The Rumble

Just another ordinary Tuesday... my workday begins around 7:00 a.m., editing a column for my friend, Tim. Then, the extraordinary happens. As I read his words on the page my head begins swimming, a memory leaves the quiet of its resting place and floats toward my consciousness.

In the late '90s as the internet became a new and efficient connector for so many, a woman reached out to my husband, accusing him of violence toward her... years earlier... decades, actually. I cannot know how long my husband endured the weight of her accusation before sharing the burden with me. I hope it was minutes or hours, not weeks or months. 

I never asked. I cannot now know.

When the words he desired to say were spoken and silence filled the room, my first thought was: that is not possible... that is not the man you are. In the days that followed, the woman's sister contacted my husband, providing insight, giving details not of what her sibling believed had happened, but what was happening now.

I remember standing in the dining room, looking into my husband's eyes as he reached out by phone to someone he trusted, an attorney. The advice? Do not voluntarily submit to her request, ever. Too much risk. Too much uncertainty. Too much chaos over which there is no control. Do not, under any circumstances, participate in a paternity test.

Again, the timeline is lost in the passing of years. Eventually, though, the rumble of this is not possible made conforming our hearts to the attorney's advice untenable.

We made the decision to open a conversation with the sister and discuss what was happening now, and that discussion led us to another, and another, and then one day we drove north to meet a 20-something woman who'd been told my husband was her father. 

She wanted an accurate medical history, not for herself, but for her children, the ones she and her husband were raising.

On a sunny and otherwise unremarkable day, we sat in a booth in a Subway restaurant alongside the highway that connected her city with ours. I watched as my husband opened the envelope, read and signed the consent form, then scraped the inside of his cheek before handing the swab to the young woman.

I remember thinking how intelligent and engaging this young woman was... how brave. I was not fearful of the outcomes. My heart and mind were on her, contemplating the similarities in age and attitude she shared with our children. My mind drifted into the weirdness of an unknown future.

If the swabs affirmed no connection, would she suffer or rejoice? If the swabs revealed paternity, would she be blended into our family? Or, simply walk away a stranger with the medical history she risked so much for?

We sipped our sodas and made small talk for a time... a very short time... before leaving the restaurant.

Weeks passed.

We waited.

Then, one day, the information came.

My husband was not her father; he was not the shadowed figure of her mother's nightmares.

I wept.

I wept for the young woman... for the story of horror that surrounded her birth... for the pain in her life... her courage and the journey ahead of her.

Life grew quiet, contemplative, for my husband and for me... our hearts drawn closer together in this earthy life.

R

... 
Get wisdom.
Though it cost all you have, 

get understanding.
Cherish her, 

and she will exalt you;
embrace her, 

and she will honor you.
She will give you a garland 

to grace your head
and present you 

with a glorious crown.

-- Proverbs 4:8-9

Willow

Less than a week ago, my friend asked for prayer. 

My friend is an advocate and leader in anti-trafficking---a woman on the front lines. 
She had committed to assisting a woman caught in a dangerous web. 

The prayer was for the first step: moving the woman (let's call her Willow) out of the neighborhood where her car had been stolen and her apartment had been burglarized. My friend's husband would assist. A third volunteer was desirable; none were available.  

I'll go, I offered.

Less than an hour later, in a neighborhood unfamiliar to me, carrying hastily packed boxes and bags from an apartment, I found myself praying in the chaos that God would help us take with us the things that mattered most. 

Willow's mattress was rolled and pushed into the backseat of one vehicle. The sturdy wood bed frame miraculously fit in the hatchback of my car. Bedding, swiftly packed clothing, kitchen essentials, personal care products and other necessities filled a third car. Occasional tables and painted canvasses, revealing Willow as an artist, were gently added. I prayed again. So much was being left behind!

In the 90 minute window allotted, the plan unfolded. Willow packed and we loaded for 40 minutes. Then, Willow locked the apartment and left with a trusted advocate to get the keys to her new place. Meanwhile we drove 9.6 miles to the new apartment attempting to avoid rush hour traffic. We arrived ahead of Willow and unloaded. Then we waited.

In the waiting, time was unrestricted. Feeling unnerved I asked my friend about the chaos, the reality of so much being left behind, the undermining of Willow's humanity --- her sense of safety. 

My friend was comforting and encouraging, and openly shared about similar moving experiences... the necessity of an escape plan, the need for vigilance. And, how God changes our lives, the provision of her current home where she feels safe.

