between worlds

My first experience teaching English was in Burkina Faso – at that time one of the ten poorest countries in the world. My only resources were a box of chalk, a chalkboard, and a florescent light bulb. The light bulb turned on (most days) by maneuvering two wires sticking out of the wall precariously to make them spark. (After I nearly burnt my fingers off one day, my students determined they would be the ones turn on the lights.) My ride to school on the unpaved roads of Ouagadougou involved dodging livestock, steering around deep ruts in the road, and waving at the bright smiles of barefoot children seeing a nasara for the first time in their lives.

Many of the fundamental tools I still use in teaching, I learned in that sparse classroom.

Students who want to learn can accomplish unlimited things. I had one student ride his bike two hours one way to come to my English class because he wanted to practice speaking with a native speaker to improve his English before he went to seminary in English.
There are always resources we can’t afford. Using what is available goes a long way. While we didn’t even have textbooks, we used songs, quotes, and the chalkboard. We did groupwork, individual work, and pairwork. We wrote on the chalkboard, used photocopies, and memorized poems.
Students are first individuals, students second. Until teachers know what affects students’ realities outside of the classroom, they are limited in their knowledge of how to help them learn inside the classroom.
What happens inside my classroom is not the only factor that affects students’ attitudes. The developing world makes it very easy to remember that humans do not completely control what happens around them, and that this sometimes spills over into the classroom. The donkeys braying outside my classroom every afternoon made this quite clear. On rainy days, my students didn’t come to class because the unpaved roads turned to mud and made travel challenging.
Sometimes the bigger systems keep the little systems from working right. Hungry children do not focus as well as fed children. Access to money means access to education means access to freedom of choice. Corrupt governments oppress the poor and enable the wealthy.
Being a teacher holds inherent power, whether we recognize it or not. In Burkina Faso, I represented America – as much as I hated to admit – and the power that came with it. Regardless of where my classroom has been, the position of teacher has given me a platform which affects others. How it affects them is left to whether I handle my power with humble servanthood or proud dictatorship.
A smile goes a long way. Even without the ability to communicate with language, smiles speak a message of their own.

This isn’t to say that resources are bad – they are, in fact, very helpful. It’s just that sometimes the most potent realities of teaching don’t have anything to do with resources for teaching is an act that occurs between two human beings, not two computers or two pieces of paper or two textbooks.

Education, Travel

Bright smiles and marker caps

November 21, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

I wrote this years ago reflecting on time I spent teaching English in Burkina Faso, West Africa, one of the poorest countries in the world. Thanks to these children, hardly a week passes that I do not think of the realities of children living in poverty.

“Nasara! Nasara!” the children shouted as my moped puttered down their street. I may have been the first white person they had ever seen. “Goo morneen!” they waved. Some wore tattered clothes. Some wore none at all. None wore shoes. Bright smiles dominated their tiny faces.

I arrived at school where I was met by my students, “Goo morneen, Meess. How are you today?” they inquired, taking my books and bag.

“Fine, thanks,” I was overjoyed, actually. Having taught in American public schools, the Burkinabé students continually amazed me with their respect and kindness. Together, we crossed the dusty school yard toward the classroom, dodging an occasional pothole, curious child or stray pig.

One florescent light bulb provided light to the classroom. To turn it on, you had to precariously maneuver the wires until sparks flew and the bulb flickered on. Thankfully, my students were more adept at hot-wiring light bulbs than I. They had already swept the dust from the room and arranged the desks. Covered in a mix of sweat and red dust, I opened the metal slatted windows to let in a breeze. Four grinning faces stared back at me, eager to catch a glimpse of the nasara.

staring at the nasara

When it rained, my students didn’t go outside for fear of catching malaria from getting chilled, and because the flooded, broken roads were too difficult to navigate on moped. I found this out one rainy night when no one showed up at my class except for the Bright Smiles. I invited them in, offering some paper and markers from my bag. Their eyes glistened with excitement to see such bright, clean colors in a land where most brilliance had faded and/or been covered by thick red dust long ago.

For an hour, we spoke broken French and colored together under the dim glow of the lone light bulb. When they left, several of my marker caps mysteriously disappeared, even though I thought had clearly asked for them all back. I never did figure out why they took just the caps and not the markers. Maybe that inch of brilliance was still more color than they’d seen in their short lifetime.

The World Health Organization reports that 23% of these bright smiles will die before they reach age 5. If my marker caps add a bit of brightness to their lives, they can have every last one as far as I’m concerned.

Education

Will the real teacher please stand up?

November 18, 2013April 27, 2014 between worlds

Picture made for me as a gift from one of my ESL students.

To the casual observer, it would be easy to assume that they are the ones who need me. They’re new here – foreigners from every corner of the globe learning the ways and words of a new land.

Me? I’m the ‘native’, able to translate the words and explain the customs. I’ve spent years studying how to do this particular trade and even get paid to pass along this knowledge. I know the nooks and crannies of this crazy English language and play the role of a seasoned tour guide helping my students navigate the complex streets of grammar and spelling and pronunciation.

But don’t let that fool you.

Their resiliency, fortitude, humor, and kindness are teaching me just as much as I’m teaching them – probably more. Having just given up the place I call home, a budding career in academia, and cultural familiarity to relocate our family to the other side of the country, I’m starting completely over too. Each day as I walk them through the maze of the English language, they teach me how to walk through the maze of life.

It’s ok to be sad

“I pray to my God to bring peace to my country,” a Syrian man told me with slight tears in his eyes. “But I don’t know when it will come.”

To some measure, it’s always hard to leave home. Even if home wasn’t a safe or wealthy or pleasant place, it was still home. Many fear for their loved ones left in their home countries, and they tell me this with quivering voices. Others mourn what their country has become – how evil prevails and goodness hides. Their sadness is real, and they make no attempt to pretend otherwise.

It’s ok to be happy

We had an end-of-term party which I interpreted as wear jeans-and-a-t-shirt-casual-day. My students arrived decked out in sequins, heels and perfume, ready to dance the morning away. Many lack money, papers, family, jobs. They’ve lost family members, careers, homes. But these things slip away momentarily as they swing their hips, raise their arms, and kick up their heels to merengue or circle dance. Their joy is also real, and they make no attempt to pretend otherwise.

It’s ok to be kind

It started with a package of paper cups, then a platter of sandwiches. When another student walked in with a cake that read “Happy Birthday, Jodi”, I grew instantly grateful for the ‘secrets’ that Facebook tells. Still being fairly new to this place, I don’t have many friends to celebrate with, so we were planning a small family affair. I was ok with that, but what a grand surprise to have a party thrown for me when I thought I didn’t have enough ‘friends’ for that.

Just because I’m their teacher, I’ve received Chinese candies, Venezuelan chocolates, Egyptian plates, Ecuadorian necklaces, Salvadorian coin purses. Their kindness reminds me of our individuality, of our need to see others and to be seen, even in a city of 10 million people.

I see you, I say in my mind each day as I stand before them. You are not invisible here. You matter. They’re the ones who taught me this first, I’m just sending it right back.

It’s ok to laugh at ourselves

After learning the word “migraine”, one of my students recounted a pronunciation mistake she made once, “I go to the doctor and tell him I have a ‘ma-ga-ri-na’ and he tell me, ‘Lady, you in the wrong place for a margarita.’”

As we all howled at her phonetic misfortune, she stopped us, “It gets worse! I try to ask for a ‘fork’ at a restaurant but they no understand because I no say the ‘r’ sound good. Yes, teacher, I tell them ‘I have no ‘f&*#’ on the table.”

We lost track of all sense for at least 3 minutes. It’s been a good long while since I’ve laughed that hard.

With all of its questions and pontifications, academia left me with an overdose of seriousness, and all this fun is proving to be very healing for my soul.

Families, Children & Marriage, Travel

Living far away

November 14, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

We rolled our bags down the entrance ramp with the other familes, backpacks heavy, batteries fully charged. Yet another trip back through the skies, the growing reality of our global lives. Friends come to us from an airplane this week, and more family the week after that. In a few short weeks, we will fly around the world to cover our fingers in curry and slap away pesky mosquitos and sweat ourselves silly with the cricket-playing-cousins.

