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Finding God in nature: Review of Earth Psalms by Francine Rivers

October 5, 2016

Yes, you read that correctly: Earth Psalms is a new release by Francine Rivers.

I, too, was excited to discover this book, which is a departure from Rivers’ popular inspirational fiction. Earth Psalms is a weekly devotional that directs readers to observe and discover God in the natural world. Pretty great, right? (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the Tyndale Blog Network in exchange for my review.)

Nature is my favorite place to find God, and this devotional is a beauty both in its writing and photography. It is meant to be used weekly and offers reflection questions at the end of each meditation to help readers think about the ways they can see God throughout the week. The very first installment came with a challenge to try to view at least one sunrise and one sunset during the week. That is the sort of spiritual challenge I embrace and welcome.

Earth Psalms would make a great gift book for nature-loving friend and is the perfect commitment of time (weekly) for busy lives. I appreciate that the meditation doesn’t stop at the once-a-week reading, though, and offers ways to connect with God through the natural world throughout the course of a week.

Also, it’s Francine Rivers. Need I say more?

I’ve been enjoying taking this book out to the porch on mornings when my schedule seems overwhelming. It helps me focus and breathe before I tackle my to-do list. I’m not always a big fan of devotional books, but this one is a new favorite.

You can check out a sample here.

Or watch a video teaser about the book here.

An invitation to do it all differently: Review of Present Over Perfect by Shauna Niequist

September 28, 2016

I really love the way Shauna Niequist puts words together and the lessons she learns that she shares with us, her readers. And the message of her latest book, Present Over Perfect, that we can let go of our frantic lives to take hold of something more meaningful and simple, is one my heart/mind/soul needs to hear. (Disclaimer: I received a free electronic copy of the book in exchange for my review.)

There are some writing gems in this book, like:

“The inciting incident for life change is almost always heartbreak.

And,

“It seems to me that Christians, even more than anyone else, ought to be deeply grounded, lying a courageous rhythm of rest, prayer, service, and work.”

Also,

“In season of deep transformation, silence will be your greatest guide.”

So, there are some great take-aways from this book. However, I just wasn’t excited about the format. It’s set up as a series of essays, somewhat connected to a theme, but I couldn’t get into a flow when reading. A lot of great writers and books use this collection-of-essays format, but it just didn’t work for me here. I like a book I can’t put down, and this one almost begged you to set it down and walk away. Although now that I think about it, maybe that’s the best way to read this book and let its message sink in.

Overall, I was encouraged by the book and challenged by some of the questions about how my life is lived and what I might need to say no to. It’s a good read for the fast-paced world in which we live.

Surprised by grief

September 26, 2016

The tears pooled as I handed over my debit card to the receptionist in the dentist’s office. Sure, I was a bit hormonal, but it was, as they say, the straw that broke the camel’s back. I, of course, was the camel.

It had started days earlier when the office called to reschedule my son’s 6-month cleaning. We’d had to reschedule in July when we unexpectedly left town to attend my grandfather’s funeral. An appointment two months later, in September, was the best they could give me at the time, so I took it. Now, they were canceling due to a lack of dentists in the office.

When I called back trying to reschedule for a time when I didn’t have to take my son out of school, I was met with resistance. The earliest available appointment that fit my parameters was the day after Christmas. Nope. So, I hung up and called back a few hours later, fuming that an appointment that fit our schedule was being canceled by the dentist’s office and they couldn’t accommodate us with anything new. When I called back, I found a sympathetic ear, and she found a Saturday opening at a different branch of their office for just a few days after I was making the call. I wasn’t thrilled, but I took it because why not?

A day later, the office called asking me to update our son’s insurance, which we had switched earlier this year because of an income change. “Or else we’ll have to cancel the appointment,” the caller said. “No! Please don’t cancel the appointment!” I practically shouted into the phone. I’m not usually one for outbursts but I was going to hang on to this appointment, whatever it took.

Once the insurance was updated, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until the next day, when I got another call saying they would have to cancel the new appointment because they couldn’t find a hygienist to cover for another hygienist who had a family emergency.

