Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Priceless giving and a reason to #putonyourpearls

There’s something so fancy about pearls. For some reason, I’ve always wanted to wear them, even though I’m a jewelry minimalist most of the time. Putting on pearls feels like a celebration.

If you need a reason to celebrate today, here’s one:mercy-house-she-is-priceless-social-media8-460x307

Today is a Global Giving Day for Mercy House Global, an organization that is partnering with four others to highlight the work of these ministries on behalf of oppressed women around the world.

To find out more about the organizations, and to give, visit sheispriceless.org.

Why pearls?

Here’s what Mercy House Global has to say:

A pearl is a healed wound. An oyster protects itself from irritation and suffering and the result is a priceless pearl. The women we support have endured unthinkable suffering in their lives and often feel forgotten. We are joining together to remind the world that every woman matters. She is priceless.

pearlsI’ll be wearing my pearls today, thanks to this kind gift from Mercy House Global in support of the campaign.

Will you join us today? #Putonyourpearls to show your support of women around the world, and head over to She Is Priceless to give your monetary support to the organizations helping to empower women through work and worth.

 

 

The other one percent

I got to hang out with the One Percent this week. I’m so lucky they let me into their circles, that they trust me to be among them. We come from totally different worlds. We speak different languages. And yet we are friends.

Jordan Sanchez via Unsplash

Jordan Sanchez via Unsplash

I ask to sit with them at their table, and they pull out a chair or pat the seat next to them, smiling, offering, “You can sit here.” They welcome me, and I am honored.

These are not the one-percenters you’ve heard so much about from other people. They are not the richest of the richest. They are not the most talked about, the most celebrated, the ones given the most attention.

No, these are a different group. The other one percent.

You’ve heard about the global refugee crisis, and there’s a lot of talk about who we should welcome and where and how many, but here’s a number I forgot about until recently:

Of the millions of people around the world displaced from their homes, resettlement (i.e. becoming a legal resident of a country that is not their home and not the one they fled to) is an option for less than 1 percent.

If you’ve been following along here, you know that I recently started helping out with refugee resettlement in my community. I never thought about how  the people I was meeting, the new friends I was making, are part of that one percent. They are the lucky ones who jumped through all the hoops, passed all the clearances, and were approved for resettlement.

They are a small representation of a larger population.

Walking with the One Percent

We do a lot of walking, me and the one percent, they much more than me. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I drive into the city to meet them. The first time we talked, I told them I lived too far to walk, then immediately shut my mouth, remembering our friend in Kenya who walks 45 minutes each way to work every day. Walking from my house to the city is possible, even if it isn’t convenient, and their feet log many more miles than mine.

Drew Patrick Miller via Unsplash

Drew Patrick Miller via Unsplash

Still, the walking is one of my favorite things I get to do with my new friends. I am navigationally challenged, relying on GPS more than is necessary, and even after three years of living here, I still don’t know my way around the city comfortably. Walking has changed that. After only two weeks of this volunteer gig, I recognize landmarks and where certain places are in relation to other places. I see things I never saw before, and the city that sometimes seems scary when I read news reports becomes much more familiar with my feet on the ground.

The youngest boy grabs my hand though we don’t understand each other–our language is smiles and trucks and building blocks–and we walk that way for blocks, hand-in-hand. I am overcome by his trust. I have walked this way with my own children, years ago, and this boy, he chooses my hand and keeps it.

Sometimes we talk about what we are seeing or hearing. Two police cars and an ambulance zoom past and we cover our ears or I repeat the words my friends are saying to identify those vehicles.

Sometimes we are silent because the language barrier is too much to overcome. I walk ahead and another young man follows behind. It is a responsibility I don’t feel qualified to carry, this guiding him through a city that is not my home, either. But being born into this country’s culture gives me an advantage I don’t always see. Maybe I’ve never been to a language class inside a church I’ve only seen from the outside, but I can fumble my way through a set of directions, even if I have to try every locked door on the outside of the building before I find the one that is open. (I also chose the wrong staircase and we wandered dark hallways until we found the right room.)

When walking in the city, I never feel out of place, even if there are 10 of us clustered together and we don’t quite make it across the street before the light changes. Walking is a way of life in the city. Out where I live in the suburbs, if I walk across the street to Costco I feel like a nuisance to the cars in the parking lot. I feel abnormal. Walking in the suburbs is mostly for exercise, not for errands.

Paying Attention

The silence is awkward sometimes. Even though I like quiet and conversation is not always easy for me, I have difficulty being silent in other people’s presence. I desperately wanted to make small talk as we walked to a church and back, but neither of us spoke the other’s language, so I focused on the path, instead. I didn’t want to get lost on our way there or back. I watched the street signs pass, mentally reviewing where our next turn would be. And I noticed the city’s smells. The brewing company filled the air with hops. And someone somewhere was cooking with fragrant spices.

I was so set on my task that I did not feel my phone vibrate, alerting me that our mission destination had changed.

And when I’ve been with the one percent for several hours, I don’t even think about what I’m missing from my phone notifications or the rest of the world around me. They are my focus during that time, and it is hard to get them out of my minds on the days when I can’t volunteer. Through their eyes I see the everyday as if it’s the first time.