The trips jam-pack themselves full of old joys and new discoveries. While there is no luxury of next-door life anymore, we are grateful for the squished-full-but-still-too-short days that the airplanes allow us together.

“What’s pot roast?” my daughter inquires of her meat-and-potatoes grandpa. He’s shocked she doesn’t know, but I affirm sheepishly that this childhood staple hasn’t ever made it into our family diet. I don’t even know how to buy a pot roast at the grocery store, let alone cook one, and food traditions at our house are more likely to include practicing proper techniques of finger-eating rice or chopstick-handling noodles.

I see words on a window at the airport, and am captured by their truth.

This is how it feels, sometimes, life above the swirling earth. Always places we’re going to, places we’ve left behind spinning themselves around our lives between cornfields and curry, airplanes and freeways, water-buffalos-in-the-street and cows-in-the-barn. Always translating manners or looks or words for each other, occasionally missing something in the mix. Always navigating the risky waters of rural racism or third-world traffic patterns or airport security gates.

I sit on the airplane and think of my life between worlds, of the places I’m going and the ones I’ve come from. I think of how I can’t ever really go back to who I was and how I’m always becoming something new. I think of my students from the corners of the world and of my grandma from the corner of a cornfield. I think of the tractor induced traffic jams on back country roads and the breakneck speed and overflowing freeways of the city.

And I try to think them together – these worlds – for so many try to think them apart. I think of the grandma-from-the-West-African-bush with a giant smile and not a word of English making her way to the big city to see her first born grandchild. She smiled broad as she recounted how tall the buildings were. I think of a shivering young wife in a thin sweater slipping on ice for the first time in a bitter winter on her way to a new home. She shivers as she remembers, “It was sooo cold.” I think of a nervous young woman, in love across worlds, trying to impress her new family with her finger-eating skills only to fling half her plate of rice onto the ground.

Who are we becoming as we flit around the globe on these metal birds? I wonder.

It’s tempting to think I am the first to forge this path, but I am not. While some have tied themselves to the land, nomads have roamed for eons. They didn’t have airplanes or Skype, but the story tells itself the same.

Leave home.

Wander.

Make a new home in a strange land.

I think all the way back to Abraham, who did this very thing. Sometimes I wonder if he ever longed for the simplicity of just one home, if he struggled to make sense of the clash of the old and the new. The Story says he did it by Faith, even though he didn’t know where he was going. He probably made some mistakes in his new land – used the wrong words or touched the wrong thing or wore the wrong tunic. We don’t know about any of those details. What The Story determined we needed to see was Abraham’s faith to walk forward without knowing the destination.

Perhaps this is one little piece of thinking the world together: to trust that the beauty and strength and hope of the world far away runs just as deep and rich and true as the home that lingers in our memories. When we cross these caverns, our lives speak silently, echoing that we are better together than apart, that we must see more than just the broken ways of wounded people.

It used to bother me that all these worlds didn’t fit neatly in the box I thought they should. Anymore, it usually just leaves me grinning for I’m growing to love the overflowing, shape-shifting nature of living on the bridge between bland pot roasts and spicy curries, flat cornfields and tiered rice paddies, slow tractors and speedy freeways. While there is undeniable loss in living far away from all of our loved ones, it marches hand-in-hand with an unspeakable richness that comes from living between worlds.

Families, Children & Marriage, Restoration & Reconciliation

Recovering from graduate school atrophy

November 11, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

PhD.

Piled high and Deep.

Pure hell and Destruction.

Penniless, helpless and Determined.

Permanent head Damage.

Prepared for a happy Death.

Whatever those darn little letters mean, they sure take a whole lot out of a body. Don’t get me wrong, when less than one percent of the world gets a college education, I am keenly aware of – and amazingly grateful for – the incredible opportunity it is to even enter this realm of education. My hubby spent four years in a full-time PhD program on top of working full time and helping raise our spirited toddlers. He’s a pretty remarkable guy with an intense work ethic, and I’m still impressed he managed to finish alive and in tact.

But it took a heckuva lot out of us.

By the time he finished, his mind had grown large, but the rest of his body could barely keep itself upright. We drug ourselves to the finish line and when it was over, just sat there staring at each other for awhile. We didn’t even have the energy to cheer we were so tired. It was, in all senses, a paradox of atrophy and growth. While we grew strong in some areas, we weakened in others. Most days were push-through-and-make-it-out-alive instead of breathe-deep-and-relish-the-moment.

We’re now a good year and a half post-PhD, and finally feel like we’re coming out of the fog. I thought it would feel better as soon as he finished, and in a way, it did, but we still spent nearly a year just taking deep breaths. We visited the beach, climbed the mountains, even went to Disneyland. We went on walks, took the kids to parks, watched movies. The oxygen felt good; a body needs oxygen.

But the second year out, we’re learning we not only need oxygen, but muscles. With the level of intensity the program required of us both (him on the work front and me on the home front), we’ve discovered that the muscles we need for real life have atrophied a little. This year, we’re building muscles. We’re sitting together more, drinking coffee slowly, chatting about what makes us tick, watching a TV show together, attempting to resolve the pesky disagreements and unite on the big deals. We’re learning to look each other in the eye again, not just pass by on our way to do something, and to slow down and rest, laugh, and see each other.

In a way, it’s a gift to the middle-years-rat-race of raising a family and making a life together. What marriage doesn’t face atrophy at some point? In a lifetime together, muscles are bound to get tired, even if a PhD program isn’t involved. I have friends raising sick children, battling addictions, navigating crazy families, holding intense jobs, nursing childhood wounds. With the occasional taste of these realities I’ve known myself, I can attest that they’re not for the weak, and a body needs some pretty strong muscles to hold up. But sometimes, the muscles, strong that they are, still get tired and give way.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, I read, and I wonder what it means in today’s realities of noise and technology and traffic jams. And then I remember what it meant to me as we plodded through those hard years…

Come to me, you who just lost your temper with your wild little ones, turn on Sesame Street for the crazies and sit yourself on the couch for take a deep, long breath. You need oxygen.

Come to me, you who haven’t seen your husband for a week, who just bit his head off when you did because you’re tired and lonely and worn thin. Let the tears fall on the pages of my Words. I hear them.

Come to me, you who white knuckle your way through to stay strong. It’s ok – you don’t need to be. Take a nap along with the wild ones; I will give you rest.

Come to me, you who don’t know how to survive the masses who just don’t get what it means for your multi-colored family to be different in a sea of sameness. You may feel alone, but you are not. I am with you.

Come to me, you who were scheming to move east. In spite of your great protests, I will send you west, and there, I will breathe life back into your souls, rebuild your muscles, make you strong again. It may feel far and foreign but you will find me there amidst the palms and the foothills. Lean into the home I’m creating for you.

Come to me, you who feel torn apart and tired and distant from each other. I will rejoin you, restore you, rebuild you. Though your mountains be shaken and your hills be removed, my love for you is not shaken, nor my covenant to walk with you removed.

One of the most beautiful paths we have walked, recovery sings its calming melody, reminding me that we aren’t the ones who held ourselves together through hard years. It regrows in us one-moment-at-a-time a quiet strength that always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Surviving your spouse’s graduate program

Families, Children & Marriage

Surviving your spouse’s graduate program

November 7, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

A pit sank in my stomach as we leaned our heads together to pray there in the laundry room before he left to catch his flight. It was my husband’s first trip to the partially residential PhD program he was starting, and we were half-terrified / half-thrilled over his new pursuits. We’d decided that he’d travel to complete his PhD while continuing to work full time. Our reasons were sound: we didn’t want to be buried under debt, I could continue pursuing a career that I loved, and we had family in state to help with our young children.

But all the rational thinking in the world didn’t remove the tears that poured that morning. The change on which we were embarking was an overwhelming prospect to consider, and in that moment, we let the fear slide down our cheeks. Then we took a deep breath and dove in.

