July reminds me of bug spray, loud pops, sticky ice-cream-covered hands, and the old Sesame Street song “One of These Things is Not Like the Others.” I especially hum this song in environments where I feel pretty uncomfortable. For example, when I know my name is up after a long Starbucks line.

“Sarah! Tom! Nicole! Nee…Nigh…Tall hazelnut latte with almond milk!”

I begin humming. I awkwardly smile. My hand grasps the warm cup, and I walk out—at least my order tastes the same even if my name is mispronounced again. It comes with the territory.

But in July, the feeling is amplified. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” reminds me of this.

The other night, I gathered with my text thread friends. This type of text thread where we discuss our kids, politics, movie reviews, awkward things that happen to us, and even our last-minute plans. The thought of belonging never occurs to me since it readily happens in that context. That night, we decided at the last minute to meet at a local fairgrounds so we could see the fireworks for the Fourth of July. Our cars parked in the gravel parking lot, our 3-4 children, followed us, and we covered each other in bug spray.

The youngest of our kiddos held hands and frolicked through the grass while the older kids guffawed at whispered jokes and meandered around. My friends and I divided our attention between our conversations and our children’s inquiries while we arranged our lawn chairs facing each other. Towards the end of the night, when fireworks sparked and lit up the fields, we discussed the music choice of the festival organizers. Most of the songs were the overused, hackneyed songs you hear on the Fourth of July, while the others were songs we couldn’t help but sing along to.

One friend leaned over and whispered, “Oh finally—a song I can sing to!” Bruce let out his signature growl over the speakers, and I laughed.

“I don’t relate to this song at all!” My friend’s eyes widened, and we both chuckled—she knew my story. I wasn’t entirely born in the USA…like at all. The irony humored us.

At that moment, I could have sung that old Sesame Street tune. I looked out of place in the crowd and even among my friends, who are Iowa natives. The lack of belonging is profoundly discomforting and jarring. And yet, I laughed.

I think belonging and freedom are closely related. I’d like to think Paul thought so, too. His letter to the Galatians was, um, not so gentle with what he thought. But I think we can get discouraged if we focus on what NOT to do.

Belonging to God means so much more than belonging to the culture here in the US. Feeling left out is easy for those who don’t have the same American cultural understanding as natives. Even if you did grow up in this cultural context, there might be something that may make you feel a little out of place—it may tempt you to sing the old Sesame Street song.

Here’s the wonderful truth—there’s freedom because we belong to God. May that free you from self-pity and anguish and release you to joy. And maybe, you’ll get to laugh with a friend who knows your story. Belonging can look like that, too.