Sean Brown via Unsplash

Sean Brown via Unsplash

I smile at one couple’s enthusiasm to be in the States as they take pictures of themselves in front of city buildings and introduce themselves to the other members of the class.

I see the frustration they feel when they don’t understand because an interpreter wasn’t arranged for that day or the plans fell through. And I’m puzzled for the right answer when they ask questions I’ve never considered, like, “How do I know the electric company has received my payment?” or “How does the doctor know you are sick?”

Have I ever asked those kinds of questions?

I have so much to learn. They have so much to teach me.

I can’t wait to become the person I’m meant to be

Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn’t know what kind of cake she liked. It was her birthday and a friend wanted to make her a cake and asked what her favorite was. The girl had never thought about it. She didn’t think her preferences mattered. She didn’t know how to voice her wants, needs or desires. When she ordered a hamburger from a made-to-order station at her college, she picked the “plain Jane,” because she was too afraid that her choices would be criticized. It didn’t make sense in the cake scenario because these were dear, kind, loving friends. Still, she panicked and said, “White. White cake with white frosting.” (And maybe a side of vanilla ice cream?)

It’s not that white cake with white frosting is bad. It was a delicious cake; it’s just that it wasn’t truly her favorite.  It was what she thought would be easy or right. It was a safe choice because it couldn’t be criticized, right? This same girl would order the same thing from the menu at any restaurant she’d ever been to because it required no risk, no choice.

Stephanie McCabe via Unsplash

Stephanie McCabe via Unsplash

Today, that same girl is celebrating a birthday. (Spoiler alert: It’s me!) And we’re having a meal at church tonight where the theme is “your favorite food.” We’re taking cake. At the time of writing this, I haven’t decided what kind because there are SO MANY to choose from. Now, if you asked me my favorite, I’d say, “Boston Creme Pie,” which doesn’t sound like cake, exactly, or “ice cream cake,” also not technically a cake. Or we might run to Costco and get a cake to take with us because they’re delish and huge. (Also, chocolate cake, yum.)

Now, that girl has trouble choosing a favorite, not because she’s afraid of making a wrong decision or facing criticism, but because she has tried a variety of things she likes.

It is only one evidence of an ongoing change in her life.

—

A few weeks ago, Phil and I were at a local market. It was part date, part grocery errand, as most of our visits to the market are. My husband happens to have Tuesdays off, when the best markets are open, so we take advantage, especially now as fresh vegetables begin to make their abundant return.

Our plan was to find some food for lunch before we shopped for produce. Lines were long at many of the stands selling pork and beef sandwiches. I was waiting for him to return from the bathroom, so I wandered down a path just to see what was there.

“Falafel and shawarma,” a sign read, and my interest immediately peaked. There was a shorter line at this stand, and the prices were reasonable. I turned to find my husband and he was coming toward me. We were agreed that this would be our lunch, and it wasn’t a mistake.

There was a time (see the previous hamburger incident) when I would have wanted to blend in with the crowd and eat something “normal” like beef brisket or a pork sandwich. That day, I was proud, probably in a sinful way, of how far I’ve come. I was more at ease, happier even, eating Middle Eastern food at a rural market in Pennsylvania than I would have been eating the more local fare.

Lena Bell via Unsplash

Lena Bell via Unsplash

I don’t know how a Midwestern girl from a smallish town learned to love the world. My husband and I both come from families who don’t move too far from where they grew up, and here we are 800 miles from home with our hearts set on the globe. I remember, even as a child, seeing airplanes in the sky over our house (Chicago was only 100 miles away) and wondering where the people were going to or coming from. As a train whistled past, just beyond the hill, I thought about its journey and what it would be like to travel that way.

It’s not that I don’t like my hometown; it’s just that something inside of me always knew, I think, that I would leave. My heart beat “away, away, go, go,” before I even really recognized it. This must be something that was birthed in me because it doesn’t always make sense. I’m not always adventurous, but I have always been curious, and curiosity is what propels me toward adventures like Africa.

I was not meant to see only one piece of the world.

—

Maybe I was not meant to see only one piece of the world, and maybe you were. That’s okay.

Part of what makes life interesting is seeing how different we all are and finding common ground anyway.

Months ago, now, I read a beautiful book that changed the way I think about myself. “Bandersnatch” is not a word I was familiar with, but author Erika Morrison built a whole book around it, turning it into a verb. bandersnatch

I’m inviting you to bandersnatch, that is, to acknowledge and embrace the unconventional habits and attitudes that are your birthright, to grapple with what has dominion over you, and to become a bit of a nuisance to the unhelpful, unhealthy, and often harmful systems of the human-made kingdom. (iv)

We do that, she says, by asking these questions:

What part of God do you represent? Do you know where you begin and where you end? … Do I know the words that describe who I am? (v)

Who are you, stripped of those things that tell you who you are? (ix)

I don’t want to quote the whole book because that would be plagiarism, so go read it for yourself. But these questions, and the gentle guidance of this book have got me thinking about who I am. Who I really am, not who people tell me I should be or who I think I should be. There is a difference, and it is huge.