It was an intense four years with raising toddlers and juggling careers and hubby both working and doing his PhD full time, a scenario that more and more couples are facing due to the rising costs of education. Quitting work to pursue education is mostly a choice for the elite or the single, and many graduate schools are adapting program models to survive in light of this reality.

When pursuing further education becomes a reality for a married couple, a variety of emotions are bound to set in:

Excitement over pursuing dreams.
Apprehension about how it will all play out.
Gratefulness for the opportunity.
Fear of failure.

Regardless of the emotions, the only way out is through, and because pouting isn’t productive on *most* days, I quickly looked for ways to develop some coping mechanisms. Here are a few that helped me get through:

Develop a hobby. I quickly realized that if I was happy and enjoying myself while hubby was off studying, we’d all be happier campers. I took advantage of the ‘extra time’ I had access to and taught myself photography. I took up writing again and read the whole Harry Potter series for the first time.

Take on a challenge. Doing a PhD is hard, and doing one on top of full time work even harder, so I decided it might help me to also take on my own challenge to better empathize with hubby. I’m either crazy or stupid, because I signed up for a half-marathon having never run a mile let alone a race. It was hard, but the focus, discipline and intensity of it helped me burn off energy that I may have otherwise used to resent my husband’s absence. (I might note, however, that I did NOT view cleaning my house in the same light. I hate cleaning, so we hired a student to clean so as to keep that resentment in check.)

Find healthy ways to cope. While it’s easier to mope about life’s less-than-ideal circumstances, on my better days I was able to use my alone time to embrace life-giving choices like reaching out to invite a friend over for coffee, spending time with a good book, or working on a hobby. When I felt whole and content, I was much more likely to support hubby’s hard work rather than resent it.

Look for silver linings. While we’d all have preferred to have hubby around, one of the silver linings in his absence was having one less will to navigate. We all have opinions in my house, and sometimes this fact makes planning a challenge. With one less opinion to consider, the kiddos and I could stop the park on a whim or explore a new place to our heart’s content.

Embrace the moment. Hubby was way more fond of the toddler years than me, and also had a few more pounds of parental patience than me, so he often cushioned a lot of parental trauma for me. With him not around as much, I was forced to face my lack. Toddlers can’t be left alone, and learning to respond to them patiently really matured me as a mother.

The good news is that we made it through, and are happily recovering!

Recovering from graduate school atrophy

Restoration & Reconciliation, Spiritual Formation

When the shell cracks

November 4, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Sometimes, there are stories without answers, stories that, try as we might, leave us perplexed, longing for resolution but seeing no possible path toward it. In their shadow, we feel vulnerable, forced to acknowledge the frailty we live with as humans.

Some of us prefer to think we’re strong, so we coat ourselves with shields like perfectionism, control, achievements and agendas. Others of us are paralyzed with fear, so we drag our feet, hoping that if we don’t move too far no one will notice our sloth (or the hours we waste on Facebook). Regardless of the disguise, when the answerless stories show themselves, we grasp at straws, shaken out of our own worlds and into another’s.

Some college friends’ children are dying of a incurable genetic disease. They were born seemingly healthy children, but developmental delays in their toddler years led to the discovery that they had an incurable and fatal genetic order called Sanfilippo syndrome. I catch glimpses on a screen from afar as they share of simple joys of the moment, appreciation of the days they share with their children now, and tears roll down my cheeks when the grief over their devastating life circumstances slips out. Their situation has rendered them far more vulnerable than most of us will ever be, and one beauty in how they walk through their life is that they share it with others, one small step at a time.

A sister-friend recently battled a relapse of an eating disorder. I had walked with her through it once before, and let me tell you, it was no spring picnic to stumble through it again, for me or for her. She’s a fighter, for sure, but there were moments when the disease got the best of her and ripped the days out from beneath her feet. On those days, I would glance at the sky with my lifelong whisper of ‘why’? But other days, the desperation of her honesty stopped me in my tracks, reminding me of the power of vulnerability to clean out even the deepest crevices within.

I, too, have known my own moments of devastation, of coming to grips with a different kind of story than those of my friends above, but filled with the same humpty-dumpty crash of breaking and falling to pieces. In fact, I know many who carry their own such stories, perhaps less tragic than my friends above, but still very real. Rarely do we share such stories aloud with each other. Instead, we tuck them away in a little corner deep down inside, leaving them quietly hidden.

In brokenness, there can be great loneliness, for who understands the unique terrain of the rocky paths we each walk? For this, I listen carefully when my friends risk the vulnerability to share from their broken places. I don’t understand what it means for children to live in wheelchairs, or to starve myself so that I can feel safe. My friends’ willingness to share more than just the happy parts of their stories gives me a sensitivity to the parts of others’ paths that I have never navigated myself.

I don’t know if I always respond to such paths ‘right’ or well, but because of their vulnerability, I am compelled to give it a try when I might have otherwise avoided it. We walk only in our own shoes; and we know only the depths of our own stories. Sometimes we are like the king’s men, fumbling because we don’t know how to pick up the fragile who have fallen down and cracked. So we distance ourselves, fearing that we’ll somehow break them into even more pieces when we don’t know how to ‘put them back together’. The question staring everyone in the face is what if they can’t be put together again, or at least, right now?

But what if we’re asking the wrong question? Instead of putting back each other back together, what if we just walk alongside, listen to, embrace-as-we-are?

Here, there is no easy answer, no triumphant victory, no miraculous intervention. This brokenness is the daily grind. We wait, longing for healing, not knowing when, or even if, it will ever come. As we wait, walking alongside others or, perhaps even sharing our own broken selves, something more emerges.

It is a beautiful story of hope written by a father for his children.

It is a marker on a white board.

It is a slowly but steadily healing heart, drowned in tears and awakened by the hunger within.

It is the surfacing of the quiet, deep down moments that we share for our own healing, and for others’ to remember they are not alone.

“All his life long, wherever Jesus looked, he saw the world not in terms simply of its brokenness,” wrote Frederick Buechner, “but in terms of the ultimate mystery of God’s presence buried in it like a treasure buried in a field.”

A friend of mine who lost his firstborn son at age one calls them God Fingerprints, the little moments that steal our breath and remind us that we do not walk alone. Mysterious and buried in the midst of the days of pain, we must keep our eyes peeled lest we miss them, but they are nonetheless there, touching so many little moments around us.

For even if all we feel is broken, we are far more than our brokenness. Right there smack dab in the middle of our foreheads is a screaming loud fingerprint that shouts, “YOU ARE MINE! The brokenness is not yet healed, but it is already redeemed.”

It began first with the day of the ashes, and then reached out a hand toward us from an empty tomb.

“Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength,” mused Freud.

The God Fingerprint said it something like this, “For when you are weak, then I am strong.”

Immanuel, they called this strong One. God with us. We wear His ashes on our foreheads proclaiming our hope in the power of Life even when our shoulders sag under its heavy weight. And when a great fall leaves us feeling cracked beyond repair, Immanuel walks alongside, giving us a strength we never knew we had.

Meet the McNeils

If you’d like to learn more about the friends I mentioned above, you can read more on their blog, Exploring Holland. Matt, their father has also written an excellent children’s book called The Strange Tale of Ben Beesley to process his grief over his children’s diagnosis. All proceeds from the book go the MPS Society to search for a cure to Sanfilippo Syndrome.

The-best-ones

The-best-ones-in-October

October 31, 2013October 31, 2013 between worlds

The-ones-that-break-your-heart-and-wrench-your-gut

Sometimes I wish I were white by Osheta Moore. “When I was a little girl and couldn’t fall asleep, I would play an imaginary game where I’d have one wish, any wish granted by a magical elf. On those nights, I’d lay in my bed feeling invisible under the cloak of darkness, and whisper, “I wish were I white.”

Hidden assumptions and minorities burdens by Sam Tsang. “The surprising number of close friends who did not talk to me but quietly left the friendship circle is shocking. Whatever the reason for an abrupt breakage of friendship, they had preferred to side with their sub-group (privileged whites) over our journey as friends together. No matter what their intention is, their action showed that identity with a subgroup is more important than long-term individual relationship.”

