Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Hospitality made possible: Review of The Turquoise Table by Kristin Schell

I was both curious and nervous to read this book. Any book on hospitality or building community has the potential to overwhelm me because what I want to do does not always line up with what I can do. I worry about feeling worse about my house or my efforts when I read those kinds of books.

THIS IS NOT THAT KIND OF BOOK.

The Turquoise Table might be the first hospitality/community/connection book I’ve ever read that has left me feeling lighter and excited about possibilities. (Disclosure: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher. Opinion reflected is my honest one.)

Kristin Schell offers tons of practical tips and variations for people in all kinds of living situations to become Front Yard People. The book itself is gorgeous and hands-on with its color pictures, recipes, challenging questions and space for taking notes. I thought this book might take me a while to get through, but I kept turning the pages until I’d read every word.

And now my heart beats stronger with the potential for a turquoise table of my own.

This is a book and movement full of grace aimed at creating community in our neighborhoods, the very places we spend the most time. I can’t say enough about it.

Brotherhood & an ultimate test of friendship: Review of I’ll Push You by Patrick Gray and Justin Skeesuck

I love a good memoir, and while I have no immediate plans to hike the Camino de Santiago, this story of brotherhood and ultimate friendship was un-put-down-able.

Patrick and Justin are more than friends. They’re like brothers. They grew up together and had adventures together throughout their childhood. They maintained their friendship through college (they attended different ones) and after marriage, involving their families in each other’s lives.

When Justin was diagnosed with a progressive neuromuscular disease that eventually left him unable to use his arms and legs, Patrick was with him in a support role at each stage of the disease.

Their friendship would be put to the test with three words.

After watching a travel program on television, Justin told Patrick he wanted to travel the Camino de Santiago–a famous pilgrimage hike in northern Spain. Patrick’s response?

“I’ll push you.”

Over six weeks and 500 miles, he did just that, but he didn’t do it alone. Their story of brotherhood, prepping for the trip, and traveling the Camino became the book of the same phrase Patrick uttered: I’ll Push You. (Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Review reflects my honest personal opinion.)

The story left me in awe of their relationship and I cried many tears as they recounted the ways people stepped in to help them accomplish what seemed impossible. It also reflects a relationship we don’t hear much about: an intimate friendship between men. While they are hiking, Patrick has to take care of all of Justin’s needs, and because of their friendship, it is a beautiful, humbling picture of serving one another.

In reflecting on their journey, Patrick and Justin paint no rosy pictures. They are honest about their struggles, doubts and fears. And their decisions to keep on believing, living and choosing each other are an encouragement to those who have difficulties and those whose loved ones are facing trials.

Side note: A film crew accompanied them on their journey, and I’ll Push You is a documentary releasing this fall. Check out the trailer here (grab some tissues first) and then read all about it in book form.

Speak {A series of S-words, part 4}

When I started writing this series of S-words, “speak” was not in the plan. Neither was “stolen.” Life has a way of inserting itself in my plans.

Last weekend I watched various social media channels in horror as groups of people clashed in Charlottesville, Virginia. I didn’t know about a statue of Robert E. Lee at the time, only that a group bearing torches marched through the city spewing hate and the next day another group mobilized to counter protest. The whole thing was ugly and I cried more than once.

And maybe it was my recent reading of Just Mercy or the week I spent with my niece who does not share my skin color, but I suddenly felt like I could not ignore this any more.

Or maybe it was just time.

I grew up in a predominantly white community in the northern Midwest, and yes, I heard a fair amount of racial slurs. I probably would not have called myself a racist ever but as the years have passed, I’ve discovered that I have biases like anyone else. Even as recently as two weeks ago, we were eating at a Chick-fil-a in Philadelphia and I was taken aback by the all-black team of servers.

Until now I have been mostly an observer of the Black Lives Matter movement, only casually aware of systematic injustice and police bias. For whatever reason, this particular event in Charlottesville fanned an ember in my spirit.

At a vigil in our city on Sunday night, a pastor remarked that this was probably not our first time, that it probably didn’t take Nazis marching through a Virginia city for us to care about racial tension in the United States. Her words made me feel a little bit guilty because that is sort of what happened. Online friends who have been involved in this kind of activism and these kinds of conversations longer than I have assured me that it was better to show up late than never.