—

I used to think that someday I’d become the person I wanted to be, or was meant to be, if I achieved enough milestones or worked through enough issues. There was some outward standard that would signal I had made it. I figured I would “arrive” somewhere in my 30s, or maybe even my 40s. At some point in adulthood I would feel like I had it together.

I’m 38 today. I don’t feel any of that.

But I do feel more like myself than I can ever remember.

Aging has a way of stripping away the things that don’t matter, although that alone isn’t the answer. I’ve met women much older than I am now who are no closer to knowing who they are than on the day they were born.

So, I’ve decided something. (Remember last year when I decided to try to lose 37 pounds for my 37th year? Spoiler alert: Not even close. Yeah, this is not like that at all.)

I’ve decided that I can’t wait to become the person I’m meant to be. Not “I can’t wait” in the “I’m so excited for that to happen someday in the future” sense. No, the “I can’t wait” as in “I don’t have to wait” sense.

I can’t wait and I won’t wait to become that woman because I already am her. And I’m not. But I can’t put it off. I can’t wait until life lines up like I think it should, just like I can’t delay buying new clothes until I lose X number of pounds. If I wait until I meet a certain standard, it might never happen. So, I’ll buy the clothes that fit me now. I’ll express myself according to my preferences, choices and beliefs now. Sure, they might change, but I can’t wait until I’m older to have an opinion about something. Besides, preferences, choices and beliefs often change. That girl who was afraid to express herself years ago wouldn’t recognize the woman she is now, and that’s kind of a good thing.

There are some things inside of me that will never change because they are part of the inherent me. And some of those things have been silenced by fear or shame or the “shoulds” from others.

Another question from Morrison begs for answers:

What percentage of you is original like you were born to be, and what percentage of you is owned by society’s systems and institutions and formulas for fun and happiness and rules for right living that don’t allow for the sacrament of your own strangeness?

Honestly? I never wanted to be weird. I was the girl who wanted to blend in, fade from memory, go unnoticed. I don’t think I really wanted that, but I think it’s what I thought I deserved. I didn’t think I was special or remarkable in any way. I thought I was so forgettable that after high school, I re-introduced myself to classmates I’d been in school with for years. I didn’t think they would remember me, even though our class was small.

Weird wasn’t cool, or so thought, but do you want to know a secret? We’re all a bit strange, if only we’d embrace it. I love how Morrison calls it a sacrament of strangeness.

I’m a holy weirdo.

That’s what this birthday is about for me–embracing my strange, unique, incomparable self; celebrating the woman I am and the woman I am becoming.

My original title for this post was going to be something about 38 not being great, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe this year won’t be the best ever or one of ridiculous transformation, but I don’t think that matters so much anymore.

What matters is how genuinely I’m living out my unique, God-made self.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

When friendship is all I have to give

“You are my friend. My first friend.”

We’d known each other for about an hour when she spoke these words in her best English. She told me her name twice, and I repeated what I heard, but even when we parted later, I couldn’t recall it.

But she was right: we were friends. Even though we had a difficult time understanding each other. Even though our skin color is different. Even though I am twice her age.

Officially, I was there as a volunteer. It was my first time serving in that capacity with a local organization that helps resettle refugees, and I had not a single clue how I could be of help. But I showed up anyway. I have no foreign language skills. No experience with social service. No background in social work. How on earth would I be able to help?

I sat with this family, newly arrived to the U.S., and listened to the presentation on nutrition and hygiene. I answered questions from the family, and “translated” English to simpler English. It was clumsy and imperfect. We watched each other’s lips form words and waited in silence for understanding to dawn. We smiled a lot. And laughed.

Maybe the first thing I learned was that language is no barrier for love. I could have decided not to volunteer because I don’t have any skills I think are valuable. I could have let my feelings about being unqualified limit my involvement.

And I would have missed out.

When our classroom portion of the orientation was finished, we walked to the market downtown. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, and along the way, I got to see the world anew. I forget what it’s like to be new in a place, to be seeing everything for the first time and to be so curious and unafraid of asking questions. As a born-and-raised American, I sometimes think I should just know the answer automatically, without ever having to ask anyone for help.

I tried to put myself in that place again. As my new friend read the words on the sides of buildings, I explained to her what each place was. We passed two banks on our walk, and I wonder what they think of that. Do they think we must have so much money that we need huge buildings to contain it all? And two within blocks of each other?

Maybe the second thing I learned, or re-learned, is that our way of life in this country is somewhat unique in the world. We can take some measure of pride in that, but I think we also need to understand that not everyone lives this way. During the class, I tried to explain snacks to the family. “It’s the food we eat between meals,” I said, and that did not translate no matter how many different ways I said it. Snacks aren’t bad, mind you, but if you come from a situation where meals might be scarce or culturally infrequent, eating extra food between meals is not an easy concept to explain. Ditto for trying to describe what a giant plastic tub of party pretzel mix is. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed by our culture.

Show and Tell

So, we arrived at market. All morning long I was searching my brain for different and simpler words to describe common (to us) objects. Like a sweet potato or yam. At market, I finally got to show my new friends what I meant when I said “beans” or “peas.”