I was so very close to losing it. He offered me a Sunday appointment which I refused, then a Monday evening appointment that I took without thinking because we were on our way out the door and running late and this was not a hassle I wanted to deal with any longer. (Icing on the cake: this practice is the only one within 20 miles that takes our insurance. Ugh.)

As I thought about it later, there was no way we could make that appointment because of my husband’s work schedule and our one-car-family situation. I dreaded calling back for a new appointment, but it had to be done. I swigged some coffee before dialing the office. Again. The offered appointment times kept getting later. Six forty. Seven. No. Not interested. Sorry.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, but the next available I have is in November.”

I sighed loudly and explained to her that I was very frustrated because I was not the one who had canceled this appointment in the first place. Or the second. When she understood the situation, the receptionist put me on hold and called the office where our appointment was scheduled and found us another Saturday opening. Same day I was calling. Mid-afternoon. Yes. Great. We’ll take it.

Problem over, right?

Let me remind you of the tears.

We checked in at the new office and were immediately told that we would need to pay for sealants. Eighty-four dollars, thank you very much, an expense I had not anticipated. So, the tears. But I pulled myself together and we got my son into the chair and his exam and cleaning went smoothly. Until the dentist saw him and told us he wouldn’t need the sealants I had just paid for, and the hygienist explained to me that to get a refund I would have to call the billing center so they could issue me a check.

O. M. G. (Please understand, I do not say this lightly.)

I get that some of this is my fault for not being flexible about availability, but when my kids have school, I want them in school.

And maybe none of this would have been a big deal if the catalyst hadn’t been a sudden death in the family.

Milada Vigerova via Unsplash

Grief is an uninvited guest who lingers, sometimes tucked away in the shadows or just out of sight, until one unexpected moment when it jumps out and yells, “Surprise!”

It’s been two months, and while I made space for my grief that week we went home to be with family, life has been busy and full these past two months. It’s not that I haven’t thought about my grandpa; it’s that the grief hasn’t been pervasive.

Until I ran into obstacles related to scheduling that started with an emergency.

—

And then there’s our son, who is obsessed with sports right now. He’s six-almost-seven and spends most of his free time bouncing a basketball in the driveway or tossing one into a net or practicing some kind of baseball skill or setting up “stations” in the driveway–the kind he’s seen his gym teacher use in class.

One night at dinner, we asked if he wanted to be a gym teacher because then he could play sports every day. His eyes light up when he realized that gym teachers teach sports every day. Yes, he said, that’s what I want to be.

It is the same thing my grandpa did for decades before he retired, and the kind of thing that never left his soul after he retired. He sat in the stands for every basketball game at the local high school, even if he didn’t personally know any of the players. He was a sports enthusiast, to say the least.

I nearly cried typing out that story on Facebook, especially when my grandma commented: “Great-grandpa would like that.”

—

These black walnuts nearly triggered another bout of tears.

A large walnut tree loomed over my grandparents’ house, and every fall (and probably more), we grandkids were tasked with picking up the nuts out of the yard before Grandpa mowed. We filled bags with them. We probably invented games with them, too, but all I remember is hating that tree. We had to rake its copious leaves, too.

The house no longer stands, the victim of a fire a few years ago, but I’m pretty sure that tree is still there.

One glance at these fallen fruit and I was a kid again in my grandparents’ yard.

—

I am no expert on grief. Two months does not even feel like a qualification to talk about it, but I know this is the current that runs beneath the surface of my responses this week.

I don’t really want to invite grief in, but now that I know it’s still here, and will be for a while, I think we might have to sit down over coffee and have a chat. I’m learning from others who have traveled this journey longer that it’s okay to keep grieving. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to acknowledge the sadness. Nobody gets to tell the grieving one that it’s time to move on. Nobody.

Besides, November is coming. And December. The first “Grandpa’s birthday” without Grandpa. The first holiday season from which he is absent.

Grieve now. Or grieve later. Or both.

I don’t think I have much choice.

The wrong crowd

September 23, 2016

I’ve told you before how I always wanted to be popular. And how sometimes I take steps outside of my safe zone to do something I might not have considered in early years of my life.

