Beauty on the Backroads

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A letter to my kids: Don’t let anyone tell you what the city is or isn’t

We rode the bus for the first time today, kids, and I know you were excited about this new adventure. The lead-up to it was more fun, I’m afraid, than the fulfillment. Waiting at the bus, anticipating its arrival had us giddy with excitement (and a bit of nervousness maybe), but by the time we boarded, it was no big thing. You wore your feelings on your faces as our bodies warmed up.

You take it all in stride, these new experiences we take you on. When we say, let’s go to the Episcopal church service that’s really different than our church’s service and have steaming hot bowls of pho afterwards, you don’t hesitate to say yes. Sometimes I wonder if we’re leading you wrong. Would we take you with us into these unknowns if we didn’t have to track down a sitter every time we wanted to do something new in the city?

I think we would. We can’t help ourselves.

Your dad and I, we didn’t grow up in any kind of city but somehow we’re drawn to one, this one in particular, and as far as cities go, it’s small but full of life. I remember being afraid of cities when I was a kid. Unsure of how to find our way there. Averting my eyes when anyone approached asking for money. The city was a place to visit not to live.

Until now.

You know that we’re talking about moving there, to the city. It is a nudge we cannot ignore. And we want you to see what we see.

Because plenty of people will try to tell you things about the city. They might tell you it’s not safe or that bad people live there or that it is ugly, especially when compared to the sprawling farmland just outside the city, the wide open spaces we’re used to in the Midwest.

I can’t deny that some of what they say is true. The city is not safe. Bad people live there. And there are ugly parts.

But a lot of those people telling you those things haven’t been to the city recently or don’t go there often. Or maybe they do and they see what they want to see.

We want you to see differently.

I don’t want to scare you but nowhere is safe, not really. If gunmen can kill children in schools or Christians in churches then is there anywhere truly safe? This is not a reason to fear the world but the very reason we take you out into it. So you can see for yourself. A writer and philosopher named Frederick Buechner says something like this: “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

You will see terrible things, I know. Things I can’t keep you from seeing forever. But I want you to look for the beautiful things, too.

It is true that bad people live in the city but bad people live everywhere (and I’m really struggling with that label anyway; is anyone more bad than anyone else? Are we not all a mixture of the best and worst parts of ourselves?). On the bus today, people thanked the driver as they left. It’s an unnecessary kindness, but it reminds me that people are not all the worst things we think of them. As we sat and ate lunch at the market, strangers stopped to talk to us. (I confess, this is uncomfortable for me, but I lean into the discomfort and try to make these people more real.)

It probably didn’t hurt that you were some of the only kids in the market on a Friday thanks to a wacky school schedule, but the people making your subs wanted to talk to you as did the old men who sat down at the table next to us. The one wearing the name tag told us he was a hymnologist, someone who studies hymns. I have no idea if this is a real thing but he told us stories of how “Jesus Loves Me” came to be a classic hymn of the church. The other man showed you the whiteness of his hair and lamented the loss of the red color that was so similar to yours, Isabelle.

A man did ask us for money, but instead of being afraid, I turned to address him. I didn’t have what he needed today, but I’ve seen him near the market before so I’ll look for him next time and ask him his name. He reminds me that we haven’t seen our other homeless “friends” in a while. It is winter, and I hope they are warm.

And as to ugliness, well, I just don’t see it. Yes, there are buildings and cars and buses and trash (but let’s face it, when the wind blows hard in the country, our lawn is littered with more trash than I knew existed), but Lancaster happens to be a city of history, art and architecture. Someday I want us to just walk the city and take pictures of all the beautiful things. The food at market. The people on the street. The bricks on the old church building. I can’t wait to do our part to make a little corner of the city more beautiful. Whatever that ends up looking like.

I want this to be the way you approach life, whether it’s the city or something else. If someone tells you things are a certain way, I want you to investigate and see for yourself. If someone tells you that refugees are dangerous, I want you to remember our friends, the ones who invite us into their homes and cook for us and play with you. I want you to remember my stories of all the new people I meet and how they want what everyone wants: a home, a job, purpose, a place to raise their families without fear.

If someone tells you the world is broken, I want you to look for any sign of wholeness you can find, and if you can’t find it, I want you to find a way to make the world a little less broken. With a smile. A friendly gesture. Or something more. 

I want you to treat the people who serve you like they are your family or friends. When we get on the bus, we greet the bus driver as a person, maybe even find out his or her name. I couldn’t help thinking of Uncle Bill today as we rode the bus, and all the driving he did around Denver. I miss him.

Even if someone tells you that a certain kind of people are bad, I want you to think like Jesus and see if you can find the good. And even if you can’t, I want you to love them anyway.

I know this is a lot to take in after a simple bus ride and a few hours in the city, but I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. You trust us, for now, to do what’s best for you and that’s a responsibility I can hardly handle most days. I’m not all that good at taking care of myself yet for some reason God entrusted the two of you to me and your dad. We’re both pretty screwed up human beings and I can only hope God knew what He was doing. Maybe you’re here to help us be better people.

You might not always trust us or believe us, and when that happens, I hope you’ll have enough experiences of your own to draw from. Maybe you’ll be able to trust yourselves a little.