Sonja Langford via Unsplash

Sonja Langford via Unsplash

We stopped first at a stand that sells turkey products.

“Like a chicken?” they asked.

“Yes. Like a big chicken,” I said. And the stand owner showed us an over-sized stuffed toy turkey. From there, it was a focused frenzy of listening for the questions from my new friends. They would point at vegetables, wanting to know what they were.

“Cabbage.” “Lettuce.” “Strawberries.” I felt like I was teaching my children again what fruits and vegetables are. Maybe parenting has given me more experience than I give myself credit for.

They pressed in close to me as we moved through the crowds, and tapped my arm to get my attention. I said so many words as we wandered the market aisles, both aware and unaware of the spectacle we must be. I barely noticed my husband until he was standing right next to me. I introduced him to my friends and he shook every hand. Later he told me: “This is what Kenya was for.” He knew from that experience that he would be expected to greet everyone in the group, so he was ready.

This is what Kenya was for.

I can’t get those words out of my head. Sometimes I still wonder if going to Africa made any difference. After the initial few weeks of reverse culture shock, life returned to relative normal. And though I took steps to start helping refugees back in the fall, illness and other things kept me from following through. (Spoiler alert: I’m terrible at follow through on most things.) But everything came together this spring, and finally–finally–this week, I got my start.

And I almost missed it.

The day before my official start, my back was giving me problems again, even after a chiropractor appointment. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle the sitting and the walking my volunteer work required, but my husband encouraged me to try. He would be nearby and able to help me if I got in a jam. So, I did it and I don’t regret it for a minute. Because my first time in the class was this family’s first time in the class, and they are African, and if I had waited another week or two to start, I might have missed this new relationship.

João Silas via Unsplash

João Silas via Unsplash

I hadn’t planned to go back the next day, but I also knew from our time in Kenya that consistent presence builds trust. Connections we made in Kenya are difficult–but not impossible–to maintain, and our missionary friends encouraged us to work at keeping in contact, even returning to Kenya if possible so that  the people we met knew we cared beyond a one-time visit.

So, I went back a second day because I wanted to get to know my new friends better. I didn’t even know their names, really, because I hadn’t seen them written down. And I wanted to know them better. To be on hand to assist however I could. So I sat in class again, this time filling out paperwork and trying to explain what a social security card is and why everyone in the family needed it.

I was the only Caucasian in the room, a fact I didn’t realize until much later. Many corners of the world were present that day in multiple languages, skin colors, and cultural practices. Everyone there to have a fresh start at life and needing to learn how to navigate this new country. Of everything I’ve done this week, these two brief stretches of time have been the most fulfilling. On Tuesday, I couldn’t stop smiling or talking about what had happened. I called a friend after it was over and ambushed her afternoon so I could download everything I’d seen, heard and experienced.

How I got here

As the training on Wednesday wrapped up, I told my friends that I would not see them again this week but would be back on Monday.

“I will miss you,” I said. I meant it.

“I will miss you,” one of my new friends said back to me. She hugged me and smiled. Her smile is my favorite thing these days.

I do miss them. Even though I needed to get back to my work–the writing and the housework–today, I feel like I’m missing something by not being there with them.

Each day I volunteered, I was asked by a staff member how I got involved with their organization. I don’t know how to answer that question without starting at Kenya, so I did. It mostly started when we looked in the faces and visited the homes of people who had been forced to leave their villages and towns and resettle elsewhere. It sprouted when we shared an airplane with distressed families leaving their homeland for an unknown land.

It began to grow when public figures began to speak unspeakable sentiments about refugees. I cannot bear to listen to the fear and the hate, so I took action instead. The whole political season is making me ill and I’ll never convince someone with words that I think their point of view is wrong. Sitting in a room with refugees, laughing and smiling and answering questions, feels the tiniest bit like rebellion. A love revolution. It is an act of survival in a world that seems full of hate. 

On the same day I cast my vote in the primary here, I walked alongside refugees. I made new friends. Both actions were a demonstration of freedom.

I think a lot of us are wondering how to get through life these days, when hope is scarce and fear is king. I say start by making a new friend, whether it’s a refugee recently resettled in our country or your next-door neighbor. Perhaps it might even be someone you disagree with. Friendship might not solve all the problems, but it will make a change in our hearts.

Everyday Heroes

I tell you these things because I want you to know what it’s like to make a new friend from a different culture. I want you to understand the work that goes into resettling refugees. I don’t want you to think that I’m any kind of hero, and I’m not out to paint myself as a savior. I cannot fix anything for these families nor is that my role. I’m there to be a friend. To answer questions.

No, the real heroes are the caseworkers and the employees of the organization. Their days are full of paperwork and making appointments and serving as a go-between for the refugee families and government agencies. They are managing multiple cases and solving problems, like when the gas company fails to turn the gas on at one of the houses and the family can’t cook, the caseworker brings by a hot plate so they can cook warm food. They are in it for the long haul, and their time is limited. I feel like I get to do the fun stuff to support them.

Maybe it’s too early to be this excited. I’m sure I will have moments of frustration and discouragement. I’m only human, and these are human situations. The short term is easy. The long haul is hard.

Hang in there through the long haul with me?