The Asian-American Awakening: That moment when you realize you’re not white by Connie Zhou. “Being Asian-American has always been a difficult part of me. I was (and am) proud of my heritage and how far my parents have come, but I had a hard time feeling as if I belonged somewhere. Experiencing first hand segregation and racism has made me despise my race for many years. I was trapped between two worlds.”

Westbank garden of teargas cannisters in pictures. “The Palestinian residents of Bilin have come up with a novel use for the teargas canisters left over from clashes with Israeli soldiers.”

The-one-that-empowers

MamaHope’s video campaign to Stop the pity and unlock the potential of those living in poverty. “Build the future, not a stereotype.”

The-one-that-needs-to-be-read-by-everyone-everywhere

Open letter to the evangelical church: I am not your punchline by Kathy Khang. “When the Church uses bits and pieces of “my” culture – the way my parents speak English (or the way majority culture people interpret the way my parents speak English) or the way I look (or the way the majority culture would reproduce what they think I look like) – for laughs and giggles, it’s not simply a weak attempt at humor. It’s wrong. It’s hurtful.”

The-one-with-the-best-parenting-advice

How to land your kid in therapy by Lori Gottlieb. “underlying all this parental angst is the hopeful belief that if we just make the right choices, that if we just do things a certain way, our kids will turn out to be not just happy adults, but adults that make us happy.”

The-ones-that-speak-courageously

In which identity can’t be found in the accusations – or the accolades by Sarah Bessey. “Here is the thing about standing up: some people would rather if you sat back down. People prefer status quo. Boat-rockers make us nervous. Just like people in the wilderness wearing camel hair coats and eating locusts with a side of honey disrupt us, people who think Jesus actually meant all that stuff he said don’t fit in anywhere. But I won’t sit down. I won’t back down. I won’t be silenced simply because I’m not perfect. My only prayer now is that my weakness shows the strength of Christ and his Kingdom.”

When rich westerners don’t know they’re being rich westerners by Rachel Pieh Jones. “I am not surprised by, but continue to be disappointed in, the western attitude toward the developing world. It is an attitude I see often, though not exclusively, among Christians. It is an attitude of superiority, a god-complex. An attitude that communicates an underlying assumption, intentionally or not, that the rich westerner is the one with power and authority and agency. As this is communicated, of course the opposite is communicated as well. The local person is weak, a victim, and helpless. The rich westerner must charge in to fix things, build things, challenge the status quo.”

The-best-one-liner

“Don’t try to win over the haters. You are not a jackass whisperer.” – Brene Brown.

The-one-that-is-most-true-in-our-house

10 marriage reality checks by Rachel Held Evans. “Myth #2: Never go to bed angry. Reality Check: 3 a.m. is not the best time to sort out your feelings.”

The-one-with-the-best-history-lesson

Christopher Columbus was awful (this other guy was not) by The Oatmeal. “Christopher Columbus was awful. He discovered the New World much like a meteorite discovered the dinosaurs. And good ole’ Christopher Columbus, sex slaver, mass murdered, and champion of sociopathic imperialism has his own federal holiday.”

The-ones-that-makes-me-want-to-read-the-book

Malcolm Gladwell on his return to faith while writing ‘David and Goliath’ by Sarah Pulliam Bailey. “The theme of the book is that much of what is beautiful and powerful in the world comes from adversity and struggle. The other theme is that people who appear to have no material advantage are much more powerful than they appear.”

Replacing Sunday Mornings: Where we went when we stopped going to church, and why we came back by Addie Zimmerman. “So we started sleeping in on Sunday mornings. We went to the farmers market and bought good things straight from the earth. We drank our morning coffee at small café tables outside, and people walked by with their dogs at a slow, Sunday-morning pace. It felt more like rest to us than those chaotic church mornings, when we moved through the loud small talk of the church foyer and felt invisible.”

The-one-where-Christians-actually-act-like-Jesus

Ann Voskamp, Tim Challies, Beth Moore: Dinner and a Defense of Earnestness by Micha Boyett. “While many bloggers (myself included) tweeted angrily about Challies’s dismissive judgment of the entire Roman Catholic Church, Voskamp responded with a post of her own, defending her book and its biblical foundation. She did not back down and still she wrote with kindness and a grateful spirit. And then she sent Challies an e-mail inviting his family to dinner.”

The-most-popular-on-BW

1. When white people don’t know they’re being white

This is sometimes called the “white savior” mentality; and it is far too prevalent and accepted in the American evangelical church. Without words, it communicates that the white people are better, smarter, more capable to hold the power strings. It is one of the tragedies built by the empire of colonialism that none of us want to face.

We didn’t do it, right?

That’s not our story.

My family didn’t own slaves.

But we still benefit. The system is set up for us, and gives us power without us even having to ask for it.

We can be white without even knowing we’re white.

2. Dear White man:

Sometimes, I say things that might make you squirm a little. And other times, they seem to make you downright angry. Yours is a story of dominance, of disrespecting and denying others’ rights and conquering those who are inconvenient to you. I know you well, and imagine that it can’t be easy to carry such a heavy load on your shoulders. You are not alone in your burden. Indeed, others from a variety of cultures and races and histories have told this story sometimes even more brutally than you.

3. 10 Reasons I’m reading Harry Potter to my children

At first, I was a bit hesitant, wondering if the evil, the battle, the fear that rages in the story of good vs. evil would be too much for them. But as we read, I grew more convinced that this was more than an entertaining story, it was food for their souls.

Here was a way we could dialog over issues of evil, of injustice, of fear. Here we could explore the complex realities of relationships, emotional scars, power structures, and even political systems in ways that they could actually understand. Mention the United Nation’s peace efforts and their eyes cross, but bring up Umbridge taking over Hogwarts and they’re suddenly rabid activists for peace and justice.

Comments were so prolific this month that they get their own section. Thanks, readers, for thoughtful and engaging discussion!

The-comment-that-felt-like-a-big-ole-hug

“As a 40-something black woman, I just plain get pissed when white people dismiss me and treat me in the ways that they think they hide so well (ya’ll don’t, I’m just saying)…

I am Martin and I am Malcolm. There is a dichotomy in me – I am patient, kind, loving and willing to spend a few days in jail and write some letters to prove a point. There’s also the “By Any Means Necessary” Black American Patriot who expects white folks to live up to the best of American ideals- liberty, justice, freedom- and won’t accept anything less.

Ya’ll ain’t ready for me so you need to listen to her. Seriously.” – thatdeborahgirl

The-comment-with-the-best-insight

“I noticed something was missing, though, and it’s something important… when humility does bring up statements such as “I’m so sorry this hurts you. How can I walk alongside you in this?”, one thing that needs to be considered is that humility also prepares you for when those folks asked that question dont want to answer or dont want you present… THEY have that agency, so we’ve gotta prepare ourselves to be OK with them trying to tell us we may not be welcome in their space/they may not feel like educating us/we may be perceived by them as intruders, and that it’s OK for them to feel that way.

You give a fantastic sense of hope in this article, but without that key piece MUCH good work could be undone if people were to reach out and not understand why they may feel rebuffed at times, or if they were to react poorly should their question be answered in an unexpected way. We need to remember that while we can strive to understand, we dont have an inherent right to understand their sense of agency nor override their agency or voice in our own struggle to know where it comes from.” – Bonzafe Bon Oungan

The-comment-that-repeats-itself-incessantly

“I am tired of this guilty conscience mentality that people are trying to push onto “white” people.” – Joseph

The-comment-that-made-me-want-to-put-my-head-through-the-wall

“Part of the problem, I think (in America, at least), is the willingness of the minorities to KEEP themselves segregated.” – Chris Pavona

The-comment-that-responded-to-this-more-patiently-than-I-had-the-strength-to-muster

Why don’t blacks integrate?
I do think that there are some black people who prefer to integrate, usually the older generation that grew up in the segregated south. Historically it was white people not black people that created this voluntary segregation (look up White Flight). I myself grew up in a neighborhood which in the late 70s was a white area but when I was growing up in the 90s was black. The segregation was caused by whites moving out in the 80s as blacks moved in, and it has continued to be a black area. A lot of blacks move into my neighborhood as its the cheapest out of the DC suburbs, and many whites prefer to pay more to live in more white areas. Personally, I sadly think this is still the racist mentality that whites are good and blacks are bad, so for a black family that moves to a white neighborhood they see as moving up but for a white family to move to a black neighborhood means that there downgrading. Then when more than one black family moved into the neighborhood, the neighborhood is going down all white people move out.

