Included. Loved. Accepted. Welcomed.

Call it my annual mid-year crisis or my low-risk escape from my mid-summer slump, but yesterday at the salon I decided it was time to make drastic changes. A little shorter, I told my stylist, and much, much darker. I wanted something daring, dramatic and mysterious. And maybe a little dangerous? My stylist (who’s fabulous, by the way), was happy to indulge my whim. I walked out of the salon feeling like a whole new person.

This morning, I rushed to get myself and the kids ready for church and out the door. Since it was hotter than that place we seldom talk about on Sundays, I opted for comfort and pulled on a basic black button-down shirt with a collar, a pair of bright pink pedal pushers and white sneakers.

We pulled into the church parking lot and I paused to check the mirror to make sure I didn’t have any remnants of my hasty breakfast stuck in my teeth. As I glanced at my reflection, I finally realized the whole new person I now resembled: Professor Snape from “Harry Potter.” Maybe it was the black shirt. Or the fact that my son had been watching “Harry Potter” movies around the clock for the past 48 hours. But it was all I could see. I groaned.

“Do you guys think I look a little like that guy from ‘Harry Potter’?”

My thoughtful eldest daughter said Professor Snape’s hair is much greasier. My youngest daughter had no idea who I was talking about. But my son, who’s never afraid to tell it like it is, agreed whole-heartedly, and couldn’t let the comparison go.

“When we go into church, I’m going to tell EVERYONE you got your hair cut like Professor Snape!” he said.

I rushed my children into the crowded church a few minutes late (why are we always a few minutes late?), and chose a secluded pew at the far end of the sanctuary. I hoped my son would get distracted by the music or perhaps feel guilty during the prayer of confession and let it go. Better yet, maybe he would repent for tormenting his mother, which I seem to recall is one of the big ten list of no-no’s. He did neither.

When it was time to pass the book thingie down the aisle to sign our names to prove that we had been there (it has a more formal name, though I can’t recall now what it is), he signed our family’s name. His younger sister, who doesn’t like anyone ever speaking on her behalf about anything, EVER, erased it, and rewrote our name. My son pried it away from her, then got the idea that it would be funnier to just sign it “Professor Snape.” My youngest daughter felt that was undignified, however, and the two engaged in their own form of the deathly hallows, right there in the pew.

As the service progressed, one of my children refused to participate in the hymns, the other consistently sang the wrong verse, and both quietly battled over which one should get to sit closer to mom (an argument we have had daily since their father passed away). As always, as far as I could tell, all of this played out without raising a single eyebrow from the worshippers around us. As the service ended and we stood for the final hymn, I remembered a conversation my husband and I had years ago.

We had a bit of a “Dharma & Greg” relationship; I was always the hippy-dippy bleeding heart liberal (or snowflake, as I think they’re calling us now), who cared about other people and other causes, even if they weren’t my own. My husband, however, was pragmatic. He considered himself to be a conservative, though I would say his definition was much more middle-of-the-road than how it is interpreted today.

When we first moved to the St. Louis area, we struggled to find a church that was in line with my values. Specifically, we found it difficult to find a church that was welcoming to gay Christians. After passing over several churches because they had made it clear that their official position was to condemn same-sex marriage, I finally asked my husband if I was overthinking the issue. Technically it wasn’t OUR issue, after all.

My typically conservative, always pragmatic husband responded, “Any church that wouldn’t welcome a gay couple probably wouldn’t be too thrilled with our three rowdy kids, either.”

I think of his words often when I read about efforts to exclude those who are different from us from our churches, our schools, our neighborhoods, our communities and even our nation — and often doing so in the name of Christianity. Were I to participate in a church that sought to exclude other families based on the composition of their family, their nation of origin, their orientation, their race, their economic status, their disabilities, their political persuasion or any of the other myriad reasons we seek to exclude others, I’m sure they’d find fault with my family, as well. We’re a little too outspoken. We raise questions. We occasionally raise our voices. We’re a little too rowdy—I’m a little too rowdy. And, as my late husband pointed out, I’m sure all of that would eventually get us booted. That’s the problem with surrounding yourself with people who seek to judge, shun or exclude; it’s only a matter of time until you find yourself on the receiving end.

As humans, what we need most is to feel included. Loved. Accepted. Welcomed. But to find that love and acceptance requires a willingness to give it, and to have the wisdom to surround yourself with others who do the same.

Kathy Deters