Before the vigil, I was compelled to speak up in church. My church that is also predominantly white. After a day of reading calls on Twitter to find a new church if the leaders didn’t denounce the events in Charlottesville, I decided I didn’t need to wait for a leader to do it. I was going to do it myself.

So, I held the microphone with shaky hands and I talked about my niece and how troubling it was to watch events unfold in Charlottesville. As a people of faith, I said that it was our job to say “no” to racism. When the time came to pray and the invitation to kneel at the altar was given, as it is each Sunday, I stood and walked to the front and knelt.

I did it for Charlottesville.

Photo by Kai Oberhäuser on Unsplash

—

At one time, my faith was mostly talk and little action. Lately, I seem to be swinging in the opposite direction, though I still “talk” plenty about the issues I think people of faith should care about through writing and blogging.

When I started working with refugees last year, it was because I was tired of just writing about an issue. I needed hands-on action. And while that still scares me from time to time–because it’s messy and imperfect and continues to stretch me right out of my area of comfort–it has given my faith layers I didn’t know it was missing.

The more I came into contact with people directly affected by issues being debated online or in political arenas, the more outspoken I became. I called my representative’s office, and I tweeted my senators when I could not get through on the phone. I answered questions and challenged statements online and in person. I said things out loud in groups that I never would have dreamed of voicing 10 years ago, even if I thought the thoughts.

Speaking up and out does not come easy for me and maybe that’s why it is important when it happens. In the hours leading up to church on Sunday, I thought through the words I wanted to say. I rehearsed them in my head. And they still came out differently than I intended. I hesitate to challenge anyone online or offer a different perspective because I don’t like to cause conflict. But sometimes I can’t let something go without trying to show another side of something. It is imperfect and messy. Maybe all good things are.

—

The day I wrote about silence, a friend asked me if I knew the song “Car Radio” by Twenty One Pilots. I hadn’t heard it so I looked up the lyrics and watched the video and I was moved by the sentiments. She thought I would connect with the message because of what I was learning about silence, and I did.

But I was also encouraged by another stanza in the song:

There’s faith and there’s sleep
We need to pick one please because
Faith is to be awake
And to be awake is for us to think
And for us to think is to be alive

I am often asleep to the important things in life. Sometimes it’s by accident or sheer busyness. Other times it’s by choice.

When it comes to racial reconciliation in the United States, I must confess that for most of my life I have chosen to be asleep because I didn’t feel like it had anything to do with me. That’s painful to put into words where I can see it, but it’s true.

This week, I have chosen be awake because my faith demands it. And because, as the song says, being awake is akin to being alive. I want to be alive, even if I have to feel a lot of hurt in my spirit and soul. It is a small price to pay.

Photo by Jeff Sheldon on Unsplash

For me, being awake to the suffering of people of color means a lot of small steps in the right direction. I am reading. Asking questions. Learning. Listening. And, when appropriate, speaking.

On any issue of importance, I do not want to speak too soon, though I am sure that I have and I will. I want to learn the balance of speaking and staying silent because I believe there is a time and place for both.

I’m praying for the wisdom to know when to speak up and when to shut up.

And for the courage to do the former and the humility to do the latter.

Maybe the hardest book I’ve ever read: Review of Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson

Okay, so this book needs to come with a warning. Or maybe you can just let this be it: you will be broken, shaken and awakened by reading this book and it will hurt.

Bryan Stevenson writes in the opening pages of Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption: “This book is about getting closer to mass incarceration and extreme punishment in America. It is about how easily we condemn people in this country and the injustice we create when we allow fear, anger and distance to shape the way we treat the most vulnerable among us.” (p.13)

I’ve long wanted to read this book and when I did, I found myself so absorbed by the stories that my in-real-life was affected in ways I did not expect. I had trouble sleeping and I was so saddened by the experiences of people who grew up in a different area of the country with a different skin color than me that I spent some days anxious and agitated with the world at large.

Stevenson’s stories of injustice are disturbing at best, maddening at worst, and I was even mad that I could put the book down and walk away for a while when it stirred in me emotions I could not handle. What Stevenson and the folks at EJI have done through the years is nothing short of miracle work, and I applaud their tirelessness.

I’m not sure I will ever forget these words from early in the book:

Proximity has taught me some basic and humbling truths, including this vital lesson: Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

I mean, what if we lived with that attitude?