For now, we don’t intend to let up on the new and different. We have barely discovered all that the city has to offer. I hope you’ll keep joining in on our crazy ideas.

Adventure is more fun when you’re with us.

 

The one thing you already have to give

I’d been invited to a new friend’s house for coffee, and for days ahead of time, I agonized over whether I should bring something with me. Pastries? Flowers? I’m always appreciative of someone willingly opening their house to me, and she was providing coffee. I wanted to offer her a gift as well, some token of thanks, but when the day came, I had nothing in my hands.

I’d convinced myself that it was okay because I was bringing something else.

Me.

That doesn’t always feel like enough.

My new friend is a mom of a young baby and we had met doing volunteer work for a refugee organization and though my children are school-aged, I remembered how I felt as a working-professional-turned-stay-at-home-mom. All I wanted was company. It could have been anyone, and they didn’t even have to bring anything. I just needed a grown-up present so I didn’t go out of my mind. I have no idea if my new friend felt this way, but I brought with me what I had: grown-up conversation and presence.

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I blog on the 12th of each month.

An inside look at faith in the White House: Review of Reclaiming Hope by Michael Wear

Faith. White House. President Obama. Some might wonder if any of these words are related, but Michael Wear assures us in his new book Reclaiming Hope: Lessons Learned in the Obama White House about the Future of Faith in America that they are very much related and can work together for the good of the country.

A book about politics isn’t usually first on my list, but I heard a fascinating conversation with Wear on a podcast recently, so I picked up the book as well. I found it to be an interesting behind-the-scenes look of some of the former president’s policy decisions, as well as a closer look at his personal faith. Wear paints a realistic, not an idealistic, picture of how faith and politics work together and sometimes clash. (Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Review reflects my honest opinion.)

And he offers challenges to Christians in both political parties to engage in the political process. Here’s one: Rather than disengage from politics, Wear encourages Christians to become more involved as a way to follow the commands of Jesus. He writes: “Politics is one of the essential forums in which we can love our neighbor.” (p 209) This includes love for so-called enemies as well. Citing Jeremiah 29, where God instructs the exiles to seek the good of the city to which they’ve been exiled, Wear writes:

…we are obliged to work for the benefit and flourishing of all people, whether or not they see the world as we do or agree with us in any way. Christians’ obligation is not to their ‘tribe,’ but to their God–a God who cares deeply for all people. If a Christian’s political ides and actions are not intended toward the good of their ‘enemies,’ their political witness is not Christian in its character. When it is, the entire body politic benefits.” (208)

I started reading the book just after our new president was elected, and it has served as a reminder of how important it is to be involved in the political process.

It is a reminder that hope is not foolish if it is correctly placed, and that the world itself is not hopeless.

If you’re finding it difficult to have hope as a person of faith and you have an interest in the political realm, I can’t recommend this book enough.

How I became a friend to refugees {A Dangerous Territory link-up}

I recently read this challenging book called Dangerous Territory by Amy Peterson, and in celebration of the book’s release, the author is hosting a blog link-up for people to tell their stories of trying to save the world, or how a cross-cultural interaction widened perspective. The latter is the story I have to tell.

Last week, I wrote a guest post for my friend Carol about how I became a friend to refugees. I’m abridging that story here. So, if you’ve already read her post, this is a repeat. (But you can visit the blog link-up to read other stories like this!)

I was not always a friend to refugees.

Maybe I could have told you what—or who—an immigrant was, but I don’t know that I could have attached a name to a living, breathing person with this status.

This transformation was a gradual process, like water shaping rocks. Unnoticeable day-by-day but when compared years apart, the difference is obvious.

It might have started when my family visited Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. We grew up in the Midwest, so we were eager to visit these sites after moving to Pennsylvania. I remember standing in the massive room, empty except for a few tourists, imagining it packed wall-to-wall with immigrants. I read the words about their experiences, saw the pictures.

And then my husband and I decided to try to find his great-grandparents. You can search for people by name, and though we hadn’t been married long and the stories of their arrival are not ingrained in my history, I wanted to find this couple on a ship’s manifest. They were my kids’ ancestors, after all, and I know little about my side of the family’s origins.

Seeing their names awoke something in me as I imagined what it was like to arrive on these shores, tired, poor and uncertain.

If that’s where it started, it would be many years later for that seed to become noticeable fruit.

Christian Joudrey via Unsplash

HOW LOVE BROKE THROUGH

I didn’t become an advocate for refugees overnight. I learned late in life to use my voice for those who didn’t have one. I avoid conflict. I don’t like crowds. And I’m a recovering people-pleaser. These are the sorts of things that work against me whenever I want to lend my support—vocally, physically, monetarily—to a cause that can be controversial.

I used to be afraid that if I opened my heart to care about something—especially something heartbreaking—that I would suddenly need to care about everything and my heart would literally break and I would not be able to go on with life.

And I won’t lie. Sometimes it feels like that. But I wouldn’t trade a tender heart for a stone-cold one, even when it hurts.

Gaelle Marcel via Unsplash

So, I opened my heart a tiny little bit. I gave myself permission to cry over something that didn’t directly affect my life, for people I had never met, might never meet.