And I’m seeing how these two things come together in my life and create circumstances I couldn’t manufacture.

All that to say, I’m constantly finding myself in the wrong crowd these days.

I used to think there was a right crowd for me, and if I’m honest, that crowd looks mostly like me. Skin color, stage of life, socioeconomic position. I have a desperate need to be “in” and liked and included combined with a serious case of introversion and hermit-like tendencies that keep me in my house a lot. Sometimes this results in feeling left out.

I know I could do the inviting but there’s this fear of rejection and the hurdle of how emotionally draining it is for me to work up the nerve to ask someone to do something and then recover if they say “no.” I’m the worst at being the one to organize a group or plan a coffee date or play date or party. These are skills I don’t cultivate.

This could be a sad story of how alone I feel or a pity party or a diatribe about the lack of community I see in our individualistic world. It could be, but it’s not.

Mike Wilson via Unsplash

What I want you to know is that sometimes you find your fit in a crowd and sometimes the crowd finds you. And sometimes the crowd will be the one you wouldn’t have imagined and didn’t think you needed.

It’s no secret that I spend Tuesdays with refugees. And occasionally other days. I am often the only Caucasian in the room. Definitely the minority. And I love every minute of it, even when I’m feeling useless because the only language I speak is English.

But then a father will have a question like “How much to feed a family of 6 here?” and I will sit and give the only answer I know: “It depends. On where you shop. On what is in season.” We work it out as best we can.

I sit in this room and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Or we visit a family at home and it’s chaos and broken English and translation. It’s sitting in silence staring at each other. It’s selfies with the kids and hugs. It’s an invitation to maybe go back to Africa someday. It’s friendship forged over hot sauce.

And three hours later, it’s time to go but also not enough time.

—

At our house, there are kids from the neighborhood who stop by to play with our kids. They barrel onto the porch any hour between after school and bedtime with a “Hello!” and my kids race to the door to either say they’ll be right out or that they can’t play tonight. These kids wander through my kitchen and eat tomatoes from the garden right off the counter. They play Barbies and dress up. Their English is limited and improving so sometimes the young boy will speak to me in Spanish and I will try to answer him.

“Hola,” he says. “Como estas?”

“Muy bien,” I reply, and he smiles.

Later, I will remember other Spanish phrases I know. My brain is not trained for languages that aren’t English.

These kids live in the apartments nearby. Their parents don’t speak English. We are not arranging playdates. This is not the middle-class suburban experience I envisioned when I became a parent. (We are not quite middle class, anyway, I don’t think.)

My relationships with neighbors and school moms and refugees are messy and awkward and unconventional. My next coffee date will be with a mom who grew up in Jordan. I can’t wait.

In all honesty, these are not the kinds of relationships I would have sought if I had my way. But they are the ones that are finding me. And with their arrival, I’m finding a place to belong in what feels like the wrong crowd. (And it’s only “wrong” in light of my own pride and prejudice.)

But when I read about the life of Jesus in the Gospels, I find him constantly hanging out with the “wrong” crowd. He was never where people thought he should be, and even when he was, the “wrong people” found him.

And the beauty of his way is that everyone was “in.” He could hang out at the temple and teach, or sit by a well and converse with a woman about her way of life. He walked with fishermen, dined with a tax collector, healed and touched people no one else noticed.

I want to be around the kind of people Jesus was around.

But sometimes I’m still scared.

The other day Phil and I were walking downtown toward the market, and a man on a bench called out to us, “Hi, how you doing?” I wanted to pass him by because I knew he was going to ask for money, but he continued the conversation before we were too far away.

“Can you help me get some food? I just want a 2 for $2.50 at McDonald’s.” It was right down the street, a block away. “I don’t want no drugs or anything, just some food.”

I had cash in my purse, which isn’t always the case, so I pulled out $2 because I thought that was all I had, and I gave it to him.

“Sister, can you spare $3?”