Her honesty left me with the realization that this is the first time -- as a person whose life was predominantly safely middle class married -- that I am personally engaging the silent threat of chaos. 

A few months ago I stored a nylon cinch sack near the safe that holds my passport and other documents, determining that if escape were necessary (natural disaster or human threat) I could walk cross-country the 3 miles to my son and daughter-in-law's house. 

In recent days I find myself pondering, in Hollywood apocalyptic style: What else is essential to take with me? 

From my growing library (153 books counted today) I am selecting these books: The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough 1977, The Shack by William Paul Young 2007, The Transforming Friendship by Leslie D. Weatherhead 1928, and Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell 2005.  

I am a flawed, human and fragile encourager, a speaker and writer of words. 

My spiritual gift is exhortation.

Willow is gifted. She is an artist.

In the chaos she chose to bring her paintings.  

I will bring four books.

R

avoidance

My abandoned desk is buried beneath chaotic stacks of boxes and bins, containers filled with neglected journals, photographs -- keepsakes spanning five decades -- remnants of captured moments, snapshots of the lives woven most tightly with mine.

In this season of downsizing, the stacks of boxes stand day after day, sentinels quietly waiting to be reduced, contents sorted, gifted, treasured, discarded.

This photo from the early 1960s surfaces -- unfamiliar, unexpected, painful.


My heart aches for the girl on the swing, watching, waiting.

Is she summoning the courage to touch the fish?

Navigating the confusion of having already failed that task?

Or, lost in the obscurity of not being asked at all?



[Jesus] took the child’s father and mother and the disciples who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” (which means “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). Immediately the girl stood up and began to walk around (she was twelve years old). At this they were completely astonished. Mark 5:40-42

yolo

you only live once

What is keeping you from living life to the fullest?


 

This morning I think of my friends, ordinary women and men embracing life with extraordinary courage, and I wonder what is keeping me from living life to the fullest too?

Rw

ordinarycourage.com

Tomorrow You Die

 
I don't know why I picked this one.

When offered access to the bookshelves of new friends, "Tomorrow You Die" is the title I took home, a story of young women who dared to smuggle the Gospel into a communist country, a nation that had sealed Christian citizens in barrels and rolled them into the sea.

 I can't imagine being interrogated, hearing my answers repeated in a language I do not speak, interpreted by someone whose first language is not my own.

Luke 21: Don't be concerned about how to answer ....I will give you the right words and such logic that none of your opponents will be able to reply! (TLB)
– "Tomorrow You Die" pg 81

I can't imagine being told after hours questioning, "You are a traitor ... and traitors are shot. We will come for you at nine tomorrow morning."

... and returning to a hotel room to sleep, trusting God enough to sleep.

Rw

Luke 21:14-15 NLT

Wrestling with God

Oct 5: With food costs spiraling out of control, my friend Kimberly, asks for $150,000 to feed orphans in Sudan. more

Oct 10: Kimberly boldly and transparently writes about the "businessmen" offering to SELL an entire year's worth of "USAID NOT FOR SALE" food. more

Oct 20: Kimberly is back at her keyboard: "All morning long I wrestled with God, or maybe whined to Him. 'I don’t get it. Even when Betsie Ten Boom was dying in a concentration camp with her sister Corrie she only recalled your Word, Our God owns the cattle on a thousand hills.' ... Why can’t I just call on You and let it go?
I really don’t want to write about children going hungry one more time.” more

Asking for help is difficult.

One day Jesus was teaching ... and the power of the Lord was with

Jesus to heal the sick. Some men came carrying a paralyzed man

on a mat and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus.

When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd,

they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat through the

tiles into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus.

Luke 5:17-26 NIV excerpt

Jesus knew exactly what the onlookers were thinking.

Jesus ... said, "Why all this gossipy whispering? Which is simpler: to say

 'I forgive your sins,' or to say 'Get up and start walking'? Well, just so it's clear

 that I'm the Son of Man and authorized to do either, or both ..."

 Luke 5:22-24 MSG

Asking for help is trusting others to hold the corners of my mat, submitting to being lowered through the roof and placed at the feet of Jesus.

Asking for help is risking that the crowd may doubt and scoff and gossip, that people will hear "I forgive your sins" as an exposure of my brokenness rather than an affirmation of Jesus' Divinity.

I need your help.

I need your help with provision for Whispered Hopes.

