lament

Living Stories

~ Georgia Coats ~ 1 Comment

Hi. It’s Georgia. Remember me? I’ve been so enveloped by the lived stories around me, that I haven’t paused to share the things that have been on my mind.

I’ve been in a season of relinquishing the desire to express myself through writing as I have set about weaving and witnessing lived stories. I’ve been dabbling in precarious zones outside my comforts—in peacemaking, in activism, in lament, in pastoral care, in shared community spaces, in advocacy, in cultural and spiritual attentiveness, in empowerment… in the art of neighboring and the courage of parenting. I regularly maneuver through liminal spaces and have gotten stuck and a little rumpled in the shifting sand.  But there is so much beauty in the in-between—I’m learning to embrace the invitations and discover divine connections in those spaces. 

I find myself toggling in the tension between living stories and sharing stories. Our lives are sacred stories unfolding, yet sometimes we’re too consumed by our lived adventures to write them down. Sometimes we must stop and write them down to remember. To lament. To bear witness. To hold on to our own hope and the hope of others. Sometimes our sacred tellings confound or force us to struggle with the lived realities of others.

Why create space to write now? 

I guess I’ve been waiting for Divine permission to pause, reflect, and sort out the stories I’ve been experiencing. As I have dabbled in the spaces of others and listened to many wise sources on various significant subjects, I come back to my deep soul yearning as a word processor. 

The other day, I walked by my neighbor’s house and 3 little friends were jumping on a trampoline. 

“Watch me! Look at me!“

One of the little girls shouted as if to say: Share my moment. Take in my unique skills and delight, right here, right now—with me! 

I paused to behold the invitation. I saw myself as part of her living story. In that moment we wanted the magnificence of this unfolding life to be documented. Even if it is small—to be seen. To be celebrated and maybe even to have significance beyond our small casings of earthly living. After all, our stories outlive our bodies and mark our spot in history.  

Writing is personal and shared.

It’s cathartic. 

It helps me make sense of myself in a world of chaos. 

It’s a divine practice.

My words and my stories are my treasurers. They are my hidden ideas and found discoveries. They are divine markers of holy presence.

Writing is a form of resilience and clarity for myself and my readers. My hope is that my small words are healing and insightful and life giving in some way.

Living Stones

As you come to him, the Living Stone… you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 2:4-5 

I have been adding to my rock collection over the years.  Whenever our family travels to incredible places around the globe, we search for a stone of remembrance and solidarity from that place—to hold on to a tangible reminder that we were there and that the people we met and the experiences we had in those places are held precious.  

Each stone tells a unique story. Hard stones of the earth are reminders of the living stones that cry out in their contexts in time and space as spiritual offerings. Even if the details are forgotten, they can’t be untold.

I can’t untaste the flavors I’ve shared around common tables. I can’t unfeel the emotions of bearing witness to stories of trauma and healing through a tearful interpreter. I can’t unsee those faces or unhear that music.  And I don’t want to. I want to be changed and be made more beautiful and holy and whole. I write so I can make a record of these things. And maybe others will find themselves in these unfolding stories. Maybe stories will stick like a thorn you can’t wait to pull out of a place that pokes and penetrates and bothers. Those kinds of stories have expanded my perspectives and permanently altered the expressions of my heart. Dr. Jemar Tisby, a voice of faith and reason that I deeply respect in places where marginalized populations often go unheard and are misunderstood, has challenged me that maybe it is such a time as now to share the things on my mind.  In his episode of Roadmap to Resistance, he reminds us that we’ve each been given a gift that must manifest for the common good.  

Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good. To one there is given through the Spirit a message of wisdom, to another a message of knowledge… 1 Corinthians 12:7-11

If I have words to process and play with, maybe it’s for the common lifting of others in the messy and chaotic context of 2025.  Maybe the distinction between writing for others or writing for myself doesn’t need to be clarified.  There is beauty to behold, but it must exist to be beholden at all.

A Lament: Un-heard. Over-looked. Under-estimated

~ Georgia Coats ~ 3 Comments

Sometimes I feel unheard. Sometimes I grieve for others in marginalized spaces whose intrinsic worth is often underestimated. Sometimes I try madly to see and hear and notice what could get overlooked. I wish no one ever felt like they don’t matter. Sometimes those feelings overwhelm me–and so, I lament.