At the same time, I’m challenged to be informed about the injustices in our justice system and how much work we have to do. Stevenson’s stories are not all that different than stories we read on social media or in the news today. For whatever reason, his collection of stories and experiences is more shattering to my world view. Maybe that’s the difference a book makes.

I won’t soon forget this book, and I am more convinced than ever that the death penalty is wrong and racism persists in the justice system. As a white woman, I can’t fully understand what it’s like to live with this kind of injustice, but I can continue to increase my awareness of it.

Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Opinion of the book is my honest one.

Silence {A series of S-words, part 3}

The air conditioner in our bedroom rattles while my husband watches an episode of “Father Brown” before he falls asleep. In the living room, the kids watch “Wheel of Fortune” shouting at the television whenever appropriate. Or not. The boy rocks in the orange recliner which has developed a squeak and between segments of the show, commercials blare their subtle fear: cancer, illness, injury.

If I turned off the electronic devices, I would still hear the cars whoosh past our house, the cicadas swell their song from the trees.

Is silence even a possibility in this noisy world?

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

—

Two months ago, I went to a writing retreat where each morning we had the option of spending 15 minutes in silence/guided meditation. I gave it a try because why not? The first day we sat in folding chairs in a circle. Our leader invited us to adopt a relaxed posture–shoulders back, spine straight, arms resting lightly on our legs/knees. We breathed and we listened to a reading of a short poem a couple of times through. Then, we participated in silence for 15 full minutes.

I thought it would be impossible. I thought I would need to fidget, that my body would start to ache, that my mind would wander. I thought it would be difficult to tune out the other sounds, but I found myself undisturbed, even when I knew people were walking into the space we occupied.

When our leader rang a bell at the end of 15 minutes, I could hardly believe it was over already. And I felt such peace in my soul.

The next morning, I looked forward to our time in silence as much as anything else. We moved to a different location, inside a house, but the experience was similar. And I left the entire retreat feeling that the time spent in silence and not doing was as important as the work I do actually writing.

—

Since then, I have not had a smidgen of silence. Nor have I sought it.

The kids run in and out of the house all day, and when they are quiet for a few moments, I choose a podcast or music to help me through my chores.

When the kids were younger, I used to crave silence. I would never turn on music when the house was empty because I needed to hear myself think. This led someone to remark that I didn’t like music, which wasn’t true at all. I just couldn’t handle more noise when I had the choice.

Now, though, it seems that even when the house is empty, I am choosing noise because I can control it. I listen to podcasts or let a Netflix show run. Another friend says she needs complete quiet in her house to write and I am the opposite. I would rather be in a crowded coffee shop where I am forced to focus on the work in front of me. In my house there are too many distractions, and if it’s quiet, I hear every.little.thing.

Better to have the noise I want.

—

The van was silent and I was not alone.

The kids sat in their usual seats while our new friend sat in the passenger seat as I drove us through the city. I had driven her to her appointments several times before this, and though I could not speak her language nor she mine, I felt pressure to fill the silence.

On our first meeting, I blurted out all the Spanish words I could think of. “Hola!” “Ninos?” “Siete y nueve.” It was as awkward as it sounds. I can’t use Google Translate when I’m driving.

I quit trying to fill the silence with words after the first few car rides, opting instead to just be present. I heard every sigh as she coped with the pain in her body, and I interpreted every facial expression inadequately. But I figured the kids would try to talk to her.

I was wrong. In the car that first time for them, they were silent. Our friend would turn and smile at them and talk about her grandson still in Cuba. When we were free of the car, then the kids, face-to-face, did their best to communicate although “no comprende” was a phrase we heard often.

The silent presence was uncomfortable. I felt like I should be saying something. Anything. And I hate making small talk. The idea of just sitting with a person without exchanging even the most basic of conversation is so unfamiliar in our culture. If we’re not talking to someone, we’re listening to something so we don’t have to talk to anyone, but do we dare spend time with ourselves?

What might we learn about ourselves and others if we stopped filling the silence and instead listened to it?

—

Noise distracts us.

If we have to focus on the sound waves, then we don’t have to focus on the inner workings of our heart. If we can’t hear the inner monologue then maybe we don’t feel so bad about ourselves. If we fill the void, we don’t have to think. Period.

We recently spent time with our deaf niece (she is so much more than this). She has an implant to help her hear, but my sister-in-law talks about how if she had to do it over, she might not have agreed to that. The implant magnifies every single sound, the background noise as well as the speaking. I remember my grandfather sometimes turning off his hearing aid because he couldn’t hear what he wanted to hear.