I let my heart break a little, and that’s where love broke through.

DO SOMETHING, NOT EVERYTHING

I can’t list all the steps in this transformation, but I can tell you a few stories. As my heart opened slightly, I started reading the news again, and when a picture circulated of a little Syrian boy, dead in the arms of his father on the shores of Greece, the crack in my heart widened. How could I do nothing?

But what do you do when you want to care but don’t know where to start?

That same summer my husband and I went to Kenya with a team from our church. I had never been to Africa and it had been 15 years since I had flown internationally. During the flight, we read the International New York Times, whose front page is drastically different than ours. We read about a Greek island overrun with refugees because it is the first landfall they make when they attempt to cross the Mediterranean, seeking safety.

Why hadn’t we heard about this before?

Maybe we had, but we weren’t paying attention.

During our stay in Kenya, we visited a refugee camp, one where Kenyans had been displaced from another part of the country. It had been a decade but most were still living in mud-walled homes, some perched on the edge of a dry riverbed that would flood during the rainy season. We entered these homes. We worshiped God with them. We prayed. We held their hands and looked in their eyes and it dawned on me: These are refugees.

When we left Kenya a few days later, we shared a plane with refugees leaving Rwanda. Congolese refugees, I imagine. They were large in number and somewhat disoriented by the journey. One woman tried to leave the plane as we flew from Brussels to New York. She was sedated and later questioned by port authority when we landed. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but when I think about it now, it makes perfect sense.

Would I not also be distressed and overwhelmed if I had lived all my life in one area of the world and was suddenly being whisked away to another part of the world, never to see my home again? Never mind being on a plane flying over the ocean. Never mind not knowing the language.

My re-entry to the American way of life was rough. I thought it would be no big deal to get on with my life after visiting Kenya, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the people. I’m not a person prone to violent outburst but I nearly shouted at someone in the Costco parking lot when they wouldn’t walk their cart to the corral because it was raining.

Do you know that there are people living in mud houses that could be swept away in the rainy season? Do you know that they walk miles to church? That they walk home from work uphill after a long day on their feet?

But they didn’t know because they hadn’t seen, just as I didn’t know because I hadn’t seen.

There was a part of me that wanted to go back to Kenya right away. I dreamt of booking a flight I couldn’t afford, of becoming a missionary or a teacher or whatever I needed to, to get back to Kenya. I dreamt of taking my kids on their first international trip, of showing them a world I had come to love.

But we are not wealthy and I will not go back to Kenya on the support of others. Nor could I realistically give up my life here. I am not actually “called” to be a missionary, not the kind that moves across the world permanently. I needed to do something right here, where I live.

Some friends connected me with a refugee resettlement organization in our city. I attended a volunteer training session one night. By myself. In the city. And I walked away energized but with little direction.

I continued to learn and to read and to pay attention. These are the foundations for change, I think.

Months later, I finally found my place in volunteering with this organization. I showed up one Tuesday and met a beautiful family from Congo. They re-awakened everything I had loved about our trip to Kenya. We became fast friends.

And I had found the work that made my heart come alive.

I always tell people I have no special skills when I volunteer. I show up and be a friend. Mostly, though, I’ve learned that if something disturbs, you don’t have to do nothing. You also don’t have to do everything.

You can let your heart open just a crack and see where it leads you.

First Friday Five {February}

Another first Friday means another chance to tell you some of my favorite things. I know, it’s your favorite time of the month, right?

Here’s what I’m loving this month.

  1. Royal dramas. The Crown on Netflix and Victoria on PBS. The first is a historical fiction about the reign of Queen Elizabeth II, the second about Queen Victoria, obviously. I’m not sure I would recommend having both of these shows “in progress” concurrently but they are fascinating (and yes, they are fiction based on true events) looks at female leadership in male-dominated worlds. (Also, they give me a Doctor Who fix. In The Crown, Matt Smith plays Elizabeth’s husband, Philip and in Victoria Jenna Coleman is the title character. When I can’t watch the Doctor, I can watch my favorite actors.)
  2. Unroll me. I’m not sure where I saw this, but it’s an e-mail service that helps you unsubscribe and consolidate your inbox. You choose what to do with each sender: keep it in your inbox, unsubscribe, or roll it up. Then, each day, you get ONE email with all your rolled up emails (I’ve gotten as few as 2, as many as 11) and you can click on each individual one to read it or just skim over it. My inbox is still out of control, but this is keeping the crazy at bay.
  3. The Price is Right. I used to watch this game show religiously in the summers as a kid, but I’ve stayed away from daytime TV as a stay-at-home mom (unless you count Netflix and I don’t. So there.) until recently. My husband was out of work for a few weeks and we made an 11 o’clock couch date each day to tune in to The Price is Right while we ate lunch. I have another entire blog post brewing about watching this show, but Drew Carey and this game show are one of the highlights of the last month.
  4. Ticket to Ride. We first played this board game with friends months ago and loved it. Then Santa brought us our own game fro Christmas and we have played it almost once a week (or more) with the kids. It’s the kind of game that’s really never boring no matter how many times you play it because it all depends on strategy and planning instead of luck.
  5. Dystopian fiction. Before the last few months, I’m not sure I had read a single work of dystopian fiction. Late last year I read The Hunger Games series and this month I read the Divergent series. Tell me what I should read next in this genre! I preferred the Divergent series but devoured both series in a matter of days.