Because sometimes I forget

“Tell me all the things you’ve succeeded at in life.”

My therapist often asks me to do ridiculous helpful things like this, and even though I sometimes want to laugh, she is serious about her requests.

I started in childhood, listing things like learning to walk and talk and read. Even navigating school on a daily basis for years is a success for an introverted, highly sensitive person. The more I talked, the more things I remembered that I had done “successfully.” Then she asked me to stand up as I spoke and continue listing things. I talked about going to college and spending a semester in England and traveling a couple of times by myself because I was highly motivated.

And then I talked about writing.

This is where the conversation actually began.

See, there’s this writing conference in August that I want to go to. I’ve been wanting to go to it for years and this year finally feels like the year that it’s possible. But I’m scared. And also the price tag feels like too much for a dream. Too much investment in me. The thing that I’m afraid of is not what you might think. I’m not really afraid that I will go to this conference and be told I don’t have it or that my writing doesn’t cut it or that my ideas are trash. (For the record, I don’t think anyone would actually say it that way; those are my words only.) I’m not afraid of that because some days, a lot of them actually, I think rejection is what I deserve. I think failure is my destiny, that I don’t have what it takes to be a successful writer. So, someone else saying that would just confirm what I think I know.

No, what I really fear is success, however I might define it. I’m more afraid that going to this conference could lead to something bigger than I can imagine. This is not my expectation for the event, but it’s a possible outcome.

Patrick Hendry via Unsplash

Patrick Hendry via Unsplash

Fear of success. That’s why I found myself standing in my therapist’s office talking about all of my achievements. That’s an uncomfortable position for someone who avoids tooting her own horn. But I’m constantly being reminded that insecurity is false humility. It is okay to talk about the things we are good at, to celebrate a job well done.

***

So, I have homework. I never liked homework in school, but I always did it because that’s the kind of person I am. I don’t like it much better when it comes from someone I am paying an hour at a time every couple of weeks, but I will do it because I will have to report back the next time I go.

“Tell three people what you told me.”

That’s the homework. I have to recount my successes to three people because the more times I say it out loud, the more I’ll believe it. The more I’ll remember. I don’t know if this counts as telling anyone, but I’m a writer, so it’s a start. (And if three of you read this post and would leave a comment so I know that you did, that would go far in making me feel like I’d accomplished the homework.)

When it comes to writing, I feel like a fraud. I have stood in front of groups of writers offering expertise, and though I have a degree in communication and 8 years of professional writing experience in a brick-and-mortar workplace, I am most recently a stay-at-home mom who has only a few writing credits to her name. I don’t have a book published, and apparently, that is my standard for authority and credibility.

Hence the listing of successes. (Can you tell that even writing these out is hard for me. I’m more than 600 words into this post and I still haven’t listed them!)

This is where my therapist stops me and says: “You are a professional writer who took a break for a while to raise little people. And now you’re wanting to jump back in full force. This is not abnormal.” She cites others who have done this, and I realize that I have been diminishing my identity as a writer because my role as mother has taken a front seat for so many years.

You can see here all the places where my words have appeared besides in this space. And you can read more about my struggles to take myself seriously and call myself a writer.

And it doesn’t help that most people who know me now in Pennsylvania don’t know that in my hometown I was, for years, “that girl who writes for the paper.” Even when I went to the grocery store, people would stop me to talk because they recognized my face from a picture, or let’s be honest, they knew my parents or grandparents. Hometown love=blessed.

Chances are if you’re reading this, you don’t know some of those writing things about me, either. (Closing in on 850 words and I’m still struggling to tell you my successes.)

Okay, here goes:

I took some creative writing classes in college, possibly the most insecure time in my life to be showing other people my work. I remember the first time a creative writing professor critiqued something I’d written. He could tell I was used to writing newspaper articles because I was a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of story writer, too. I knew, then, that my writing was not great. I was no prodigy. I couldn’t turn a phrase like some of my classmates. But not long after that, something happened. I started following Jesus, and even though it sounds so cliche to say it, but something changed in my writing after that. You can dismiss that, if you want, but I know what I experienced. Writing became a spiritual experience for me.

God offered me encouragement in my craft in the unlikeliest of places. One time, I had written a short story about a purse-snatching or some kind of robbery, and how the woman who was the victim forgave the boy who committed the crime and it changed his life. It was not a great story, and when my professor started talking about it in front of the class, he began by saying he could not believe this scenario would ever occur. But after he had read my story, he had read a newspaper article in which that exact thing happened. He even brought the article in to show us, I think. Maybe that’s my memory adding drama to the event. I had no way of knowing that scenario would occur in real life and that my professor would read about it. It felt like a nudge from God, a holy affirmation of, “See, I’ve got this.”

Another time, I was taking a class from the most-feared writing professor in the department. He was harsh and hard to please and everyone pretty much knew that their writing would get ripped to shreds. But I needed the credit and he was the only one to teach the class. I wrote another story about redemption and first love, and when I think about it now, it was an awful story as well. Most of my classmates hated it because of its religious elements, and though my professor was a religious man, his reputation was to not like creative writing with that slant. My turn for class critique came up, and I was as anxious as I’d ever been, probably, about writing. To my shock, he publicly praised the story. I still can’t believe it when I think about all these years later.