I can’t imagine choosing not to hear, but one of my favorite images of my niece from her time here was when she lay on a blanket in the park, feeling the music as it left the stage. She was transfixed. So was I.

Some part of me thinks she was the one truly hearing the music.

—

The house is quiet now. It will only stay that way for a few hours, unless the mouse we can’t catch decides on another kitchen caper tonight. All too soon, the sleeping house will awaken and fill with the sounds of breakfast dishes and coffee brewing and children either laughing or fighting or both. We will fill our day with words until I bellow in frustration, “No. More. Talking.”

I might get a moment of silence before being asked a question or told a story.

It might last a little longer.

Silence might elude me, but I will not stop seeking it.

Help my unbelief

Reading the Bible does not come easy to me. I have years of baggage to unpack regarding this one book, and for a year, maybe, I just had to take a break.

Before you decide that I’m a terrible heathen, let me be clear: I love Jesus. And all that time I was still going to church and trying to follow Him.

For years I read the Bible because I believed I “had to” and that if I did, life would turn out okay for me. I followed what I thought was the rule: read your Bible every day and God will be so pleased with you He won’t let anything bad happen to you. This was my interpretation.

I discovered in a hard way that it doesn’t work like that. So, I took a break from the Bible.

Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

But in the past couple of months, I have wanted to return to the readings, not because I have to but because I want to. I want to know what Jesus says. I want to refresh my memory about his life on earth.

So I started with the book of Mark. Short. To the point.

And still, I am stunned by what I read.

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New where I write once a month.

Stolen {A series of S-words, Part 2}

I know I promised you a post on silence next in this series but things happen.

Like bicycles getting stolen.

If you’re following along, this would be incident #2 of a stolen bicycle. You can read all about the first one here.

This time around, it was our daughter’s bike that was taken, and while I’m less surprised that it happened, I’m still upset.

So angry, in fact, I wanted to give the world a big middle finger the day it happened. (I don’t mean to offend, but that was my honest feeling.)

A text from my husband alerted us to the missing bicycle, so our Friday morning, which had been going smoothly was thrown off-kilter. We searched the porch. I called in a police report. (“Yes, that was also us who reported a bicycle missing a month ago, thank you.) We dressed and took a walk up the road just to see if we could see any evidence of her bicycle in the general vicinity where my bike was found.

While waiting for my son to shower, I sat at the dining room table, choking down coffee, feeling like the world is a cruel place. Never mind that our president is threatening a nuclear war with North Korea. I was saddened by the feeling that we aren’t safe in our neighborhood, the one little corner of the world where we spend our daily life.

Our plan to ride the bus into the city and go to the library was delayed. When we finally headed out, it was an hour later than originally planned. And now we’d be eating lunch out.

At times like this, I want to curl up and hide out and cut off everyone and everything so there is no.more.hurt. My daughter, brave and strong thing that she is, has taken the news mostly with grace. She has not shed a tear, only asked if she has to use her birthday money to fix it when it comes back broken. Bless.

My anger does not surface often but when it does, look out. Just as quickly as my anger flares, though, tenderness invades. I want to be mad at the world and take my anger out on no one and everyone, but the only cure for my feelings is to stay open. To look for the good. To notice and see. To hold onto kindness when I’m on the receiving end of it.

Photo by Hanny Naibaho on Unsplash

The dispatcher groaned when I told her this was the second bike we had stolen in a month. The police officer said he was sorry this had happened again to us. They don’t have to show us kindness in the midst of their jobs but they did.

A bike was stolen. It is important. But there are more important things to protect.

—

The world tried to break me as we traveled into the city.

We sat on the bus listening to a mom in the back row tell her young child over and over again to “Stop!” He had already pulled the cord to signal the bus to stop even though they weren’t stopping, and she was irritated. My mind was still full of the black thoughts from our morning discovery, but I tried to get to a happier place. I have been that mom. I am that mom.

“That’s a college, too,” she said to the boy as we passed the school of technology. We had already been through the community college. “That’s the college Mommy was going to go to.” Just a hint of sadness in her voice.

My thoughts turned immediately to my own mother, who gave up college when she learned she was pregnant with me. I have no evidence that this mom abandoned college for the same reasons, but I wondered.

A few blocks later, we passed the county prison which is unimpressive on the back side but looks like a castle from the front.