Please consider donating gifts, joining us in prayer, volunteering to visit the clubs, or asking friends to be ambassadors in their own faith communities. more

Like my friend Kimberly, I am wrestling not with God's abundance, but with my own unwillingness to risk asking for your help.

Rw

The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom book
Passport Through Darkness by Kimberly L. Smith book

I will not accept another young bull from your household 

or a single male goat from your pens. 

Every creature in the forest, 

the cattle on a thousand hills, is mine. 

I know every bird in the mountains.

Everything that moves in the fields is mine.

Psalm 50:9-11 GW

Mama Bird

A few days ago I came across the podcasts from God Loves Great Sex. In the second season women talk about their journeys – both sorrows and joys.

I am amazed at the strength within my friends.

This morning, mama bird is back on my porch, safe and warm in her nest at the top of the column. She and her mate have nested on our front porch since 2009.

The first year eggs hatched but the chicks didn't make it. Boldly the adult birds came back the following spring to build again, and were blessed with hungry, healthy baby birds for two years.


In this unseasonably warm spring – their fourth year on the porch – the nest has blown off the top of the column three times, as though God is somehow saying: Not yet, mama bird, it is too early to lay your eggs. 

Each time the nest blew away, mama bird disappeared for a day or two. This last time she stayed away longer, long enough that I thought she was gone for good.

Harley

A few days later a small pile of sticks and grass appeared, then an empty nest ... and this morning she is there to greet us as Harley and I step out the front door for our morning walk.

As I think about my friends, the courageous women who share their stories in podcasts, in blogs and in person, I see trust and hope in Christ.

Like mama bird these women are "... working hard, working late, working without eating; with pure heart, clear head, steady hand; in gentleness, holiness, and honest love ..." believing God is with us no matter how often that nest seems to blow away.

Our work as God's servants gets validated—or not—in the details. 

People are watching us as we stay at our post, alertly, unswervingly . . . 

in hard times, tough times, bad times;
when we're beaten up, jailed, and mobbed; 

working hard, working late, working without eating; 

with pure heart, clear head, steady hand;
in gentleness, holiness, and honest love; 

when we're telling the truth,
and when God's showing his power..."  

— 2 Corinthians 6 more 

Rw

Healing in Faith

Our enemy is dishonest and tenacious, picking on children, hiding in the shadows, speaking simple repetitive lies into our pain.

Our God is Truth and Light, the Creator who loves us and knows our hearts,
our deepest fears, our unspeakable wounds, our greatest joys. God celebrates, knowing the plans laid out for us, plans for good - not disaster - gifts in hope
and a beautiful future. Jeremiah 29:11 NLT

In Wounded Heart as we examine our childhood pain and satan's lies we discover Light in the darkness, Plans for Good and not disaster.

We return to the feet of Jesus and we are more than healed.
We are healed and made well.
We are saved.

It happened that as he made his way toward Jerusalem, 

he crossed over the border between Samaria and Galilee. 

As he entered a village, ten men, all lepers, met him. 

They kept their distance but raised their voices, 

calling out, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!"

Taking a good look at them, he said, 

"Go, show yourselves to the priests."

They went, and while still on their way, became clean. 

One of them, when he realized that he was healed, 

turned around and came back, shouting his gratitude, glorifying God. 

He kneeled at Jesus' feet, so grateful. 

He couldn't thank him enough

—and he was a Samaritan.

Jesus said, "Were not ten healed? Where are the nine? 

Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?" 

Then he said to him, "Get up. On your way. 

Your faith has healed and saved you."

—Luke 17:11-19 MSG

I lift up the women and men tentatively and courageously exploring Wounded Heart, pushing past the inaccurate and often debilitating label of "abuse victim" and walking into God's Light!

Rw
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Push

Was I pushed?

Or, did I jump?

When telling the story
of my journey with Christ,
the early days of Whispered
Hopes, the days before we
even knew the name, I use
the word PUSH.

People who don't know me,
and some of those that do,
might hear PUSH as violent,
overriding free will.

Nope. That's not it at all.

push
verb (used with object) to press upon or against (a thing) with force in order to move it away. to move (something) in a specified way by exerting force; shove; drive: to push something aside; to push the door open. to effect or accomplish by thrusting obstacles aside: to push one's way through the crowd. to cause
to extend or project; thrust. to press or urge to some action or course: His mother pushed him to get a job... verb (used without object) to exert a thrusting force upon something. to use steady force in moving a thing away; shove. to make one's way with effort or persistence, as against difficulty or opposition. to extend or project; thrust: The point of land pushed far out into the sea. to put forth vigorous or persistent efforts. dictionary.com

The person originating the PUSH couldn't be in the water, waiting for me to jump in from the side of the pool. I was on the high dive. I was afraid of heights. The PUSH needed to come from someone standing right next to me, on the diving board, a person willing to risk with me, someone who knew the water below was deep enough to catch us both.