I don’t feel like I had much to do with those “successes” but they are part of my writing heritage. They are the kinds of stories I need to tell and retell so I remember that I’m not just playing at a fun hobby here but following my God-given calling. I was a writer before I was a wife, before I was a mother, and I will be a writer until I die, whether I’m ever contracted with a traditional publisher to write a book or not. I am a published writer already.

Bear with me for one more “success” story?

Guys, I am an award-winning journalist. I have the plaques on my wall to prove it. (Oh. My. Goodness. I hate how arrogant I sound.)

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Honestly, those plaques hang on the wall, not to brag, but to serve as a reminder of what I’m capable of. I told this to my therapist and she was like, “Get out. What?!” (Not her exact words, but you know, the gist.)

It’s true. I’ve won awards for my writing. Sure, they were statewide awards for papers of similar size and not, you know, Pulitzer prizes or anything, but I got to go to a fancy banquet in the state capital and receive the honors in front of all kinds of newspaper people, including ones who worked for THE TRIB. (That’s journalist shorthand for the Chicago Tribune. Kind of a big deal.)

Most days, when I think of my journalism career, I think of how awful I felt about it. I was not good at approaching strangers for comment, and I had major anxiety about causing conflict. I think more about the times I wrote something that ticked people off and how they called and left nasty messages on my voicemail. I imagine what it would have been like to be a journalist with today’s ever-present social media and anonymous comments. I would have crumbled under the meanness, or developed a hardened heart. It was bad enough to have to go out in public and face people’s disappointments when I had to write about an uncomfortable truth.

But that’s not the whole story of my writing career. I wrote some damn good pieces that got noticed at the state level. I took a big risk writing a story about a woman’s allegations against a college athletic director that eventually resulted in his firing. I’m sorry he lost his job, but I’m not sorry the woman finally had a voice in the whole thing. One very terrible day, I wrote about a family of four who drowned in the river after a middle-of-the-night car crash. These aren’t the kinds of things you want to write about, but they are things I will never forget. Like the Friday night when the city’s main industry, the steel mill, closed for good. Or the Saturday that President Ronald Reagan, whose hometown was the same as mine, died. I participated in local history. That’s no small thing, even if it doesn’t feel like a big thing.

Maybe I will keep going with listing my successes, but I don’t want to bore you further. Maybe I will tell some people, out loud with words, if I actually see any people to tell. Most days, I only see my immediate family and they are not impressed by my former life.

Sometimes I forget that I am a writer. That I always have been, ever since I filled notebooks with stories and handed them to my parents’ friends to read. I filled journal after journal with thoughts and dreams and fears.

I have always been a writer and I always will be. And attending this conference won’t change that.

Stay tuned because this next step of the journey is both significant and insignificant. It doesn’t change anything, but it could change everything.

And if you don’t want to miss a single step of the journey, submit your e-mail address at the top right-hand side of the page. You’ll get an e-mail when I post something new. (That’s as self-promotion-y as I get. It’s uncomfortable but necessary.)

Do you ever think about your successes in life? Tell me about them in the comments. I’d love to celebrate them with you!

A study Bible for Africans by Africans

It’s been almost 10 months since we went to Kenya. This time last year, we were fundraising like mad, hosting meals and a silent auction and pestering everyone we knew to buy puzzle pieces or give a little something to help us get there. I can’t say with honesty that I miss the fundraising part. (The next time we go to Africa, I hope it will be on our own dime. #Lifegoals)

But I’m not sorry to be asking again for your support. This time, it’s not for me, but for our African brothers and sisters.

One of the questions we were asked during our presentation about our trip was about the spiritual poverty of the people we met in Kenya, and while there are definite challenges to a person’s faith there, as there are anywhere, the overall feeling I got from the people we met is that there is a spiritual richness. I felt like the spiritually poor one in the presence of fervent song and prayers.

And if I learned anything from that trip and in debriefing with friends, it’s that it’s not my job, or the job of any of us in the West, to rescue Africans. Instead, we’re to partner with them. Learn from them. Listen to them. Equip them.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

AfricaStudyBibleCoverArt2Oasis International, in partnership with Tyndale House Publishers, has created a study Bible for Africans by Africans. It’s called, appropriately, the Africa Study Bible, and it’s not only gorgeous, from what I’ve seen so far, but relevant to life in Africa. Instead of being a Western-focused resource, this study Bible contains insights and stories that connect with the story of Africa and its people. It’s an exciting prospect, and I can’t wait to hear input from those who can use it as intended.

Here’s where we come in.

Oasis International wants to make the first run of ASBs available in Africa by the end of 2016. To get there, they’re aiming to raise $1 million to print the first 100,000 copies. Want to join in the fun? Check out the Kickstarter campaign running now through June 16. (If you’re not familiar, Kickstarter is a crowd-funding site that allows people to donate to projects and receive rewards, such as advance copies of books or art prints.) The campaign goal is $100,000, and the campaign page on Kickstarter will give you tons of information about the project.