Why do we maintain HBCs? We don’t have any HWCs…
We do have HWCs we just don’t call them that, in fact that was why HBCs were created so that Blacks would be able to go college. Now if you’re next question is about the lack of diversity of HBCs, its just a common myth that you have to be black to attend one, its open to all races. I believe there are about 2 HBCs that have a predominantly white enrollment and even at the most famous HBCs (Howard, Hampton) they do have some non-black enrollment (mostly international, though). by Whitney

The-comment-that-showed-a-lot-of-humility

“Being a hipster white male in his late twenties, I can totally relate to this article. It is well put. Thank you for raising the flag…

In my youthful days though, I had concluded in my White-Christian mind that all those (passive-) aggressive Indonesians and blacks needed to repent from their anger and that me quietly ‘forgiving’ them was the way to balance out the evil in the world. I would look at my WWJD bracelet and smile, all self-indulged.

It has been not too long ago that I feel that I need to take ownership of this white heritage and your article inspired me again. Thanks.” by Jobke

The-comment-that-disagreed-with-civility

“I, personally, have no problem with [the video] for two reasons: the first is that he is the man who wrote the song, and the second is that “white males” have, as you’ve specifically mentioned, been in a dominant cultural position in the United States. Therefore, by being a white male and also the man who is currently singing the song, he is representing our own dominant cultural group, as everyone else who is singing is also doing. (I also have a feeling that they’re not looking only for males, but I can’t say more than that on the male/female matter) Plus, if he weren’t leading the song, I have a feeling that a majority of the people listening to the song wouldn’t be able to connect with what was being said due to a language barrier. (I wouldn’t want them to make the individuals present speak in English, because that would exert cultural dominance over them.) I, personally, think this great video is a good example of “white humility”, because it acknowledges that other cultures are out there, interesting, important to us, and that we are concerned for their well-being.” – Jared McMillan

Families, Children & Marriage, Spiritual Formation

Between the chaos and the calm

October 28, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

We nearly lost it when we realized we’d forgotten our hammer and couldn’t find the tent corners, but we both took a deep breath and pushed through. It was our first time camping together as a family and my husband and I were both determined not to ruin the experience. The kids were bouncing off the bushes with excitement to sleep in a tent, but we were both still somewhat apprehensive about the whole tent-set-up thing.

I grew up camping, but in an RV with a microwave and mattress. My grandpa John would take us to state parks in a bright orange motorhome, and before the weekend was over, the friendly farmer was best buddies with the whole circle. My husband, a tried-and-true city boy, had only camped once as a 10 year old, and didn’t share my fond memories as his tent had leaked and he slept in water all night. For obvious reasons, he was less eager than I to reattempt the endeavor.

Between sleepless toddlers and rural Midwestern campground dynamics, we never felt particularly drawn to the experience, but the mountains and the sea tempted us, and we bought a tent last Christmas. We’ve since been determined to take our feels-God-in-the-mountains son and comes-alive-in-the-ocean daughter camping by the beach. We decided a short, 24 hour trip would be best for our debut adventure in case things went really bad. It’s one of the things we’re learning from transition – to dive into new situations head first, but to not stay under for too long.

So, we dove.

I put on my friendly-Grandpa-John hat and borrowed a makeshift hammer from our neighbor. The tent got set up without a fight, and it even stayed up for the whole night. Hubby and I were so darn proud of ourselves that we snuck in the tent to cuddle but the kids came in and squealed, “Eeeewwwww!” and then jumped on top of us to join the love.

We walked down to the Pacific waves with the idea of a “just a short walk before dinner” and the fully clothed kids ended up drenched head-to-toe while we dug our toes in the sand, watching the surfers and the sunset. We roasted hot dogs and ate too many marshmallows and toasted ourselves by the fire once the sun went down. We stared at the glowing embers and marveled at the stars we hadn’t seen for so long. Then we snuggled into our proudly-constructed tent, and visited Harry and Hermione by flashlight.

My daughter woke up in the middle of night with a stomachache from too many hot dogs and marshmallows. My dear husband braved leaving his sleeping bag to help her and ended up giving her his spot on the soft-for-us-old-folks bed to sleep on the camping pad meant-for-much-younger-bodies. I hunkered low in my sleeping bag, hoping I wouldn’t need to give up my soft spot too…he’s always been a better parent in the middle of the night than me. Thankfully, we all fell back asleep, and I awoke with my son’s elbow in one ear and my daughter’s body plastered to my other side. It was like heaven as we lay there snuggling our cold noses close, listening to singing birds and crashing waves and early rising toddlers.

From just one night under the stars, I am reminded anew at all the little gifts that catch us be surprise when we pause the chaos long enough to listen to the calm. After more than 15 years together, hubby and I have *almost* learned how to put something together peaceably and finish with a high-five and a long, grateful hug. The waves slowed our souls and in the midst of the breakneck speed of a semester, we remembered each other. The fire burned long, and I found myself grateful for both embers and flames in the fires of life. Between some rough years of early marriage, babies, toddlers, careers, PhD programs, and lonely days we’d nursed the embers on for quite a few years. The fire had never gone out completely, but it was good to remember that keeping embers warm allows for flames to rise again.

Restoration & Reconciliation, Social & Political Issues

Seeking the good of our neighbors

October 25, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

“All things are lawful,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful,” but not all things build up. Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor. I Corinthians 10:23

I once consulted at a school district in a rural Midwestern town that had seen its Latino population grow from roughly 5% in the spring to almost 30% in the fall. The community was struggling with the rapid transition to say the least. One man whispered to me that the local mayor had just won his election on the informal slogan, “Get ’em out of here,” and while everyone in the community surely wasn’t this hostile to their new neighbors, many were scrambling to understand and find effective ways to welcome the newcomers to their community.

In The Middle of Everywhere: Helping Refugees Enter the American Community, Mary Pipher details a similar experience in the process of a community coming to grips with its change in Lincoln, Nebraska. In her observation of the shift occurring in many parts of our country, she poses some important questions about our ever-changing identity:

“Who are we when we don’t have a hometown, when we don’t know our neighbors or our kin? Who are we when we don’t know the history of our land or the names of common plants or birds in our area? Or when our stories come from television sets instead of grandparents or village storytellers? Who are we in a world where the universal language is, to quote Pico Iyer, ‘french fries’?

The french fry questions linger in my heart as I spend my days with the perseverant immigrants, in part because I know so well the quaint simplicity of hometowns and quiet cornfields. While both immigrants and hometowns have their own measures of beauty and goodness, I often wonder how these worlds I live between will manage to sort each other out.

Why don’t they just go back where they came from? I hear echo through the cornfields, as if any of the rest of us (minus the blessed Native Americans) did this very thing. For better or for worse, immigration is the story of our country. It is the story of my great-grandparents crossing an ocean from Sweden and finding a big field under a cloudy sky to call home. It is the story of my in-laws resettling in a new land both to serve in underserved areas and to provide their children with education and opportunity. It is the story of my students who love the freedom and diversity of this country enough to make themselves an actual part of it. If we “just send them back”, we deny a significant part of our story.

They should just learn English, I hear more echoes. But they are, I want to shout back. I watch them struggle to grasp a crazy-hard language, hear their mistakes, see their attempts and perseverance. If we native speakers had to learn our complicated, many layered language, we would surely be slower to criticize. Don’t believe me? Read this and this and this and this and this. Every immigrant I’ve ever met wants to learn English, knows it will increase their ability to be a part of this country, but they also are just like the rest of us – they have jobs and children and histories and all-sorts-of-complicated-realities that slow down the language learning process.