I found another dollar and handed it over.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he went on to say that he knew we were brothers and sisters in the Lord. I don’t know if this is true or how he knew that, but it’s what he said. I asked his name and he told me, and I shook his hand. It wasn’t until I was close enough to touch him that I noticed the sores on his body. By then, it was already too late, and I touched him and told him my name and we all went about our business.

Maybe you think it’s naive or unwise to give someone money. I don’t blame you. I know nothing about buying drugs or how much that would even cost, and I know that people take advantage of people every day. But I could not in good conscience walk past a person asking for food while on my way to buy food for a dinner party. I would have hated myself the rest of the day.

Not only that, I want to be the kind of person who sees other people, no matter who they are.

Jonathan, that was his name, is a real-life, breathing human being. I know his name now, which means I can use it the next time I see him, and I’m sure to see him again as much as we hang out downtown. (But only if I look.) I honestly don’t care what he does with the money. I mean, I care because I want health and wholeness for people, but I won’t be offended if he didn’t use the money for what he said he would. I’ll let God handle that.

I tell you that story, not to brag because honestly there’s nothing to brag about. I only want to say that in that moment, I felt like I was right where I needed to be. I was more at home with the beggar on the street than in the crowded market. I am more at home in the home of a refugee family than I even am at church sometimes. I am more at home in the basement of the church with the newly arrived refugees than I am at a Bible study or prayer group.

I hope that doesn’t offend. I’m not saying your way must be the same as mine. There is nothing wrong with these other places, but those aren’t the places that make me feel alive. Not anymore.

I’m at home with the wrong crowd and it feels so right.

The story behind the song: Review of Newton & Polly

September 21, 2016

Even if you haven’t been in church in ages, you probably know the song “Amazing Grace.” You probably know the tune, even if you can’t remember the words.

This beloved hymn of the church has an interesting backstory, and Jody Hedlund is just the author to tell it.

In her latest historical fiction, Newton & Polly, Hedlund recounts the forbidden romance between John Newton, the composer of Amazing Grace, and the woman who would become his wife, Polly Catlett. Theirs was a relationship that almost wasn’t, and the novel takes us on the up-and-down journey of their relationship and the spiritual work that takes place in each of their lives. (I could stare at that gorgeous cover for days!)

Hedlund goes so far to say that if not for Polly, Newton might never have written “Amazing Grace.” What a loss that would have been! (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for my review.)

I remember watching a movie years ago called “Amazing Grace,” and Newton plays a part in that story, but this story is all about his troubled youth, his distance from God, and his infatuation with Polly Catlett. It give us the historical background for not only the song but for Newton’s later involvement in the abolitionist movement in England.

In typical Hedlund fashion, the book is chock full of actual historical events (which are listed in the back of the book) woven into a story that kept me turning page after page. Hedlund’s storytelling style is one of my favorites and always makes me more interested in historical happenings after I’m done reading.

As extra material to the book, Hedlund offers some quotes by Newton, and this one ties well with the book:

If you’ve ever wondered about the story behind the song, or you’re curious about what exactly the author meant by “amazing grace,” or you’re just a huge fan of well-written historical fiction, then this book is for you!

I walked with a refugee

September 15, 2016

More than eight years ago now, our new little family moved the 800 miles across country from the farmlands of the Midwest to the edge of Amish country, Pennsylvania.

At the time, I was mildly interested in reading Amish fiction. As I sat in our rental house with the windows open in early fall, reading while our baby girl napped, I could hear the clip-clop of horse hooves on the road. Occasionally, a buggy would roll by. I was giddy. It was like my books were coming to life right outside my door. I shopped where the Amish shopped. Sometimes, we spoke.

Fast forward and we now live in what I think is the heart of Amish country. The newness of this community has worn off and I rarely read Amish fiction anymore. But the lure of the real-life communities on which so much fiction is based is a lucrative business, one that supports our family, so I really can’t complain.

But I’m no longer awed by the buggies rolling past my house at all hours of the day, or the passel of Amish children walking to school. (Okay, maybe it is still a little bit interesting. I’m human, after all.)

Time and proximity have lessened the novelty of the Amish community.

These days, my thoughts are consumed by another people group.