But here are a few highlights:

  • The goal is to eventually publish the Africa Study Bible(ASB) in all of Africa’s major languages, but it will initially be published in English using the New Living Translation followed by French and Portuguese translations in the years to come. By printing in these three languages, the ASB will have its greatest impact, reaching up to 70 percent of literate African Christians. They expect to launch this year in Ghana, Nigeria, Kenya, and South Africa.
  • Each of the more than 2,200 features in the study Bible were planned by Africans who teach and lead God’s people.
  • Hundreds of millions of Africans know and love Christ. However, most discipleship and biblical resources come from a Western perspective—a culture far removed from their own.

You can back this project for as little as $1 or as much as $10,000. (The reward for a $10,000 pledge is a trip to Kenya for the Africa launch of the Bible and a safari. I’ve never wished more fervently that I had that kind of money lying around!)

Learn more about the organization spearheading this project here.

And please consider partnering with these organizations to bring this valuable resource to the people of Africa.

Finding a way through the darkness: Review of Night Driving by Addie Zierman

In the middle of a bitter cold winter in Minnesota, a mom and her two young sons flee in search of the light and warmth of Florida. It is a desperate act, a search for inner light as much as sunshine, and it brings surprising results.

Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark is Addie Zierman’s account of this road trip and the things she discovers–about herself, her faith, and God–along the way. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the publisher in exchange for my review.)

Some people called her brave to embark on such a trip, but it’s a badge Zierman is reluctant to wear.

My heart is not, in the end, cut from an adventurous, seafaring cloth. I am, generally speaking, a homebody, content with very little adventure in my life. I chose this trip not because I am brave but because I was desperate. (p. 5)

Zierman writes about how she could no longer feel God’s presence like she could when her faith was “on fire” in her youth and how she tried–and still tries–to fill the void with wine and flirting and anything that makes her feel something. Her trip with her boys, 4 and 2, was as much a search for sunshine as an attempt to escape from her own self. But as she journeys, she realizes that she can’t outrun the darkness, even in the Florida sunshine.

What I love about Zierman’s writing is that it doesn’t sugarcoat or paint a pretty picture. It’s gut-level honest. This dream of a road trip has its nightmares–as one might expect traveling thousands of miles in a van with two toddlers. There are numerous McDonald’s stops and bathroom breaks and a Diet Coke incident that made me want to give Zierman a hug. There’s rain at the beach and sleepless nights and doubts about whether this trip was a good idea in the first place.

But there are also precious conversations with friends, one glorious day at the beach, and subtle changes. Reminders that darkness and silence and solitude are part of the rhythms of faith, not evidence of the absence of faith.

Maybe I’m a snowbird–or maybe I’m not. Maybe all this ever was was a case of mistaken identity. I thought I needed to fly away to survive. I’d forgotten about the simple ways we are saved exactly where we are. (p. 178)

Through her own journey, Zierman grants us permission to wrestle with our faith when the light seems to have gone out, and to realize that we can see in the dark; our eyes just might need time to adjust.

If you’ve ever wanted to escape when the darkness closes in, to flee toward warmth when the temperatures start to dip, find encouragement in this book.

To launch the book, Zierman invited people to share their stories of faith in the dark places. You can read my contribution here and follow links to her site to read others’ stories as well.

Why I don’t like the term ‘working parent’

I’m new to this.

Before I was married, I worked a full-time journalism gig for 7 years, and then for another year after marriage while my husband finished his undergrad. We had a baby during that year, and I continued working full time while my husband went to school and stayed home with our daughter on the days he didn’t have class. A patchwork of volunteer babysitters from our church helped us out on the other days, and though I was technically a “working parent” at the time, it didn’t feel like a big deal. My husband made dinner and babies sleep a lot, so although my time with our daughter was limited, I knew it was temporary and she wouldn’t remember it anyway.

Then we moved to Pennsylvania and my husband started seminary and I stayed home with the baby girl, who would be followed by a baby boy a year and a half later. It made sense for me to stay home, even though our income was severely limited and we had to rely on government assistance to get by. Had I worked, we still would have had child care costs and a whole lot more stress. I know this decision is not a popular one and opens us up to criticism, but it was what our family needed to do to get by.

It would be years before we had stable full-time income, and in those years, while parenting small children, I tested the freelance writing waters. Here and there I sold an article. I started blogging to keep myself sane because writing is a lifeline for me. But parenting was my main job, and I didn’t always do it well, but I did it.

We’ve always known, at least I think we have, that when the kids went to school, I would focus on my writing and do what God has called me to do, and seek to make money at it, even if it never “paid the bills.” Phil said to me the other day that he feels like he works an outside job so that I can write. I don’t take for granted that I have a husband who supports and champions my dreams, even when I don’t have the energy or confidence to do it myself.

Photo by Negative Space via Unsplash

Photo by Negative Space via Unsplash

That’s where I find myself: with two kids in school full time, a husband working a full-time job, and me pursuing writing as both a calling and a career. For about six months, I’ve been working with a client on a memoir, which means that I am getting paid for a project that is time-consuming and demanding and a lot of fun. But it also means that I feel more like a “working parent.”