Like a first time skydiver, who needed a not-so-gentle nudge from the plane, or a novice hang glider coaxed from a cliff, I wasn't going to jump off the high dive on my own. My life was warm and dry, predictable and safe.

Kids jump into life all the time, dive into joy. Kids risk.

"I'm telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you're not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God's kingdom. What's more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it's the same as receiving me. Matthew 18:3-5 MSG

Next time I tell the story, I hope to be more articulate so that everyone will hear me saying what I really mean:

Thanks for the PUSH.

Rw
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Karen Roach, Photographer 123rf.com
High Dive

tools for you own path

...find courage to trust yourself. You have taken the risk to lose everything for the sake of something better. Everyone must do this, but few do. You are a rare breed, and a part of that breed’s constitution is that it is courageous, resilient and determined. You must listen to your inner wisdom and trust it. The same wisdom that motivated you to leave is the same wisdom that will guide you. Yes, listen to wise voices from the past and the present. Read good books. Take good advice. But filter it all through your own innate intelligence. You will be surprised how well equipped you are to walk your own unique path with nobility, finesse, dignity and finally joy.
—David Hayward, nakedpastor

When I first encountered the work of David Hayward, it was one of his cartoons displayed in bigger-than-life proportions on the movie theater screen behind our pastor, Sunday morning 10am.

Or maybe 10:20am, as most of us linger at the coffee pot on the way into worship, more focused on the fellowship.

For me, a great cartoon brings together wit and philosophy, shines a spotlight on our cultural hypocrisy, reveals duplicity within me.

My notes from Sunday's teaching:

I am
not Abel
but Cain,

not the
prodigal son
but the
jealous sibling,

the virus
not the
antidote.

And, I am a ministry leader, broken and limping. That's allowed here at Fellowship, here in Christ.

When Fellowship people were reading "The Starfish and The Spider" many of us questioned the word SHOULD, consciously removed it from our vocabularies. The word we are examining today is BUT – we are challenged to replace BUT with AND.

So, my self assessment reads, "I am Abel and Cain, the prodigal son and the jealous sibling, contain the virus and the antidote."

This tool puts a new spin on the whole Christ-following thing, invites a fresh perspective, a new light.

A new Light.

Rw
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Teaching 2012.01.08
Abel and Cain
Prodigal Son

Draft: Rumors to Nudge Me

Among the list of posts unpublished this year are six drafts
~ the first draft entry reads:

"If nothing else, God used the rumors to nudge me into
something I’ve been avoiding for a long time: my own
compassionate statement of beliefs, one I could articulate
to people who may agree with me, and those who don’t.
I believe Christ calls us to listen patiently, then speak
with love and wisdom as He did in John 8:1-11 – one of
the cornerstone scriptures for whispered hopes."
—Rw 04 Mar 2011

The words, snipped from an email, quickly transport me back to a moment when I called a close friend a coward, then realized the cowardice was all mine.

My name calling preceded a meeting of twenty or so male leaders and three women from a range of denominations. The topic was sexual orientation, how churches often alienate LBGTQ humanity, a sharing of ideas for making our faith communities more welcoming? Less hostile? I doubt that anyone in the meeting walked away with a plan of action, a strategy for change. I came away agreeing with the man I called a coward: we church-people were asking the wrong questions.

Rereading my pre-meeting email, I now see change within me.

Almost a year earlier, in spring 2010, I'd refused to speak, passed up the opportunity to express my beliefs about sexual orientation, in the quintessential safe-church-place: my Sunday afternoon small group. Fear silenced me in a room full of close friends.

Months later I felt the guiding hand of God, a summons to articulate and risk more, a different audience, men like those in the meeting, near-strangers less likely to agree with me.

That is the biggest risk, isn't it? To articulate our faith to people who may not agree with us, in a way that might be heard, a way embodying the love and wisdom of Christ – a man who was tortured and put to death.

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
—Martin Niemöller

In John 8:1-11, Jesus pauses to bend and draw on the ground, stands and asks a question, then stoops and returns to drawing. He takes a submissive posture and exhibits a calm faith in God.