Favorites in your life from the past month? Share away!

Misguided mission: Review of Dangerous Territory by Amy Peterson

I am not, nor have I ever been, a missionary. Not in the travel to far-off places and share the Gospel sense. Still, I have a bit of wanderlust and a desire to do important things. Which must be why I connected with Amy Peterson’s story in her spiritual memoir, Dangerous Territory: My Misguided Quest to Save the World. (To be clear, this is not just a book for missionaries or would-be missionaries or young people because I am none of those things!)

Peterson’s account of her time teaching English in Southeast Asia and events that led to trouble in her host country, as well as her deconstruction of the faith she’d grown up with is relatable and engaging. It is not a hero’s story but a humble retelling of finding God again and learning that all service to Him, no matter where, no matter what, is important and part of the kingdom work of restoration. (Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the author. Review reflects my personal and honest opinion.)

That stories like this exist give me hope that future generations will be encouraged to live a spiritual life wherever they are or are called to, whether that is somewhere across the ocean or down the street from their childhood home. Peterson’s struggle to find meaning and purpose in staying instead of going is a much-needed story in a world that continues to value the big and bold steps of faith.

She writes early in the book about her expectations:

Sermons about lives full of dedication to God rarely made daily floor-sweeping an example of dedication. They seldom lauded people who responded to e-mails punctually and thoughtfully. They didn’t praise those who regularly attended conferences for professional development and stayed up-to-date in their fields.

I wanted an extraordinary life, flush with spiritual vitality and adventure, a life fully committed to God. I wanted to be the greatest.

We do a disservice to believers of all ages when we elevate certain expressions of spirituality above others (missionaries and pastors, for example). And Peterson comes to the realization through trials and silence that maybe she had it all wrong.

“What if God didn’t want me to be useful? Could I surrender to that? Was I willing to be useless for God?” (182)

That’s a question I’m sitting with personally. Maybe God doesn’t need me to do, do, do all the time. Maybe I can just “be” and that’s enough.

Her conclusions by the end of the book are ones I’m making as well. I’ll share more about that when I join the author’s blog link-up to celebrate the book’s launch.

Even though it’s applicable to anyone deconstructing their faith or who has ties to missions, I’d call this one a must-read for anyone new to missions or considering missions for longer than a short-term trip. It’s a realistic and honest look at what it’s truly like “on the field” and not the kinds of stories you typically hear from visiting missionaries during a church service.

 

Be sure to invite us for cake

It was just a few days before my son’s seventh birthday. One set of family had just been in town to celebrate Thanksgiving with us (and an early birthday); the other set was due to arrive in a few days. I was a tiny bit stressed and overwhelmed, which happens when there is too much activity and not enough solitude.

But it was Tuesday, so I made my weekly trek to the historic church on a city corner, rang the bell and waited to be let in for the cultural orientation class I sit in on most weeks. I don’t remember now if this was a health week or a finance week, but it was my second time sitting with a Congolese family who had arrived here from Uganda, maybe. They spoke Swahili and French and English, if we talked slow. During a break, I was chatting with the mother. We almost always talk about our children.

“I have one daughter,” I say, “she is 8. And a son. He will be 7 on Friday.”

She didn’t hesitate. She smiled wide.

“Oh! Be sure to invite us for cake.”

I almost couldn’t believe my ears. This woman I barely knew, who barely knew me, had just invited herself to my house to eat cake with us during a family birthday!

Maybe I should have been more surprised than I was. It only lasted a moment.

We sort of laughed it off. Class continued and we parted ways.

As I thought about it later in the day, what surprised me most was not her request but how much I wished I could make it happen.

—

If you know me at all, you know my house is seldom “visitor ready.” We have two kids and a lot of extraneous stuff and not a lot of room (also not a ton of energy to devote to organizing and cleaning, though we do a little of each now and then).

But this wasn’t the reason I couldn’t invite this woman and her family to my house. It wasn’t even that we had family coming to stay with us because I think they know us well enough by now to know that “weird” and “unexpected” are just part of the package.

No, it was the distance. We live a few miles outside of the city, a 10-or-so minute drive from downtown, depending on traffic, more like a 45-minute walk with unreliable sidewalk access. This has been a problem for me since my first day of volunteering with a refugee resettlement organization. These friendly, enthusiastic, hopeful new residents always want to know where I live. And I regretfully tell them it is too far and not safe to walk there.

I die a little on the inside every time.

So, here’s a not-so secret secret: For a little while now, Phil and I have been talking about moving into the city. We technically live within walking distance of the city limit line but we are officially in what I would call the suburbs. It’s been three-and-a-half years since we felt the tug to move to Lancaster. You can read that story here.

We are grateful for the way God moved us into this half-house, for the way He orchestrated events and how He has provided since then, through job changes and life struggles. But we always knew it was temporary. We have two bedrooms and two kids who need their own space. We have one bathroom. (One bathroom x four people = a whole lot of wailing.) We just need a little more room. But even that “little more” we need is out of our price range in this school district.