—

Not long ago, I read a book about the world’s largest refugee camp as told through the eyes of nine of its residents. The camp is in Kenya, which is part of what drew my interest. I read whatever I can these days about Africa and refugees, and I will spend my last breath talking about these precious people with whom the world does not quite know what to do.

Lena Bell via Unsplash

Once a week, most weeks, I sit in a church basement next to newly arrived refugees from a variety of countries. We listen to presentations on family finances and nutrition and diseases and I do my best to help them understand the English, even though I have no fluency in any other language. Sometimes, most times, it is messy and awkward and maybe of no help at all.

But it is my favorite time of the week because my world gets just a little bigger each time.

Some weeks, we take a walk through the city down to the indoor farmers’ market so they can see the kinds of things available to them: fruits, vegetables, meat, cheese, milk. For many of them, it is a somewhat recognizable environment.

I’m never quite sure what to do on these walks. I love keeping quiet and just taking in the city, but I often feel the need to fill the silence with questions I haven’t had a chance to ask yet: How long have you been here? Where did you live before this? How many in your family?

Jamie Taylor via Unsplash

They are surface questions, for sure, but the answers say so much. Every refugee I meet identifies himself or herself by the country in which they were born, or their family’s country of origin, even if they have never lived there, even if it is a land they do not remember. It would be like if we told people we were English or Irish or German instead of American.

I want to listen and understand, but the noise of the streets and my failing hearing make understanding difficult.

On this most recent day, I walked with a Somali man whose English was better than I expected. We exchanged the initial information about families and kids. He expressed excitement and praise when he found out my husband is named “Phillip.” (This I want him to explain the next time, though my husband tells me it’s a nod to the Philip of the Bible who explained the Gospel to the Ethiopian eunuch.)

I tried to figure out where he had come from between here and Somalia. Most refugees do not come to the U.S. from their country of origin. My question was lost in translation. But as we walked, he told me of his family, some of whom are still in a refugee camp in Kenya.

“Ifo,” he says. “They are in Ifo.”

“I know Ifo,” I say, knowing that it is Kenya and I have heard of it somewhere.

Later, it hits me: Ifo is one of the camps I have recently read about in City of Thorns. I tell my husband that I walked with a man whose family is in the largest refugee camp in the world. And I pause because Ifo is no place to call “home.”

Let’s be honest: any refugee camp is no place to call “home.” Thousands of people crammed into a plot of land in a host country, maybe unwanted, relying on assistance from the U.N., given the bare minimum to survive. The camps are full of disease and danger, worse than any slum you could imagine. No one wants to be there, and yet, there they are. In the camps, life goes on for years. Decades. Babies are born. Couples wed. Family members die. Some find work. Others turn to drugs to numb the despair. Some dream of a better life, of a chance to resettle somewhere else. (The truth is only 1 percent of refugees resettle. One. Percent.)

I think about my own dreams and I wonder if I could hold on to them for years. Decades. Especially if I saw no evidence of my dream coming true.

I think of none of these things as I walk with this man who is speaking to me as quickly as his English will allow. Eventually, I realize, he is trying to teach me his language. So, I find myself leaning in a little and listening to the sounds that are similar to English yet altogether different. He teaches me to say, “How are you?” and “I am fine” in Somali, and though I know my attempts must sound ridiculous to him, he is effusive in his praise.

And I am oblivious to the people around me. We walk through the city laughing and repeating after each other, flanked by an older Somali man wearing a knit cap and a young man and woman, the latter fully covered from head to toe except for her face.

When we arrive at market, I point out my husband and my new friend walks over and hugs him like he’s an old friend. (My husband is not terribly surprised by these greetings.) After a short tour of the market, we wave good-bye, and I hope I will see him again next week.

More than that, though, I echo his hope for his family, stuck in the world’s largest refugee camp.

“If Allah wills,” he says, “they will come here.”

I do not call God, “Allah,” but I am also not offended by the name. Yes, I think. I will ask God for the same.

—

I am reading another book these days. This one is about a woman desperate to make a difference to the poor and the wanderers in her community but who finds her efforts falling terribly short of her goals. She calls herself a failed missionary, and she writes story after story about her work with a Somali population in the Pacific Northwest.