“Your uncle is in there,” the woman said. I can only assume the boy waved because he said he could see his uncle. His mom explained that his uncle can’t see him, and the weight of these circumstances is heavy in my heart.

Sadness settles in and it’s all I can feel and see. As we drive through the city, I think of my uncle, a bus driver, who died too soon. I notice all the people sitting on their porches smoking in the middle of the day. What are they feeling? Have they lost hope?

The world is broken. And it is breaking me.

This is one thing a bike thief can’t take from me. Stealing from us only increases my awareness of the hurt of others. When I feel pain, I feel others’ pain, too. Suffering of any kind, as much as I don’t want it to happen, helps me see more clearly.

—

Later, we go to Target and are maybe the only family who is not shopping for school supplies. I am speaking in unkind tones to my children who are bouncing through the aisles and sharing eleventy-billion thoughts, including “Whoa. That guy’s beard is cool.”

I don’t even look because we live in a town with a lot of beards. Also, I have a husband with a beard, and I’m not in the mood to be impressed. But they keep.bringing.it.up. I’m just trying to get through Target without spending all our money or losing my s*** so we can pick up my husband from work and go home to eat BLTs for dinner. (Bacon, apparently, is a comfort food.)

We stand in line at the checkout and then I see it. The beard. It’s striped. Orange and black. And it’s on a Target employee. He leans toward our aisle to restock some snacks and I see the full picture: orange and black beard, significant nose ring.

“My kids like your beard,” I say because I feel like I have to say something if I’m staring.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m rather fond of it, too.”

It feels small, this acknowledgement of another’s humanity, especially when it looks different than my own, but it was big enough to crack the darkness a little more.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I’m not always good at this getting outside of my head thing, so I felt good that this was another thing the bike incident didn’t take from me. I can still offer kind words and a smile to someone else.

On our way back into the city, while stopped in traffic, there was a woman sitting in the median with a sign I could not read. My first thought was “Crap, I don’t have any cash or extra food.” We had just been to Target, of course, but what we had were groceries, not food we could easily give away. She was feet from a grocery store but we were running behind. My intentions are almost always better than my actions in these situations, and as we passed, I read that she was asking for shoes. The only shoes I had were the ones on my feet and they aren’t in that great of condition.

I glanced in the mirror as we drove away and saw another car pull up next to her and hand her something of significant size out the window. I want to believe it was shoes. Or a hot meal. It definitely wasn’t cash.

Witnessing the act softened my heart even more because sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one feeling anything at all for people on the street. I watch more people walk by than stop, and I myself walk by more often than I stop. So, to see someone else do something good encourages me that making a difference, changing the world, showing kindness, is not all on just one of us. It’s on all of us.

This thievery makes me suspicious of the people I see in my neighborhood but seeing strangers do nice things, talking to new people at Target, this reminds me that the human connection is strong and it takes work to keep it that way.

It is much harder to take a step toward knowing someone than it is to judge them from afar. It is harder to show kindness, to want to understand the motives behind an action, than to decide a person’s guilt on the spot.

I want to do the hard things. (Okay, I mostly want to do hard things. I also want to watch Netflix and forget about life for a while.) I even have this wild idea to invite the thieves over for dinner so we can know them better. They have not stolen my hope for a better way to life.

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

—

A final few words.

“Stolen” doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. We talk about our hearts being stolen by a lover or a child. We say things like “let’s steal away to the beach for a day” and it’s a glorious feeling of freedom. Or if we find a good deal on something, it’s a “steal” and we pat ourselves on the back.

Things, people–they might be taken from us by some person or circumstance, but only we can decide what will ultimately be stolen in the process.

Will a bicycle theft also steal my joy for life? Will it steal my hope that we might move to the city and live in closer proximity to people who might take things from us? Will it steal my compassion?

Or will my heart be stolen by a better, harder way of life?

Slow {A series of S-words, Part 1}

I woke up this morning feeling like someone had pressed the fast-forward button on my life. I’m old enough to remember that pressing the “FF>>” button on the VCR made the movie speed forward at an unnatural pace. Now, we can just skip to the scene we want via digital technology, but I digress.

School starts again in 12 days and I’m feeling pressed on all sides. We have to shop for supplies. And groceries. The house is in a constant state of disorder made worse by kids deciding to do things on their own like make muffins for breakfast and orangeade for afternoon snack. The laundry is piling up and I have writing assignments I’ve been neglecting.