This is how we’ve presented it to the kids: do you want to stay in this school district and continue to share a bedroom, or do you want to have your own bedrooms and move to another school district? They are logical kids, and the bedrooms have won out.

In the past few weeks, Phil and I have talked with friends who live in the city, or who live in other cities, or who have lived in the city or who have done wild and unusual things with their life (which they would say is only following God’s leading but it is the same). We have told them what is on our hearts. 

How I want to spend more time with the refugees moving into our community through volunteering and yes, even spending time at their house or mine. I have no illusions that it will be one big happy refugee party all the time, but the potential to deepen connections will be there.

How we need to live in a neighborhood with people we can share a little bit of life with. We get just a tiny bit of this with the few neighbors we currently have, but we do not have a true sense of belonging to a place.

How all of our favorite things to do and eat are in the city. How we miss being able to walk places. How we need to be face-to-face with people on the margins. How we feel like people on the margins anyway and we just don’t belong in the suburbs.

How the city makes us feel alive.

—

On Christmas Eve, we attended our church’s candlelight service for the first time since we’ve lived here. Usually we are traveling or already in Illinois for the holiday, but this year, Phil had to work before and after Christmas, so we had our own family gathering before the kids and I flew to Illinois.

We left church depressed. Christmas Eve services are not exactly church, I forget. Because everyone has family there who aren’t normally at church, and because we hadn’t been super vocal about our holiday plans, some people were surprised to see us there. We had nowhere to go or be afterwards, and we were still processing the news of Phil losing his job at the end of the year, and I have no shame in telling you that the celebration of light coming into the world did nothing to lift our spirits.

So, we went looking for light. We hadn’t done a Christmas lights drive yet, so we found our one favorite house and searched for a few others. Then we found ourselves in the city and we just drove around. There weren’t a lot of people out but it wasn’t vacant either. The moment we crossed into the heart of the city, my spirit lifted.

This was where I wanted to be.

—

And that’s how I know this is a God-nudge. I grew up in a smallish Midwestern town. I have always loved visiting cities (especially Chicago!) but I never saw myself living there. I’m too scared, I would tell myself. Too naive. Too whatever. I have zero street smarts.

But more and more the city is where I feel most like me. No pretending. No striving. Just me being me. Sure, the city has its faults, and I’m bound to be disappointed or disillusioned, but I’m already some of those things.

More than that, though, the city is where I need to be. Because of my love for refugees; because I have friends and family on society’s margins; because I know what it is to be poor, on welfare, struggling to get by; because the current political climate is against people such as these, then I want to be closer to them. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s exhausting.

I have never participated in a protest. I’m still cautious about certain social media activism, not because I don’t care but sometimes because I care too much (about causing conflict with people I love, even if I’m speaking for what is right). I don’t have much in the way of influence. I can do what any citizen can do and make calls and send e-mails and letters or Tweet my representatives.

But when that doesn’t feel like enough, all I have left is my life.

My life can speak my values more loudly than anything I say. And so when I say I stand with refugees and the marginalized and those living in poverty, I want to literally stand with them. To live where they live. To meet their kids through my kids. To experience life with them in all of its beauty and pain.

Make no mistake, I have no plan to move to the city to save it. We are not bringing God to the city. (Spoiler alert: He is already there.) I just want to love the city and its people. The only person I’ll really be saving is myself.

—

When Phil lost his job at the end of the year, and then our van broke down, we thought maybe our plans would have to wait. We don’t want to move in the middle of a school year, and rebounding from two major hits like job loss and expensive vehicle repair aren’t easy when you have a steady income much less when you’re unemployed.

But God hasn’t given us an out yet. Phil has a new job in the city, of all places. We are back on sort of steady ground. Our sights are still set on the city, and we are casually (not-so-casually) starting to look at houses. There could still be any number of setbacks. This could still be a very bad idea. We still might have to wait.

But just like my refugee friend invited herself to our party for cake, we are inviting ourselves to be part of God’s work in the city. I believe He will make room for us.

This is a developing part of our story. I have no idea how it’s going to turn out. All I know is we’ve seen God do impossible things when we say “yes” to Him. If you want to stay connected as we pursue the next step in our journey, consider signing up for e-mail delivery of blog posts (on the right hand side of this blog, near the top). Thanks for reading!

Art, war & resistance: Review of The Missing Matisse by Pierre H. Matisse

Even as one who knows little about art and art history, the name “Matisse” means something to me, and this memoir from the grandson of Henri Matisse is a fascinating account of life in France before and during World War 2. That the author has a famous family and is an accomplished artist in his own right is a bonus.

The Missing Matisse by Pierre H. Matisse gives us a glimpse of the early 20th century art world and war from the perspective of living in an occupied country. Pierre occasionally meets his grandfather’s artist friends like Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali.

Most of the book centers on the war years, and it’s a fascinating recollection of the adventures of a boy who often finds himself involved in resistance activities. It reads like a story your grandfather would tell you about his life.