And as I sit in the basement room with a group of Somalis, as we walk the city, I think about the characters coming to life. I feel like I am in her story or her story is walking around with me.

Yet these are more than characters in a book. They are real-life people. Flesh and blood.

It is easy to read about these people or those over there, to think of them as a cause or a charity or a need we should support. I do this, too. Much harder to remember that the people we read about, the people whose lives we pity, are people just like us. They have families. They have skills. They smile and laugh and dream.

They have survived things we cannot begin to imagine.

And to walk with them is an honor.

When failure is a good thing: Review of Assimilate or Go Home by D.L. Mayfield

September 14, 2016

I’ve casually followed D.L. Mayfield’s writing for a few years, drawn to her essays on downward mobility and living in neighborhoods predominantly populated by those living in poverty. I couldn’t wait to read her book Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a Failed Missionary on Rediscovering Faith because these are the sorts of memoirs I need right now.

I was surprised to discover that the book is based on her work with Somali refugees in the Pacific Northwest. I wasn’t aware of her work with refugees before now, but maybe that’s because it wasn’t in my own line of sight until recently. It was one more reason to love this book. (Disclaimer: I received a free electronic copy of the book through the BookLook Bloggers program in exchange for my review.)

Through a series of essays, Mayfield weaves her own faith journey with stories about the refugees she meets in her community. She wanted to be a missionary, and while she was waiting for the perfect time, she reached out to a Somali community and tried everything she could think of to help them and share the Gospel with them.

What happened isn’t exactly what she expected.

This is the story of how I wandered into the upside-down kingdom, of how I was converted and am still being converted every day.”

Instead of leading her new Muslim friends to Jesus, she discovered how very loved she is, without effort. Instead of becoming like the missionary heroes she idolized, she became a friend who learned to listen, receive, and celebrate, even when the outcomes were unclear.

And in the process, she shows the rest of us a glimpse of the kingdom of God, as it is now, not somewhere in the future. I think my favorite line of the book is this one:

A messy, present, incarnational love is the simplest and hardest call of all, the call that all of us were created to follow.”

The stories in this book are not neat and tidy, wrapped up with a happy ending bow. Some of her friends never learn to read English while she’s teaching them. Some of the girls get married young and have babies instead of pursuing education. Some of the neighbors don’t accept her family’s help or presence. That’s just reality.

But there are other stories of small victories. Mayfield writes:

It turns out that I am terrible at converting people the old-fashioned way, with logic and reasoning and concise tracts and fluid, poignant sermons. Instead, I have the much less interesting spiritual gift of showing up and sitting on couches, of doggedly arriving, gamely prepared to help in whatever crisis of the day, and eventually fading into a background player in a story that was turning out to be much bigger than me.”

For me, this book was a huge encouragement as I work with refugees in my own community. It reminds me that the seemingly small, seemingly insignificant acts of showing up, sitting with, and walking next to people are some of the most important.

I’d recommend this book for anyone considering ministry of any kind, especially college students or recent graduates. Granted, most of the things Mayfield learned can’t be taught any other way than through experience, but hers is a reminder that sometimes failing at one thing is the best thing in the end.

It’ll cost ya

September 12, 2016

I’m not what you would call a big spender. Though, to be honest, I’m not all that good at saving either. I’m happiest when we can pay our bills and have a little left over for fun. (Don’t worry, this isn’t a post about budgeting or planning for your financial future.)

Investing? That’s a whole different concept, something I don’t often think about. I don’t plan well, financially, for the future or think much about the old mantra: You gotta spend money to make money.

Fabian Blank via unsplash

At least, I didn’t. Not until this year.

See, this year is the first year that I’ve started investing in my writing. What has been a fun hobby that I sometimes get paid for has become–or more accurately is becoming–a business I want to grow. Not just so I can make money (because believe me there isn’t a ton of money to be made in this business) but so I can do more of the kind of work I love.

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

What these miles are for

September 8, 2016

Halfway.