All illegal immigrants do is commit crime, I hear. We don’t want those kind of people in our country. And I wonder why the few bad eggs suddenly define the masses. US Citizens have quite a few of our own bad eggs to speak of, like the continued existence of the KKK, the Minutemen, the abortion bombers, the horribly mean churches, but they are hopefully few and far between, certainly not defining the vast majority of us. If we allow exceptions for ourselves, why don’t we apply the same parameters to others as well?

“We think the world apart,” wrote Parker Palmer. “What would it be like to think the world together?” Or, to put it another way, how do we spend our efforts welcoming the stranger and telling this story well rather than stomping around pretending we own the place? Palmer’s question leaves me dreaming with Mary Pipher about how we might embrace the role of cultural brokers for the newcomers in our midst rather than playing cultural guards of something that doesn’t really belong to us anyway.

As an English language teacher, the role of cultural broker is naturally built into my profession. We spend our days, the motley mix of us from so many countries and languages, taking a stab at understanding each other. We share a love of food and laughter, a passion for children and celebration, a hope for peace and restoration. The Mexican students shake their heads over the increasing drug wars in their homeland. The Middle Eastern Christians’ eyes reflect both deep joy in Jesus and resounding sadness over the reality of persecution for following him. The Chinese students echo a quiet focus and steadfastness to pursue excellence and value community. We think the world together, learning these things slowly from each other, opening our eyes to realities far from our own. But the ESL classroom isn’t the only place where such learning occurs.

From rural to urban, coast to cornfield, immigrants are now living in nearly every community of the US. While the actual numbers of immigrants are the highest in traditional states like New York, California, and Florida, the immigration growth rate is actually highest in the south and midwest, places where monoculturalism used to be the norm, where french fries (and occasionally donuts) still speak a universal language. If we want to think the world together, we must seriously consider if our communities will receive newcomers with open arms or if we will just squeeze our eyes tight and hope they go away.

If we pay attention, the church has the basis to lead the way on this one. The issue of immigration reform in America is every bit as much an issue of human life as abortion, child slavery, and family values. It is not about Republican or Democratic allegiances, but about families and children and hope and morality. Given its global reputation of self-centeredness and cultural arrogance, I haven’t always liked the US much, but the immigrants are convincing me day-by-day what a unique potential this land offers, and it makes me want to be part of the solution that helps it live up to its potential.

So maybe you’re thinking, it’s easy for her, she gets paid to spend her days with the immigrants. But me? I don’t know any. What can I possibly do? I’ve got a few ideas for you:

Read. I’ve listed two books below – Welcoming the Stranger and The Middle of Everywhere – that are by far some of the best I’ve ever read on any topic, let alone immigration. They will open your eyes to the realities of the issue, and give you insight into the lives and strength of immigrants here in the US and how we might receive them with arms open.
Watch. If you’re not a reader, movies can be a great way to understand the immigrant experience and see life through another’s eyes. Some of my favorite movies about immigrant life are My Family, The Namesake, Bend it like Beckham, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding. You can find even more recommendations of movies here and follow the news here.
Contact elected officials to urge them to support immigration reform. The system is outdated and broken and is in desperate need of fixing. You can learn more details and find ways to contact your representatives on sites like Evangelical Immigration Table and Church World Service.
Welcome your neighbor. Keep your eyes open for newcomers in your community. When you meet them, don’t just gawk at an ‘exotic’ being, offer a handshake and smile. Look for ways to befriend them and find out what needs they might have. One of the best examples I’ve seen of a church doing this is an outreach ESL program at Faith International Church in Indianapolis, Indiana. When a few members of the church realized the apartment complex across the street had a small group of immigrants, they reached out and offered to teach them English. Over the years, the program grew from a small group to two hundred students and a whole slew of volunteers teaching, babysitting, and welcoming the newcomers in their community.
Partner with organizations. There are usually government or social service organizations in communities to help refugees settle in a new land. World Relief, Catholic Charities, and Church World Service run such agencies in many places and are always in need of volunteers to teach English or sponsor new families.
Look for ways to provide employment opportunities. I worked with the CEO of a factory in a very rural community who had hired a large population of Burmese people to work in his textile plant. He then contacted me about offering English classes because he wanted his employees to have the opportunity to learn English while they worked for him. It was a win-win situation because he cared well for his employees and they, in gratefulness for his value of them, were very committed to their employer.
Live with them. Matt Soerens, the author of Welcoming the Stranger, developed an interest in immigration initially because he lived in an apartment complex called Parkside which was home to a high number of immigrant families. When the city of Glen Ellyn wanted to redevelop the apartment complex, many raised their voices and knowledge of the system to protest the decision to displace an established community. In addition to the residents, the larger community showed up as well, asking the council to allow them to keep their home. And the council said yes. They raised their voices together – the citizens and the immigrants – and they won. This is literally seeking the good of our neighbors. You can read the whole remarkable story here.

Our world is indeed changing, but it is no new story. It is one that has been told throughout ages. The question is how ours will be told. Will it be a story of closed eyes, cold shoulders and us-vs-them rhetoric or will it be one of neighbors looking out for each other, of welcoming strangers and caring for the very world in our midst? In our actions, may we live as people who are helpful and who build up those around us, regardless of the similarities we share or the differences we don’t fully understand.

When the village storytellers gather to remember us, let them not retell the oft-repeated story of violence and division, but instead let us leave them with stories of building communities, seeking understanding, and learning from each other. Let them tell the story of us loving our neighbors.

In the middle of everywhere: Helping refugees enter the American community by Mary Pipher
Welcoming the stranger: Justice, compasson, and truth in the immigration debate by Jenny Hwang Yang and Matt Soerens
G92 – browse the website for a wide variety of articles and information on immigration reform in the US

Books, Families, Children & Marriage

Resources for raising a family between worlds

October 23, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

One of my primary reasons I began to write here in this space was for the connections it provides to others in similar life circumstances. When we lived in the rural Midwest, we felt very culturally isolated and it was my only means of connecting to those who understood. Having just started out in marriage, family, career, my husband and I often felt alone on the road without any role models of people walking this particular road ahead of us.

I am grateful to live in the age of Amazon.com and the internet, for it allows me to find some ways to integrate more of our family’s multi-cultural identity into our very monocultural context. Every so often, I get an inquiry about good resources for children and resources for global families. Since I’m an educator by profession, books are an easy and immediate way to bring the world to my family regardless of where I live. I thought I’d point you to a few of my favorites.

I did a presentation several years ago on incorporating the world into daily family life. The link is a power point with a lot of recommendations for how incorporated into our children’s lives when they were very young. It’s a bit old, but my recommendations still stand.
I’ve also created a few Amazon widgets to keep on the sidebar which link to my absolute favorite multicultural children’s books and books on intercultural marriage, along with a few reasons why I like them.

Integrating the world into nitty gritty family life (power point presentation)
On raising bicultural children (video)

Families, Children & Marriage, Spiritual Formation

What my grandpa knew

October 21, 2013April 27, 2014 between worlds

Most days, he sat in a chair staring into space, his brain unable to make the connections of laughter and eye contact and meaning that it once had. His unshaven chin, hollow cheeks, and wild hair echoed dimly of the lively man I’d known as my grandfather. My grandma, a former hair dresser, faithfully brought her comb to try and tame his wild do, but he didn’t like it much.

Actually, he didn’t like anything much those days. The dementia had stolen him from us one-slow-day-at-a-time, and replaced his jolly warmth with violent reactions and confused arguments. It was like having a three-year-old in the family all over again.

But there were moments of clarity. He knew my grandmother most often. His sweetheart since fifth grade, he used to ride his pony down the railroad tracks to visit her, so his memory of her stretched back nearly his entire life. As his disease worsened, it was dodgy if he knew any of the rest of us.