Jesus invites me to bend, to stoop, to exhibit faith.

Christ asks me to put down my stones.

Rw
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Words of Healing?
John 8:1-11
Photo Credit

Refusing SHOULD

In 1989 I began composing dreaded-or-cherished annual recaps, filled with progeny-accomplishments and material-world-status-reports. As I thumb through file folders containing decades of letters, I am drawn to 1996, the year of SHOULD write, 366 days of middle-class angst painted with splotches of insanity.

1996 opened with Hubby's promotion to V.P. of Construction ... the goal of all the moves and changes over the past decade! Son and Hubby played basketball, and in February the four of us spent a weekend snowskiing. March took Mom away to Tourist Destination for a weekend with her sisters and mother, while Hubby hosted a brother for NCAA Basketball Playoffs.

In April, Son and Daughter participated in "Take A Child To Work Day" at Real Estate Office One and in May Mom moved to Real Estate Office Two. Daughter marched and played trombone in the Memorial Day Parade. July 4th all four of us marched to promote Nonprofit A [where Mom was on the Board], then raised $ at a brat stand and car wash. Multi-Generation Family Weekend at Lake Up North, found us relaxing with Mom's Family-of-Origin.

In July Son began trumpet lessons, and Hubby road 437 miles - bicycling his way across Midwestern State of Origin. In August Mom ran away from home ... returning to within 50 miles of where she grew up. Daughter, Son and Mom spent six weeks with Aunt-Uncle-Cousins Family, before renting a house in the country. Daughter and Son attend Local Middle School with Cousin. They are active in Band and Chorus ... giving a fall concert in November. Thanksgiving found us with four generations of family at Maternal-Aunt-Uncle's house; followed by two days of deer hunting for everyone (Daughter, Son, Cousin and Hubby) with a very patient Expert-Hunter-Uncle.

Hubby continues to work as V.P. Construction at Big-City-Company, residing in Mister Boss's GuestHouse at the LakeHouse since the sale of our House-In-Right-Suburban-Location in early October.

Mom works three days each week in the laundry department of an elderly-care center near the kids' school, Hubby makes the five-hour commute each weekend, and our decade of living in transition continues into a 12th year.

Despite the challenges ahead, life is peaceful here, and we look forward to a new and different life in 1997.

Merry Christmas!
Mom, Hubby, Daughter, Son, Girl Dog, Boy Dog and Hamster

I loath the task of writing this letter and whip myself into SHOULD shape, punishing the brag-write-share years by fulfilling the implied obligation to continue, even as our lives fall apart. Appearances signaling our arrival at American Dream Central are imploded by a manipulating-deserter-wife-person in the Family Life Portrait: Me.

"our decade of living in transition continues into a 12th year"

The words on the page whisper my realization: our arrival at the place we'd spent years striving toward is an uncharted emptiness of perfection promised, a hollow silence, dark hopelessness, echoed IF ONLYs.

True to non-transparent form, in the closing paragraph, Me ties 1996 in a bright Christmas bow of peace and hope.

Dan Allender now frays the ends of my ribbon, rips back the shiny wrappings of this illusion-al tendency within me.


Should

• simple past tense of shall.
• (used to express condition): Were he to arrive, I should be pleased.
• must; ought (used to indicate duty, propriety, or expediency): You should not do that.
• would (used to make a statement less direct or blunt): I should think you would apologize.

In 2011 SHOULD falls away from my vocabulary, 

is replaced with "Yes, I feel the need to..." 

and "Yes, I will consider..." or "No, thank you..."

I am earnestly avoiding coercion, the

corrosively inhumane phrase,

"You should..."

... and Christ asks, "Do you want to get well?" John 5:6


Yes!

Rw

Writing assignment given to participants in the May 2011 "To Be Told" workshop lead by Dan Allender: Before you arrive, please write a 600-900 word story that tells of a significant tragedy, harm or heartache that is related to your choice to work in the area of sexual brokenness. Please write nothing that feels vulnerable to read in your group. We want you to be honest and yet even more honoring to where you are in your journey. You simply may not wish to share stories of some of your greatest harm. We have only a short period of time to process these stories and so we honor what you choose to share and what you don't. The group time will involve reading, reflecting and considering the implications of your story in light of the death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus.