We’re almost halfway through our 100-mile challenge. It’s been four weeks since my husband and I pledged to walk 100 miles in two months to raise money and awareness for a local refugee resettlement organization. (You can still donate toward our efforts by clicking here.)

Refugee resettlement. That’s the official-sounding phrase, but it means almost nothing compared to the reality.

For the past few months, I’ve been spending Tuesdays with refugees as they learn how to live in their new communities. I can’t tell you everything I’ve seen/heard/witnessed because it’s too much and I don’t have permission to share specific stories.

But I can tell you some things.

These are the reasons I’m walking:

For the barely adult children who are suddenly head of household because they speak the most English. I have met 25-year-olds who are managing large households, budgeting the food money, and working every available hour so that their family can make a new life here after living decades in a refugee camp.
For the mothers who want nothing more than to learn English, go to school and have a career.
For the look I see in a refugee’s eyes when I ask how long it’s been since he’s seen “home.” (Sometimes it’s been 10 years or more.)
For the young father who is working, translating appointments for his mother and sisters, running errands after work (on foot or by bus) and trying to raise a family.
For the smiles when an English word or concept makes sense.
For the relief when a family learns that their money is safe from corruption, that they can be taken care of for a time.
I walk for the lucky ones, the 1 percent of refugees who actually get resettled to another country, the ones who make it through the layers of security and health screenings, who are brave enough to get on an airplane and set foot in another country.

And I walk for the ones who are still waiting. For the kids who don’t have access to vaccines or medicines or education or hygiene. For the families who left one hellish environment only to find themselves in another one. For the ones who stayed in the war zones.

I walk these miles to make the only difference I know how: one step at a time.

I know this issue can be confusing and controversial. I urge you to seek out reputable sources about the refugee crisis, from organizations with first-hand experience and knowledge working with refugees. You can start with Church World Service, the organization I’m volunteering with. Or search for one in your area. If you have Netflix, I highly recommend the documentary “Salam Neighbor,” especially if you don’t have the opportunity to meet any refugees in the flesh.

And stay tuned! We’ve got four weeks left to log 100 total miles.

When religion is an addiction: Review of Spiritual Sobriety by Elizabeth Esther

September 7, 2016

There’s a part of me that is reluctant to share anything about this book because the idea of it makes me uncomfortable at the same time it sets me free. Does that even make sense?

Admitting that religion is an addiction seems sacrilegious. Can you get too much of a good thing?

The answer is yes and Elizabeth Esther gently guides us through the process of rediscovering a vibrant faith that has been stifled by religion. Spiritual Sobriety: Stumbling Back to Faith When Good Religion Goes Bad is the book I wish I’d read years ago when my whole belief system was falling apart. My “good” behavior didn’t produce the results I wanted from life, and I’ve been wrestling with God ever since.

This book gives us permission to step back from unhealthy systems and practices and relearn healthy spirituality.

While the author is writing from the perspective of someone who grew up in a religious cult, the principles she writes about are applicable in less restrictive religious environments. She explains it this way:

The issue is this: an obsession with spiritual beliefs, rituals, and pursuits that initially helps us but eventually removes our power to make healthy decision and brings significant harm to us and to those close to us. (9)

Elizabeth walks us through a sort of undoing, focusing on reality, moderation and letting go of the need to control others’ behaviors. She also addresses relapse, which is crucial to accept as part of the recovery process with any addiction. That might have been my favorite chapter because it allows for imperfection and acknowledges that transformation is a slow, steady process, not an instant change.

It took me months to read this book but not because the writing was hard to understand. Truthfully, the author got to the heart of so many things I’m dealing with that at times it was overwhelming and I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It’s a book to take slowly and with great care. I’d advise working through it in partnership with someone else who understands addictive behavior or who is in recovery.

This book isn’t for everyone and it might even make you mad. But if striving for holiness and working harder at religious practices is only making you feel more defeated, this is a recommended read.

I’m going to suggest that we do something really radical, uncomfortable, and borderline blasphemous: we stop trying to be good. (151)

How you react to that sentence is a good indicator of whether or not you should read this book.