Most days, my husband goes off to work, and I get the kids on the bus, and then the day stretches out ahead of me in a rhythm of writing, eating, and housework. Okay, and some leisure. But today, that rhythm changed. I had a meeting with my client and I needed the car, so we all left the house at the same time. We dropped my husband off at work and then I took the kids to school, something I’ve never done before. Then I swung back by home because we’d forgotten to put the trash out. Knowing that this morning would be hectic, I spent part of last night printing out a copy of the manuscript for my client and making sure dishes were clean for lunches. We remembered too late, just before bed, that my husband needed work clothes washed, so into the washer they went at 11 p.m., into the dryer at 6:30 a.m. After my stop at home, I met my client at McDonald’s where we talked through some questions I had about his stories for almost two hours.

I get it, though. That’s nothing compared to what most “working parents” face every day. Also, I hate that phrase, “working parent,” because parenting by its very nature is work. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever done, and it’s endless in its demands. “Working parent” is redundant. I’ve been a working parent since my kids were born; now I’m just working at something besides parenting, or in addition to it. I’m ridiculously grateful that I can work for myself and set my own hours and pursue a craft that is mostly fun and enjoyable for me. So, that’s why I can only say that I sort of know what you parents who work at something in addition to parenting go through. It’s a teensy tiny glimpse.

I know that it’s easy for us parents to be hard on ourselves about any of our choices: to work a job outside the home, to stay home and work at parenting, to work from home and work at parenting, so can we just agree that whatever we decide to do is okay if it’s a right fit for our family and makes ends meet? That are lots of ways to be good parents and we’re all working at it the best we can?

Forget labels. Forget about the “shoulds” that other people try to place on your life and just do what you need to do. That’s what I’m telling myself today. I need to give myself that grace. Maybe you do, too.

Lenten reading wrap-up

I’m sure you’re all dying to know how my fast from fiction went during Lent, especially since Lent ended weeks ago and I haven’t written about it yet.

Did she survive?

The answer is yes. Mostly.

I had big dreams back in February that I was going to read all these wholesome, spiritually nourishing non-fiction books. I even took a picture of my goal.

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So, yeah. Ambitious.

The truth is both better and worse than what that picture shows.

I started Lent with Rachel Wojo’s One More Step and it was slow going because I really wanted to digest the lessons and do the reflection activities at the end of each chapter. Then I moved on to Christie Purifoy’s beautiful memoir Roots & Sky. So far so good if you’re following along with the picture.

I finished reading Brennan Manning’s Souvenirs of Solitude, a book I used along with daily devotions. I didn’t start that book during Lent, but I finished it, so it counts, right? In its place, I started Love Does by Bob Goff, and I’m still working my way through that.

Then I got distracted by the new-book shelf at the library and picked up Mindy Kaling’s Why Not Me? Because I couldn’t read fiction, I needed a guilty pleasure kind of book, and this was it. It was funny but like most of the books I’ve read from comedy writers, there’s a lot of truth and wisdom included.

And then the library answered my request for The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You by Elaine Aron. I’ve been hearing about this concept for a while, and if you have even the tiniest inkling that you might be a highly sensitive person, I can’t recommend this book enough. I read the library copy, but I want to get my own just to have as a reference.

Finally, as Lent drew to a close, I was finishing up Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City by Matthew Desmond. This was a fascinating read with a lot of good stories and information.

So, while I didn’t accomplish the goal I set out for, I don’t feel bad about what I did read during those weeks.

It wasn’t perfect, though. I did watch a lot of episodes on Netflix, which were technically fiction but not the same as reading because I didn’t watch them when my kids were home and I had to decide every 45 minutes if I was going to keep watching. With a book, it’s barely a question of whether I’m going to keep reading.

But I found the exercise helpful. It’s been difficult for me to get back into reading fiction after so many weeks away. I used to request any book I was interested in from a favorite author when it came up for review in the blogger review programs I’m part of, but I’ve not requested any new fiction since February. I’m choosier, right now, I think.

The first thing I read after Lent was Courtney Walsh’s Change of Heart. No regrets, there. Now, I’m on book six of the Harry Potter series. And I’m tackling Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird for the first time in 15 years.

Fiction isn’t bad. Please don’t let that be your takeaway from this. But I think I needed the break. I’m more intentional right now about what I’m reading and how many books I’m reading. (Confession: I have two from the library sitting on my counter waiting their turn after I finish my in-progress ones.)

I won’t give up fiction forever, but I think the break was beneficial.

Have you ever done something like this? How was it for you?

When the world breaks

The world is broken.

I hear this all the time. On Facebook. In news articles. From Christians and non-Christians alike.

And it’s not hard to believe when we hear about places like Brussels and Paris, targeted in terrorist attacks, and when we learn about all the other places we don’t hear about who also suffer attacks. It’s not hard to believe when we see the faces of refugees fleeing violent situations and hear the rhetoric about how they are not welcome here. It’s not hard to believe when politicians are shouting at each other. When no choice seems like a good choice and all we want to do is shout, “Come, Lord Jesus. Come quickly!”

It’s easy to point a finger at all the brokenness in the world. To list it like evidence in a trial. Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Here’s proof.

The world is broken. Few people would argue about that.

My question is: what can we do about it?

You can read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of each month.