One day, I helped him decorate a pot in which to plant a flower. The nursing home had sticker-letters and decorations to put on the pots, but most of the residents were too busy introducing themselves to each other repeatedly to do anything as focused as this. So I put the letters on the plastic little pot for my grandpa.

“J-O-H-N,” I read to him, trying to have some semblance of conversation. “See grandpa? I made this is for you.”

He looked at me blankly, “John? Who’s John?” then turned to the lady in the wheelchair next to him and asked, “Are you John?”

“I’m Helen,” she took his hand. “So very nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

The dialog then repeated itself like a skipping record for the next 10 minutes while I quietly added some flower stickers to the pot.

This was no longer the J-O-H-N I knew.

From my childhood, I remember most his endless puttering. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, I watched him wander between his house next door and the barn, sometimes on foot, sometimes the lawn mower. I’d hear him bark at the dogs to move out of the way, or stick his head in our house to bellow, “Anybody home?”

He was a paradox of the kind that many from his generation are. When we remember him, we’re just as likely to use the words gnarly and cantankerous as kind and gentle. My ever-sweet grandma would sometimes scold him to not swear in front of the grandchildren, and there were a few times when I remember hiding because I’d made him spittin’ mad. Yet his brief moments of anger never overshadowed the fact that he loved his family. He took us to Disney World more times than I can count just because he loved to see children happy. He bought a big orange motorhome with bunkbeds and drove us all over to camp at state parks.

The child of Swedish immigrants, my Grandpa John grew up on a farm in a hardworking family, and lived out his childhood with a mother who he claimed was the ‘best woman he ever knew’ for loving her children sacrificially and surviving his much-less-than-kind father. He served in the war, worked the family farm, and did a bazillion other odd jobs. Though he had the intellectual ability, he never went to college because the money wasn’t there and the farm was.

He devoured the daily newspaper and had all sorts of opinions about its stories. While some of his opinions were a bit hot-headed, others were quite well-informed. I loved picking his brain to hear how a whole lifetime of wisdom processed the modern world. (As his dementia worsened, his opinions didn’t really lessen, they just made less sense and contained quite a few more curse words which, at times, was equally entertaining.)

One of the things I appreciated most about my grandfather was how he’d accepted and loved my husband. Much unlike many from his generation and background, it was not a problem for him that his granddaughter loved a man with brown skin. One day, I’d asked my grandpa what he thought of my then fiance. “Me?!?” he responded in surprise. “Who cares what I think? You’re the one who’s gotta live with him.”

That was the extent of his opinion. In his typical fashion, he showed my future husband his acceptance with a nickname, an arm around his shoulder, a half-joking reprimand to stand up straighter, and an ever present handshake and hug.

His was far from a perfect life, scarred with so many of the stories common to his generation, but it was a good life, one that, when all was said and done, he told honestly and well to his family.

In the very last days of his life, my husband and I visited him in the nursing home. As usual, there was little conversation, no eye contact. The stubborn Swedish farmer who’d fought off dementia for ten long years had nearly quit eating, and the doctors said he would not last much longer. We said everything we could think to say, suspecting it would be our last time together.

When our words ran out, we stood to leave, and my mom asked my husband to pray. If you knew my husband, you’d know how the rich prayer voice of his preacher family lineage leaks out when he speaks to God, capturing ears and blocking out the noise of the world around. He prayed a simple, grateful prayer and the Spirit filled our room. Tears dripped off all of our noses when he closed with a quiet and sweet ‘amen’. So be it.

At that very moment, my grandfather opened his clear blue eyes, looked my husband straight in his deep brown eyes, and responded with long-ago lost words, “Thank you,” he mumbled plain as day, and then squeezed my husband’s hand tight before his mind slipped away from us again.

It was then that I realized what my grandpa knew. After a life filled to the brim with both the good and the hard, the messy and beautiful, the broken and the healed, his dying days told us this:

When memories fall away, brains slow, muscles wither, the words that remain known to the heart are simply

amen

and

thank you.

His life spoke for itself that they are the only words we really need.

Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation, Social & Political Issues

Call me hope

October 19, 2013October 19, 2013 between worlds

Stephanie posted this video in her reflective post The State of Western Missions, Talking Donkeys, and a Video and it was so good it warranted its very own post. This is a video produced by the organization MamaHope for their Stop the Pity: Unlock the Potential project. I love how their videos challenge the portrayal perceptions of Africans.

Seriously. You’ve gotta watch every single one.

They’ll capture your imagination and challenge your stereotypes. You’ll walk away a little more thoughtful.

When I spent a summer in Burkina Faso, I lived with a Burkinabe family and saw this very strength. Their home was full of such warmth, hospitality, generosity and relationship. Walking alongside their lives made me feel that if anyone should be pitied, it is the Westerners who live such disconnected, self-centered and fragmented lives. There, in one of the poorest countries in the world, I learned not how to barely survive, but how to really live.

Make time for each other.

Listen carefully.

Help out a neighbor.

Respect the elderly.

Don’t live life too quickly.

Dance your offering down the aisle.

Dance your head off to Michael Jackson.

(There was a lot of dancing, and even my frozen-chosen-little-former-baptist self couldn’t help but shake a hip every so often.)

But then again, no one is perfect.

Sometimes, there was too much chasing the wind, and the deep levels of poverty, colonization, and tribalism also created complex and difficult realities. It certainly wasn’t all pretty.

Maybe we all just have a lot to learn from each other.

Spiritual Formation

Seasons of a cornfield

October 17, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

The sunbeam warmed my face, and I slowly opened my eyes to greet the morning. There it was – a big ball of yellow stretching its rays over every inch of my backyard cornfield.

As a little girl, I loved the sunrise so much that I moved my bed next to the window so that I could wake up every morning to the brilliance of the morning sun rising over my cornfield. When the sun faded for the day, the deep shadows swallowed the field into their darkness.

Season after season the field and its sunrise lay as a stable backdrop for my comings and goings. Overflowing with life in spring and summer, the fields reflected rich seasons of growth I have known in my life. The contrasting harvest of the autumn crops and fallowness of the winter fields mirrored the seasons of my life in which dormancy, emptiness, and loneliness pervade in my soul. With remarkable distinction, each season offers unique contributions to the process of growth.

In spring, the freshly plowed field was clean, velvety, rich. I remember abandoning my shoes to squish my toes in the soft, dark soil. At times, my life feels the same way – clean and rich after periods of intense personal “plowing.” These times hold deep fellowship from intentional time with friends, intense growth from purposeful devotions, and inner peace from patiently waiting on the Lord. Such plowing removes the weeds and their roots, and my soul lies quiet and clean. I approach my heavenly Father with quiet confidence and humility, basking in the warmth of a summer day.

Summer in my cornfields brought tiny corn sprouts that grew noisily (yes, you can hear a cornfield grow!), yet steadily. Inevitably, their immense growth always caught me off guard as the stalks suddenly rose well above my head. A unique noisiness characterizes these times, as clamoring spurts of growth occasionally interrupt the steady humming. They are the times when I consistently read my Bible, sacrifice for my family, and participate regularly in the family of God. Every so often, I catch glimpses of the closeness of my heart to God’s, and true joy runs deep. Filled with both busyness and calm, fun and tedium, hard work and relaxation, my summer growth happens sometimes a bit at a time and other times in huge leaps.

The autumn cornstalks withered in preparation for the harvest, accompanied by a brisk wind that reminded us that all signs of life would soon disappear. The farmers diligently gathering their crops held a subtle sense of both urgency and fulfillment. At times, my faith has felt as though it is withering. After long periods of struggle, I find myself tired, skeptical, depleted. While my faith has not faltered completely, I feel on the verge, asking questions of God I have not asked before. Where are you in this withering season? Will all my growth make a difference once the crop is harvested? I share the farmers’ urgency to find answers, resolution, eager to feel fulfilled again. Yet neither come quickly.

