. For the way they kept showing up, imperfect and hopeful.
I’m grateful for it all.
What would change if you looked back for the joy as carefully as you look for the wounds?
Hold it gently
There’s a Japanese art called kintsugi. Broken pottery is repaired with lacquer dusted in gold, so the cracks shine instead of hiding. learnantiques
It’s a beautiful way to honor what broke.
But look closely at a kintsugi bowl. Your eye goes straight to the gold. Yet most of that bowl was never broken.
Life rarely goes to plan. You paint something, and it doesn’t look the way you pictured. You plant a tree, and it grows its own way, or it doesn’t grow at all.
Faith is like that too. We find what gives us meaning, identity, and belonging. Then, just when we think we have it figured out, it moves. It breaks open. It goes deeper. It flies away. That Creator energy, however you came to know the source of all life and love, can’t be contained.
So we hold it all gently. The hard parts and the good parts. The plan and the detour.
The late arrival, and the flowers we got to pick anyway.
What belief are you holding so tightly that it keeps you from seeing the good that’s been right beside you all along?
Sources & Further Reading
Bethell et al., Positive Childhood Experiences and Adult Mental and Relational Health, JAMA Pediatrics (2019)
Narayan et al., Benevolent Childhood Experiences in Homeless Parents
Image attributed to https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kintsugi.jpg
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