If you’re art lover or a World War 2 buff or a fan of interesting life stories, put The Missing Matisse on your to-read list.

(Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the Tyndale Blog Network. Review reflects my opinion.)

If you’d like to know more about the author, read on for a Q&A provided by Tyndale House Publishers.

Pierre Henri Matisse was born in Paris in 1928. Brought up as the grandson of Henri Matisse, Pierre spent his childhood among some of the most famous artists of the century, including Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali. During WWII, Pierre and his father, Jean Matisse, were heavily involved in French underground activities, wanted by the Nazis for their efforts in aiding the British spies and saboteurs. When the war ended, Pierre worked in the restoration of the art and historical monuments damaged by the war in France. Now a citizen of the United States, he is an artist who has given or created commissioned pieces to help organizations such as Project Hope, The American Red Cross, numerous children’s hospitals, and many others.

What prompted you to write this book at this time in your life?

My parents did not tell me much about their lives. I want my children to know about mine.

What is your hope for this book?

I love books, and I have loved to read all my life. Books are where I learned what I know – from other people’s life experiences. In hard times books have been my best friends, my source of inspiration. I want my book to be an inspiration, a story about survival no matter what, showing how I relied on courage, faith, hope and love.

Tell us about spending with your grandfather, Henri Matisse. Did you know then that he was a famous artist?

I did not spend much time with him, because he was immersed in his art and living in Nice on the French Riviera, while I was living in Paris. As a child, I had no idea my grandfather was famous until the day he came to visit us in Paris and took me to a jazz concert starring Django Reinhardt. I love music, especially jazz. After the concert Grandfather Matisse told me that Django was one of his friends, and asked me if I wanted to meet him. I answered with an enthusiastic ‘yes’! From that day on, I knew that my grandfather Henri had to be very famous if he could access famous people and call them his friend.

You are an artist in your own right, can you tell us about the color lesson you received from your grandfather, Henri Matisse, when you were young?

My mother who graduated from the prestigious Beaux Arts art school in Paris, had tried to teach me everything about colors to no avail. I could not figure out her complicated color theory. So when we visited Nice during the summer of 1939, she arranged a color lesson for me with Grandfather Matisse. My idea about colors was that the more color tubes an artist owns the more fabulous a painter he is. So I came to my grandfather with a big box full of color tubes I had purchased with my own money that I had saved. Obviously I was going to impress him with my color arsenal. I had even memorized the fancy names so I could speak color jargon like a pro. Grandfather welcomed me into his studio with a charcoal in his hand and asked me to put my big box on a table. He foraged through the box taking out tubes of vermillion, ultramarine blue, yellow, and white. As he handed me these four colors, he said “From now on, paint with these four colors – rouge, bleu, jaune, et blanc. I am confiscating this box and forbid you to buy any other colors than these four. Now go and paint. Convey my love to your mother and father.” End of the color lesson. On my way back, I thought that Grandfather was losing it. How could a talented artist like me possibly turn out masterpieces with these ridiculous four colors? After I reflected, I decided to give it a try to prove to him that I could paint good stuff no matter what. Well, my painting skills improved drastically. Grandfather Matisse used to say, “I paint with simple colors.” To this day, I follow his advice.

Can you talk about your memories of WWII and the time you spent with your father, Jean Matisse, in the French Underground?

My father was involved with British intelligence, assisting British spies. On more than one occasion, we set out in a small boat and rendezvoused with a British submarine off Cap d’ Antibes on the French Riviera. We brought British spies ashore and hid them in our home. During the winter of 1943, I was an apprentice illustrator at a print shop. On the side, I helped a secret printing business and made false papers, passes, and fake IDs. On D-Day, I was living in Normandy and when the Nazis began to be pushed back to the Allies, I had encounters with them that should have gotten me killed. It is a miracle that we all survived the war.

When you were twelve-years-old, your mother said you needed to stop answering to the name Matisse and to go by the name Leroy instead. Then she sent you away to boarding school. Can you discuss the impact that had on you? Did you feel abandoned?

First, I did not blame my mother or anybody else. It was war time, and war was being fought in our backyard. My parents had a delicate problem to navigate and they did the best they could under the circumstances. As for me, I was devastated when it happened. Because I had always been an adventurous boy who was often getting into trouble, I thought that I had been kicked out of the family for bad conduct. First, I cried. Then I pulled myself together and asked God for courage. From that day on, I felt I was a real man, on my own. I knew I would have to figure out life by myself.

When and why did you legally change your name back to Matisse?

I did not change my name – I reclaimed the name I had been known by until I was twelve years old. In 1966, with my wife, Jeanne’s encouragement, I began pursuing the documents I needed to reclaim my name. Official French school documents from1939 verified that my name is Renee Pierre Louis Henri Matisse. The paperwork was presented to legal authorities in France, Canada, and the United States, and accepted.

Why are you questioning who your father is? Who do you believe is your real father?

My mother told me when I was twelve years old that my last name is Leroy. Later, my grandmother Leroy tells me that I am not her grandson; I am a Matisse. At the end of the war, the man who is supposedly my father – Camille Leroy – confirms what his mother had told me. “You are not my son” he tells me. What would you do? So who is my father? I want to know…and DNA will reveal the answer.