It felt like every person who needed something from me, both in my house and outside of it, decided to contact me all in one day and I literally screamed as loud as my voice could manage while standing in the mud room.

It’s too much. And I am not enough.

Photo by Charlotte Coneybeer on Unsplash

—

We’ve managed a mostly laid-back, steady pace this summer. We’ve squeezed in some fun outings. We’ve slept in and taken our time getting going in the mornings. We’ve unapologetically spent whole days at home. When our weeks have been too full, we’ve given ourselves permission to skip or say “no.”

We’ve long known that we cannot do it all every summer. When we make our list in late May, we remind ourselves that we will not cross everything off of it. This is a target, a goal, a wish list, not a mandatory to-do. I cannot do summer full-speed-ahead, even when the activities we plan are fun and good.

Maybe that’s why I was surprised to feel like life was revving its engine after a long idle. Maybe it’s because it feels like I’m in the passenger seat, needing to strap in and hold on as some unknown driver presses the accelerator and we speed off toward some destination not of my choosing.

This is not how I want to live life.

And yet some of these things I have chosen. Some of them I can control.

—

The school year brings its own kind of chaos, but order returns to my days. I function best with a schedule that is more or less predictable, so putting the kids on the bus at the same time every day and picking them 7 or so hours later works for me.

That time in between is both a blessing and a curse. I want to use it well, so I’ve begun planning how that time will look. Without a plan, I end up watching Netflix for a whole day and wondering why I can’t get anything done. (Judge me not.)

I notoriously over-schedule myself, though. I want to fill all the blocks of time because then I’ll at least look like I’ve been productive. Unlike this summer when I cannot measure productivity in anything other than jars of pickles canned or meals prepared and consumed. (Illustration: I just took a several minutes break from writing this post to help my kids finish making orangeade from scratch. My life.)

In the summer, I try to cut away all the extra I can because having two kids home all day is a full-time job. (And don’t let anyone tell you different. If people can make a living watching other people’s kids for a living, then I’ll forever believe that being a stay-at-home mom is a j-o-b.)

And the first thing to go in the summer is my writing because it feels like less of a job than being a mom is. It brings in almost no income. It is an art and therefore feels selfish. No one is my writing “boss” but me and if I’m not going to push me to work, then no one is.

I’ve managed to squeeze in more writing this summer than other summers, but it’s not been easy. (It shouldn’t be easy, really.) I have to choose it over other things and that is true whether it is summer, fall, winter or spring. (Also, can we take note of how often I am using the word “squeeze” in this post?)

It is a hard thing to describe to people, how me saying “yes” to my writing and “no” to other things like being part of a church committee or a school group or getting a “real” job is the best choice. It doesn’t make sense to me either but I know it is what I am meant to do.

Knowing and doing don’t always match up.

—

Photo by Daniel Monteiro on Unsplash

The faster life swirls around me, the slower I want to go.

My son has this habit of throwing himself on the ground if we try to hurry him along for any reason, which annoys me to no end but he comes by it honestly.

The more I am told to “do,” the more I want to “be.”

This is not a narrative our culture wants to claim. Even in church, the one place I want to take a breather and slow down, I feel pressure to do more and be more. I cannot keep up this pace for six days a week, let alone seven.

When I went to a writing retreat in June, I was confronted with just how busy my life was by the absence of busy-ness. Our schedule was so open I did not know what to do with myself. The weekend was slow, almost to a stop, and my mind could not handle it. I had to convince myself that pulling a lawn chair under a tree overlooking the mountains of Virginia was a perfectly good way to spend an hour. No one interrupted me. No one questioned my choice. It was the most relaxing hour of my summer, I think.

It reminded me of the one time I practiced yoga. I could feel my body resisting it from the beginning, as if to protest: “Sit here? For 30 minutes? No! We need to GO!” My muscles quivered and my brain tried to come up with any reason to get up and leave the room. It was hard work, telling my body to stop moving so fast, and by the time it was over, I was the most relaxed I had ever felt. (Why then have I not joined a yoga class? I, too, want to know the answer.)

Slow is not the coveted prize in our culture. (Try driving the speed limit or less and see how frustrated people get. I’m one of them.) Wherever we’re going, whatever we’re doing, we have to get there yesterday and once we’re there, we’re on to something else.

Where does it end?