Instead, winter arrives. The fields lie dormant and dead-looking, frozen under a cold layer of snow. The hope of the green is long gone, a lifeless brown has taken its place. After a long and withering autumn, I too feel dead, dormant, and frozen. Sometimes I am simply too worn-out to seek God; other times I no longer even know where to look. Yet I do not see what is happening deep below my surface. Being renewed by its fallowness, the field is resting, preparing, rebuilding, and restoring itself for yet another intense season of spring. It is these bitterly cold seasons that prepare me for the coming warmth, for in their barrenness, they expose the emptiness of my soul apart from God, its plower, planter, harvester, and sustainer. This time of rest then restores the fertility of my soul, removing deep, old roots that choke life from the freshly planted seeds.

Season after season, the sun rises over my fields of growth with gentle persistence. Like my backyard cornfields, the growth happens in seasons. Sometimes it’s as rich as the silky soil I loved to run through barefoot as a kid and sometimes it feels like frozen tundra – bitter and biting. Sometimes it’s a warm sunbeam on my face and sometimes it’s a chilly wind. Sometimes it’s noisily growing and sometimes it’s quietly withering.

My bed no longer sits right next to my window, and the cornfields and sunrises of my childhood seem long ago. But I will forever carry their secrets within, thankful that the process of my own growth requires both the mystery of a barren and bitter winter field and the richness of the fresh spring soil.

Families, Children & Marriage, Spiritual Formation

Finding hope in the shadows

October 14, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

After 13 years of marriage, it is a joy to reflect on the growth that has occurred since the experience I share below. I remain deeply grateful for the beauty that such broken times can become; and this reflects one of the most redemptive, restorative and valuable experiences of my life.

“That counseling ain’t gonna help no one,” the speculation rolled off Marco’s sorrowful lips, no hint of their familiar bitterness. “We’re still gonna think the whole day about how he died. The driver was stoned—ran right into Dennis on the side of the road while the mother of his unborn child watched from their car. It just wasn’t fair, you know. All he ever did was smile.”

My teacher-self paused slightly, there in the hallway, to ponder the meaning his words held. Just a week before, I’d sent Marco, once again, to the vice-principal for lack of respect. I’d never really bought into his tough-guy shell; nonetheless, he’d pushed the limit too far that day.

Yet through his words today, my original suspicions were confirmed—his heart was breaking, life was unfair, and he wanted more than what these days offered. With shrugs of “I don’t care” and “none-a-yo-business,” he liked to pretend he was hopeless. But in the few words he shared, I suspected he was closer to hope than he let on.

As Carl says in Willa Cather’s O Pioneers, “There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.” This simple commentary seems haunting when one of the human stories repeats itself to those who have not yet experienced it.

Grief is always new. Strange how it is not something to which we comment, “Been there, done that, movin’ on.”

Loss paralyzes us. The world appears to stop, as all that was seemingly urgent and important fades away.

A son loses his father and we all stop to weep. A mother loses her hopeful companion and our hearts sink in pain. After all these years here on earth, one would think we might be used to death and pain by now.

No chance.

All these years here on earth, and I would think I’d be used to some death and pain by now.

No chance for me either.

When one of Willa’s human stories repeated itself, fiercely, in my life for the first time, it sent me reeling. While I knew this story had been told over and over for generations, it still caught me off guard, still snatched my breath away.

We had been married for only a few months, and each month of marriage had grown more difficult than the last. In short, the intimacy of such a relationship had forced us to face the depravity of our true selves. Truly, the heart is deceitful above all things; and it was in marriage that we finally were forced to face our long denied deceit of stubborn habits, selfish expectations, and unrealistic dreams. Disappointment surged as I grappled with the reality of truly knowing and loving everything about another despite his flaws.

Flaws, I chuckle, such an understatement of the tears, the fights, the misunderstandings! And yet, to overcome this trial, I had to allow our intimacy to become far more ugly, painful, and revolting than I had ever anticipated.

We entered the counselor’s office with some trepidation, fearful that if we acknowledged our struggle aloud, it would destroy us. But in that small room, a gentle, observant soul with a white board and a marker set us off on a journey toward a deep, no-holds-barred intimacy that is taking a lifetime to develop—far from Hollywood’s fluff-of-the-month romance story.

This intimacy became the microscope through which I was examined without relent. It smooshed me flat on its viewing slide, no cell left unseen. I was humiliated to be seen for what I truly was—yet also relieved to finally come out of hiding. In the past, such transparency had appeared quite appealing to me. To know and be known beckoned as the pinnacle of human experience. Yet now that it was actually happening, it felt like it was the inferno. Put simply, I did not want my happily imagined knight-in-shining-armor-husband or Disney-princess-self to be tarnished.

My starry dreams melted to realistic faults as I learned that, in marriage, we live with human beings, not human dreams. My high hopes crashed to humdrum expectations as I faced the reality that even I myself could not measure up to my own standards of perfection. In the pit of my stomach, I had discovered both the deep disappointment and the great hope in life.

Sometimes I was tempted to sugarcoat my disappointments and pretend that life was just plain peachy, that I had no problems or sore emotions. Yet in more sacred moments, I would speak solely from the disappointment in that pit of my stomach, from my own personal tragedy of life, “I so wish this story of pain and disappointment weren’t repeating itself on me,” and silently let my long withheld tears fall.

Through my tears, unexpectedly, I read another’s story of tragedy with an odd hope: “We can use any tragedy as a stumbling block or a stepping stone,” comments Glyn, a Lou Gehrig’s patient very near to death. “I hope [my death] will not cause my family to be bitter. I hope I can be an example that God is wanting us to trust in the good times and the bad. For if we don’t trust when times are tough, we don’t trust at all.” (In Max Lucado, The Applause of Heaven, Word Publishing, 1990, 5).

On encountering these words, hope emerged from that same pit of my stomach. While the nature of my current tragedy stemmed from an entirely different experience than Glyn’s, I had caught an oh-so-slight glimpse of those who faced their own failures and disappointments and pain. I caught a glimpse of why it had come to me.

In one fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope shone onto the shadows of my disappointment.

In slow and small moments, the glimmer grew to a beam and illuminated all that I was. It illuminated my fear to trust, to believe that hope may still be there even when all I saw were shadows. It melted away the sugarcoated lies in which I had buried myself and shamelessly exposed my fear of transparency. In one slight flicker, it changed the lens through which I had been viewing hope.

The counselor put her marker down, and grinned subtly at the realizations I was making. Through tears, I looked beyond myself to see my husband for the first time—a broken but redeemed soul encountering the story just as fiercely as I was.

From pits of despair, the psalmist often proclaims variations on the theme of “My hope is in you, my savior, my Lord” (e.g. Ps. 25, 42, 130). It is difficult to imagine that the psalmist’s picture of hope as a romantic sunset and trouble-free life. He does not allow for this misinterpretation when he speaks of his enemies attacking or his heart anguishing within him or his body wasting away. The hope of the psalmist stems from a view of his savior that outlasts his own tragedy. His hope stretches to a life beyond his own.

It is with this view that my own disappointment began to mingle with hope. No longer are the recurring tragedies I encounter – both big stories and little ones – characterized solely by their shadows.

The light has shown itself, and I am stepping, albeit slowly, toward it. It may be that many remaining steps will hold great sorrow, struggle, and pain; I have no way to know. Yet when I face the light, the shadow is now cast behind me rather than leading the way.

What I do know is that Marco was right: hearts break, life is unfair, and we deserve more than what these days give us. It is only when I allow my disappointment in this life to surface, when I actually hold it in my hands and look it in the eye that I catch a glimpse of how “hope does not disappoint us.”

When God comes to us at our most powerless moments, who among us is able to stand (Rom. 5:4-6)?

Who among us even wants to?

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Comments were so prolific this month that they get their own section. Thanks, readers, for thoughtful and engaging discussion!

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Further Reading

In the middle of everywhere: Helping refugees enter the American community by Mary Pipher

Welcoming the stranger: Justice, compasson, and truth in the immigration debate by Jenny Hwang Yang and Matt Soerens

G92 – browse the website for a wide variety of articles and information on immigration reform in the US

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Recommended Reading

Holy the Firm by Annie Dillard

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