Why do you think your mother was abandoned by the Matisse family at the time of her death?

The facts were that my mother, after twenty years of marriage to Jean Matisse, had left him just months before she died. The Matisse family was rich and when any of them were ill, they were treated at the American Hospital, the best hospital in Paris at the time. My mother was not sent there. She died in a common room with no privacy, in the most abject conditions. She was screaming in agony from unbearable pain. I loved my mother dearly and am thankful I was able to be with her in her dying moments. As for the Matisse family’s decision to abandon her, how do you think I feel about that?

You were recently baptized in a bathtub by Willie Robertson of Duck Dynasty fame. How did you meet him, and what prompted you to become baptized later in life?

My wife, Jeanne, and I became friends with the Robertson’s after Jeanne became seriously ill. Their television show made us laugh and we watched it during her recuperation. Eventually, our families connected and I was invited to give an art lesson on a Duck Dynasty episode. While Jeanne and I were in Louisiana, we had dinner at Willie and Korie’s home, and out of the blue, Willie asked me if I had been baptized. I told him I was not sure. Willie offered to baptize me for real – right then and there – in his bath tub. I agreed and had a redneck baptism. It has made a significant difference in my relationship with God and my life in general.

What has your faith taught you about forgiveness and starting over?

Resentment, holding grudges, hate, are negative feelings, and guilt for past mistakes that you can do nothing about will destroy and poison your soul. I am a positive person who is a problem solver. I believe in finding the good in everything and focusing on it. Many times, I was forced to think of alternative solutions to stay alive in the situation I was in. In those difficult circumstances, it was time to pray for courage.

Tell us about your other interests as a pilot, a photographer, music lover, art history buff etc.

Sailing a boat, flying a small plane, photography, music, and literature, actually, all of life is about creating and the word art describes both the process and the end product. History and art history are linked together, they are a blueprint to our precious heritage as they define who we are as descendants of the true Creator. I belong to the same kind of spirited men who painted masterpieces on cave walls thousands of years ago.

How we’re getting by

We awoke Monday morning in a bed that wasn’t ours, wearing the previous day’s clothes, lacking rest but somewhat energized by the day ahead. Weeping lasted for a night, but maybe joy would come to us this morning. We had calls to make about our van, sitting in the driveway, unable to move more than a few inches without a horrific grinding sound.

We wandered downstairs where the coffee was already brewing, preparing the grown-ups for an unexpected day of togetherness. The kids were off school and didn’t sleep a lot. It was going to be a very long day.

The four of us sipped coffee and Beth began prepping breakfast, even though she’s not a breakfast person. (This is a clear evidence of love.) Phil and I offered to make a pie crust for the egg mixture she was putting together, and as we mixed the dough and rolled it out, our friends said to us: “Despite the circumstances, we’re glad you are here.”

I forced back tears, sure that if I started crying this early in the day, I would never stop. It had seemed nearly impossible that the tears would stop the night before, when I sobbed on a borrowed pillow, my body shaking with despair. (How much is enough? I wailed in my head. How much must we endure? At the time, unemployment and a stranded vehicle seemed like too much to bear, even though I know others have suffered much worse.)

I wanted to reply with some sarcastic remark because when I am uncomfortable with people’s love and affection, I try to laugh it off, make a joke, downplay my own value in the relationship. (The one with my husband is not exempt.)

I did not want to accept their words. How could they be glad? There were four of us added to their five. We had already spent half a day with them (as planned) and now we were adding another day to the mix, as well as numerous needs. In my mind, we were a burden. And frankly that probably says more about me than anything.

Later, after we were home and I could lament on Facebook and share our continuing saga with the world (i.e. my world), our friend commented: “Put your arm around our neck; we’ll limp along with you until you can walk.”

—

I don’t like to be needy. I’ll gladly help someone else in need, but when it’s my neediness, I want to be out of need as quickly as possible and I don’t want to be pitied. Also, I’m terrible at asking for help. Sometimes, there’s no denying the need, though, and because we have such a caring, supportive network of friends, family and church family, we did not hide our need. It’s weird how I both don’t want to be in need and don’t want to bear it alone. Then when it comes to accepting help, I feel awkward and burdensome. Like our need is going to negatively affect the friendship somehow.

Rendi Rukmana via Unsplash

But we aren’t meant to bear our sufferings alone, and we aren’t meant to struggle alone. We are to help each other. And sometimes it takes the act of being helped for me to remember how crucial and necessary it is.

—

“How are you getting by while your expenses exceed your income?”

It was just a question on a piece of paperwork we needed to submit after I reported that my husband had lost a job. I wish the answer was simple. Or maybe I don’t.

Because the answer is big.

How are we getting by? With a lot of help from our friends. If I listed them all, I would forget someone because they are many. Plus, none of the people who have helped us have any desire to be recognized by name.

Still, I want to tell you what these past few weeks have meant to us.

I told you about the money that showed up on our doorstep on January 1 and how God answered a prayer that day. He continued to answer. When I told him I couldn’t make this work, that the numbers wouldn’t add up for the bills we had to pay, He answered. And answered again.