  

From the secret whispers of the unheard;

From the hidden places of the overlooked;

From the tarnished treasure of the underestimated…

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Who hears the cries of your cherished children? Why do they scream out loud or sob in dark corners unheard?

Who can see their wounds—the scars beneath the skin? Why do the vulnerable get overlooked?

Who looks down to notice what everyone else tramples on? Why are some underestimated?

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Like an attentive mother hears the uneven rhythm of a newborn’s breath, you hear the sobs and whispers of your little one’s erratic heart. 

Like a curious child seeking seashells in the sand, you see with wonder those trampled down beneath the surface.

As Your best creative craftsmanship, you unfold the secret potential of your treasured ones.

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When we feel muted, you whisper we are worthy.

When we feel invisible, you see our vulnerable places.

When we feel underestimated, you value our treasured potential.

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O Lord, reveal to me Your secret wonders. 

Guide me to Your diamonds in rough places.

Open my ears to the whispered rhythms of praise and resilience and worth that could be missed.

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For you, God, are intentional.

You hear us in soundproof spaces.

You are worthy

You see value in our design.

You are King of abundant treasure.

You cherish those You seek and find.

My COVID-19 Lament

~ Georgia Coats ~ 5 Comments

Last week in a Trauma Healing group we explored the genre of lament. Lament is simply an expression of grief. And grief is mourning a loss.

Where has the genre of lament been all my life?

When we came to the exercise of writing our own lament, the turmoil of my heart flooded onto paper. I felt a deep sense of validation by this genre that had its own unique purpose and parameters.

In many ways I feel drawn to grief. Just as some people are the life of a party, I feel connected to others in times of grief–it’s when our hearts are most vulnerable and we are in a place to process raw emotions. Grief is a significant part of life, and as a culture I’m not sure we do it very well.

So here is my current lament–an expression of my grief about the pandemical state of our world. A complaint taken directly to the Divine.

My COVID-19 Lament

O God—enough is enough!

How long must people—Your people made in Your image—all over the earth suffer?

We are sick.

We are dying.

We struggle to breathe.

We are made to grieve.

How long will this go on?

You’re the One who put breath in our lungs.

You can make this stop.

You can make this matter.

We have wandered far.

Gather us back with fresh air and fresh Spirit.

Turn our eyes and our hearts and our breath towards you,  

That we may cry out to you with all that is within us.

You alone are Life-Giving God for all people.

Come quickly.  Bring life. 

Bring healing to our bodies and souls and to all the nations.

Be the breath in our lungs and the praise on our tongues.

Praise the LORD, my soul; all my inmost being, 

praise His holy name. 

Praise the LORD, my soul— 

The One who forgives all our sins and heals all our diseases. 

I will wait on you.

I will wait for you.

I will wait with you.

I expect you to make our struggles matter.

You are worthy of all our praise with all our breath.

Then all the earth will shout Your praise.

Our hearts will cry, these lungs will sing:

Great are You, Lord. Great are You, Lord.

Rising Above

~ Georgia Coats ~ 3 Comments

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.  MLK, Jr.

I’m not sure if I’m haunted or inspired.  

  • 20 years and I’m still trying to figure out living.
  • 20 years since my leukemia diagnosis in September of 2000.
  • 20 years of grasping at my sense of self in the midst of chronic limitations. 
  • 20 years of a tenacious spirit learning to dance in fragile body.

How can I rise above my personal cancer and be a part of treating malignancies that face all humanity?

This question has been weighing on my mind since last September.  I needed to rise up for my journey of Chronic Hope in order to clarify my identity.  

20 years later, there is clarity to rise.  But rising above is not a climb.  

It’s a descent. 

My challenge, quarantined in 2020, has been to listen, lament, and repent of injustice in myself and in our culture.  To weep with those who weep and mourn with those who mourn.  I really wanted to just take action.  But I had not stopped to consider the lack in my understanding of justice and society.  And how justice for all reflects the heart of God.

There is a lot of humble stillness and lowly heart work involved in rising.  Nothing glorious or stunning.  Just quiet, dark, quarantined heart work.