I am not an expert on slowdown, nor do I welcome a forced stop (illness, injury, crisis) in my life.

But if I can choose fast, can I not also choose slow?

Note: I did not set out to write a series, but I’ve been thinking about a post on silence for a while. Today, I needed to write one about slowing down, if only to force myself to sit for longer than five minutes. Next, I’ll write that one about silence. That may be all there is to the series unless something else needs attention.

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Bringing moxie into the mess: Review of Jen Hatmaker’s Of Mess and Moxie

Of all the Jen Hatmaker books I’ve read, this one feels like the best one. Maybe it’s just the best one for this season of life. (But it’s not just for women in one season of life.) Reading this book is like receiving a letter from a dear friend. I couldn’t wait to open it and see what she had to say.

And girl, did she have some things to say!

And:


(I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Opinion reflected in this view is my honest one.)

Jen talks us through the hard stuff of relationships without an ounce of “should” or “ought.” Her words show us what is possible when life takes a turn we didn’t expect or don’t want. (She also makes us laugh. So much funny here. Would we expect anything less from Jen Hatmaker?)

And it is this blend of funny and wise that makes this book a must-read. It’s not all fun. It’s not all serious. It’s mess. AND moxie. The same stuff of life.

Besides reflections on faith, parenting, and friendships, Of Mess and Moxie contains recipes, “how-to”s (not what you’re thinking, though), and inspiring quotes at the start of each chapter.

I should also mention that if you pick up one of these beautiful books, you’ll see my endorsement on the front pages. Jen asks for real-life readers to endorse her books instead of other “celebrity” authors. (My name’s in the back, too, among the book’s launch team members.)

I’ll read this book again because it is so life-giving. I hope you will too.

What I have to give: movie tickets, my words and my heart

If you read the words in this space often, you won’t be surprised to find me writing about refugees. Again.

This time, though, I have something to give you that is more than words and more than my heart. I hope to give you the chance to open your heart to refugees, too.

It’s been two years since my soul stirred and wouldn’t stop when it came to refugees. Fresh off a plane from Kenya where I’d witnessed a life I really didn’t know existed, I needed to do something. It’s a longish story you can read more of here, but the short version is that I started volunteering locally with a refugee resettlement agency.

And it has changed my life.

The specific ways are all over this blog space. Search for the “refugees welcome” category and you’ll find them, if you’re interested in reading about my first-hand experiences with refugees in our community.

If you’re more of a visual learner, I have something for you, too.

Later this month, a movie starring John Corbett hits theaters, and it’s all about a rural church in Tennessee on the verge of closing and the revival that came about when they welcome a group of refugees from Burma and start farming the church’s land.

And the best part: All Saints is based on a true story! (Look for a book by the same name if you want to read the story of the real-life pastor played by John Corbett in the movie.)

Here’s a peek at the movie:

I’ve seen this trailer twice and I tear up at the end every time. I can’t imagine the crying I’m going to do when I see the movie! (And I WILL see the movie.) I love the theme that’s presented here: that sometimes doing the right thing means going against what you’ve been told. It’s got the makings of a feel-good movie (as well as a tear-jerker) and that draws me in.

Guess what? YOU can see the movie, too!

As part of a promotional campaign for the movie, I have two tickets (in the form of digital Fandango codes) to give away absolutely free to one winner! (Thanks to Sony AFFIRM! for the tickets!)

Exciting, right?

All you have to do to enter is a leave a comment ON THIS BLOG POST. I’ll pick a winner on August 18th, a full week before the movie releases, so you can plan your movie night out. (Eat popcorn! It’s the best!)

And if the trailer didn’t generate enough interest, here’s another clip, a behind-the-scenes look at one of the main characters:

I love being able to see some of the real-life people featured in the movie. Even if you don’t win this giveaway, I would encourage you to get a group of church folks or refugee-minded friends together and check it out. And let me know what you think! I’ll post a follow-up after I’ve seen the movie once it has released.

So, to sum up: Leave a comment, any comment on this post– even “Yes, please” or “Count me in!” qualifies–and I will randomly select a winner on August 18. Make sure I’ve got a way to contact you when you comment, or check back here in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, you can check out everything movie-related here.

Good luck!

Disclosure: As a featured contributor of Sony’s ALL SAINTS Influencer Program, I received the value of two movie tickets in exchange for an honest review on my blog.

 

 

 

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