The next week, we walked out of church with three monetary gifts we hadn’t asked for. Then a friend took me to lunch and gave me a card that had some money in it. One day we received a card in the mail that had money and encouraging words and a link to a book download. Another friend sent us a money order. Another check arrived in the mail. Then another gift card.

A local friend stopped by with a box of chocolates she had picked up at the discount grocery. “I thought you might need some chocolate,” she said. She was right. I asked another friend for a ride to Target to pick up some supplies. She was ready to take me anywhere else I needed to go that day.

After a coffee date with a writer friend, I asked if I would taking advantage of our friendship if I stopped at the grocery store a mile from our house to pick up a few things. She chuckled at my question because again, I feel like a burden.

When we decided to get the van fixed, we were gifted two-thirds of the money to pay for it. When my husband finally got the call that he could work a day to try out this new job, we rented a car. (That was also a day an unexpected check came in the mail that would cover the cost of the rental.) When it was time to take it back, a friend happened to be on her way to Lancaster and invited us girls for a sweet treat trip downtown, and she was able to pick Phil up from the rental agency.

There are more stories, so many I’m afraid to try to list them because I don’t want to leave anyone out. I can’t keep up with the love, and we are racking up debts we cannot repay, nor does anyone want us to. Pay it forward, they say. You’d do the same for us, they say.

Brigitte Tohm via Unsplash

All of it is humbling.

And it is showing me love without condition. These people, they are loving us, not because we can pay them back, not because we have helped them in the past, but because they love us for who we are. Maybe they feel some responsibility for us. I don’t know. As a first-born child with a stubborn streak of independence, I don’t like feeling like other people are responsible to take care of me. But there are times in all of our lives when it’s just too much to try to take care of ourselves. Sometimes we have to let others shoulder the burden for a while.

To limp along with us until we can walk again.

I tell you these things for a couple of reasons.

One, so you know what a blessing you are when you help someone out. Every single one of these people said they wished their gift could have been more. And all of them were so generous. If you are in a position to help someone out, never apologize for the gift. It means everything to the recipient, and even if it feels small, it is big in their eyes. (Also, just do something. Don’t ask what you can do. I never know how to answer that question. I will call you if I need a ride somewhere, but I probably won’t ask you for money or a meal. No gesture is wrong if done with the right intention.)

Two, so you can feel free to accept help when you need it. Know that some things are too big to bear alone and other people want to help. Let them. Let yourself be loved. I know how I feel when I help someone else. It is a gift to me as much as it is to the person I’m helping. Receive the gifts in love and try not to think of yourself as a burden. Remember everything, as much as you can, and be willing to be the person who helps the next time you are able.

Three, so you know that community is a beautiful thing. What has shocked me the most about these past few weeks is that the people who have helped us have come from various points in our life. From our hometown. From my husband’s military service. From our time at seminary. From where we lived previously. From college. From our church now. It was not one set of people who threw their arms around us. It was like a segment of “This is Your Life.” Phil and I often feel disconnected from our best people. We grew up in one town in one state, spent our first married year in another town in that state, moved 800 miles across country to another town where we spent 5 years before we moved to this place. And that’s just our married life together.

We have friends scattered across this country, across continents. It can feel a bit disjointed to not have a core community group centered on where we physically live. But in times like these, I’m grateful. I’m glad to have had the experiences we’ve had, to have so many people in our corner, rooting for us, cheering us on.

I rarely feel worthy of so much support and love.

And maybe that’s been the best part of this whole ordeal, having to receive the kind of help and love we can never repay.

It’s the kind of news that, no matter the other news happening in our world, is still so very good.

Finding depth in faith: Review of A Mile Wide by Brandon Hatmaker

I’ve been reading Jen Hatmaker’s books for a few years now, and I love her perspective on living the Christian life. So, when her husband, Brandon, released a book about finding deeper faith, I was eager to read it.

A Mile Wide: Trading a Shallow Religion for a Deeper Faith is a must-read, first for those who desire to lead others toward the kind of discipleship Jesus modeled, and second, for any follower of Jesus who isn’t satisfied with the life of faith they now lead. But the warning is this: Hatmaker offers principles that lead to a deeper faith resulting from sometimes difficult choices. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the BookLook Bloggers program, and my opinion of the book was not influenced by that.)

“We are to consider deeply how the application of what we believe impacts how others view (Jesus) and his kingdom. It’s an exchange in how we think about everything.” (p. 5)

Hatmaker builds his case for deeper faith by transforming our view of the Gospel and expanding it (the Gospel in us), then transferring that new view to the work of the kingdom (the Gospel through us).

An example:

“A shallow religion survives from event to event and program to program. A deeper faith is rooted in trusting relationships where permission is granted to struggle, fail, and take risks.” (p 113)

I’m challenged and encouraged by Hatmaker’s ideas to make faith more than a checklist of things to get right. And I trust his words because he backs them up with his own stories of getting it wrong.

The book’s title draws from an 19th century saying (Hatmaker references it in the introduction): “A mile wide and an inch deep.” It’s a phrase that isn’t meant to be a compliment. In the case of A Mile Wide, the book doesn’t live up to its name, and that’s a good thing.