If the world had not shut down in a global pandemic, would I have done that work?  

I don’t exactly know how to take action, but one thing has become clear: 

If I don’t take action, something in me will die.  Or will never have the chance to truly live.  

So, from this humbler and haunted place I desperately seek to learn in community from those who are taking action. To join. To grow.  To serve.  I thought the vulnerable and the marginalized needed me.  It turns out, we need each other.

Rising above is not mine to achieve.  Starting to live is not mine to map out.  

Mine is to quietly join the labors of love.  

  • To learn from those who weary their hearts and dirty their hands for the plight of others.  
  • To allow the plight of the vulnerable to be felt deeply and personally.  
  • To understand how to do justly, because I cannot truly love mercy without it.  Mercy accompanies justice.
  • Ultimately, to surrender the sense of self I’ve worked so hard to grasp.

Mine is the work of vulnerable humility.

Rising belongs to the Divine Hand that is strong and wise enough to lift me up in due time.

Just curious… what are the daunting malignancies you’ve been called to rise above?

White Noise—A Cry of Repentance

~ Georgia Coats ~ 4 Comments

I’m sorry.

Not I’m sorry, but…

Not I’m sorry, in general.

 

Rather, specifically…

I’m sorry for my ignorance that has perpetuated an unjust status quo.

I’m sorry for my silence when advocacy was needed.

I’m sorry for all the little compromises that left your life more difficult and exhausting.

 

I’m sorry for my complicity in racism.

  • For my fear of not knowing what to do, and so yielding to inaction.
  • For letting false White conceptions of color blindness go unchallenged.
  • For not understanding how the systems I’m a part of and benefit from have put me in a privileged place at your expense.

 

I’m sorry for the White sorry buts that add salt to your wounds.

I’m sorry for being dismissive when the problems of society get too scary for me to handle.

I’m sorry for allowing this or that movie about ugly White racism to appease my conscience and make me feel like I get it—when I don’t.

I’m sorry for getting so used to Black bad news that it has become noise in the background of my passive tranquility.

I’m so sorry for reducing your trauma to my White noise.

 

Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God, you who are God my Savior, and my tongue will sing of your righteousness. 

Open my lips, Lord, and my mouth will declare your praise. 

You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.

My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.  (Psalm 51: 14-17) 

Lord, forgive us for the pride of thinking we’re innocent.

Lord, expose the hypocrisy in our breaking hearts and lead us to repentance.

Lord, forgive me for being an ambassador of peace but not understanding justice.

Lord, forgive me for being so passionate about Your great love for all nations and tribes, races and languages, yet somehow not having eyes to see and ears to hear the trauma and injustice of my Black brothers and sisters.

Lord, forgive us for our White supremacy—for standing too high on a pillar of infection—like an abscess on our nation.  It’s disgusting.

Lance it. Drain it. Then, heal it.

Like a boil that must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed to the light of human conscience before it can be cured.   MLK Jr.

 

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I see now that racism is a White problem.

I understand now that Black Lives Matter—so much.  I’m sorry I never said so sooner.

I hear your cries of grief.  I’m sorry it took me so long.

I shudder at the images of George Floyd’s murder. And Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor.  I’m sorry for your loss.  Your losses.  I’m sorry for the innumerable losses that have gone unseen.

I can know better.

I can be better.

I can do better.

It’s not your responsibility to enlighten me.  But many have taken the time to love me where I’m at and patiently help me get to a better place.  Thank you.

I know I’ll mess up again.  I know racism has had its ugly effect on me.  I know there are still offensive ways in me.

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me and lead me in the way everlasting. (Psalm 139:23-24)

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For context: I am white.  I am a follower of Jesus.  I deeply value the authority of the Bible. I am a church goer.  I work in non-profit contexts.  I have been on an intensive journey of listening, learning, and lamenting since May 8, 2020–what would have been Ahmaud Arbery’s 25th birthday.  

The influencers who have significantly informed my understanding, challenged my beliefs on issues of systemic racism, and shaped how I craft my words are: Dr. MLK Jr., Dr. Robin Diangelo, Dr. Anita Phillips, Jemar Tisby, and Mona Haydar.  And my friends, Befkadu Meshesha and Ian Simkins.