Dictionary.com

Candy Girl

... the 'burbs, and no one strips
unless they're taking a bubble bath.
—Diablo Cody, writer

I first met this young writer on a chance encounter via an episode of Oprah. I witness the edited-for-maximum-drama exchange between her and her father; his reaction to the airing of her story on national television; her transparency in sharing her personal journey, writing Juno while working in the strip club in Minnesota.

The young writer won my heart that day with her eloquent courage in front of the cameras, face-to-face with her father.

Like the 'mama bear' Allison Janney in the Juno ultrasound scene, Diablo Cody is a woman who speaks her mind with clarity and honesty. She doesn't go out of her way to be unkind, but she's not taking any crap either.



Juno is a movie every daughter needs to see.


Diablo Cody's new movie Young Adult opens Dec 16. Seeing it may required a trip to the big city. I'm afraid this one won't be playing anywhere remotely near my little town.

grew up believing God keeps his eye on us all
—Paul Simon, My Little Town

Keep me as the apple of your eye;
hide me in the shadow of your wings 

excerpt A Prayer of David Psalm 17:8

Rw
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The River

The river flows onward without clinging to where it has already
been. It does not look back with regret the path it has taken
and carved. It has no fear of the inevitable upcoming boulders.
If it comes upon a DARK hole, it fills it up without dread.
It moves toward something bigger than itself without the worry
of losing its control or losing its identity. It merges with the
vastness elegantly and gracefully, becoming one, contributing
to the larger body all its power and energy.
—Nico, Interruption

Strength: the river has taken and carved

Courage: the river fills dark holes without dread

Beauty: the river merges elegantly and gracefully

In all the words written in the blogs of my Trust 30 friends, this passage is the one I find most compelling. Nico's words quietly inspire me to be more like a river, to flow in life with strength, courage and beauty.

In her words I hear not the rush of rapids, but the quiet power
of deep moving water - a river capable of carving a grand canyon, a river patient enough to embrace life one day at a time.

Strong.

Courageous.

Beautiful.

Life-Giving.

Healing.

Water.

Wherever the river flows, life will flourish—great schools of fish—

because the river is turning the salt sea into fresh water. 

Where the river flows, life abounds.

Ezekiel 47 MSG

Then the Angel showed me Water-of-Life River, crystal bright. 

It flowed from the Throne of God and the Lamb, 

right down the middle of the street. 

The Tree of Life was planted on each side of the River, 

producing twelve kinds of fruit, 

a ripe fruit each month. 

The leaves of the Tree are for healing the nations.

Revelation 22 MSG

Rw

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blue, two, three: strangers

Just a few minutes ago, in an email to a dear friend, I wrote:

"Your blog on leadership today was thought provoking ... my parade [Whispered Hopes] often feels like a series of New Orlean's funerals - sad then jazzy then sad ..."

This journey with God is unexpected. There are days when I am inexplicably teary and days when life is lavishly celebrated.

I'm pretty sure that I never formally said yes to leadership, but simply shuffled my feet slightly forward while uttering the word fine! toward God. On this journey, the route often curves in unexpected ways as God connects me to extraordinary voices here at home and abroad.

This fall a local woman passionate about assisting victims of human trafficking brought the book "When Helping Hurts" to my attention. The authors' words expanded my collective images
of poverty, giving me opportunity to see the flaws in my own perceptions, and explore cultural differences in how we view time (monochronic v polychronic) and ourselves (individualism v collectivism). The U.S. norm is not mid-range on either scale.
I am not surprised.

Today, it happened again, in an online friendship formed during the Self-Reliance 30-day writing challenge - a community of bloggers, mentors and peers, from across the globe. Gabi writes of a train ride, meeting among others, Muhammad from Sudan ... "We talked about attraction and homosexuals in Sudan ... religion, human rights and equality, and lots of practical things."

I am awed by her transparency, inspired by her eloquence and courage. Like the authors of "When Helping Hurts" Gabi's blog gives me opportunity to see flaws in my own perceptions, and explore cultural differences in a new light.

blue, two, three: strangers: Last night's train ride was tedious, but interesting. The train from Frankfurt started 10 minutes late and arrived in Düsseldorf 12 minutes...

It was only yesterday that I was an outsider to God's ways ... didn't know the first thing about the way God works.  
Ephesians 2:11-13

I may never fully understand. I am seeking wisdom, casting aside the blinders of indoctrination, and lavishly celebrating God at work in every human breath.

Rw
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My Heart Knows This Place

"... we began our journey from the border ... the water had risen so high that the driver could not tell if he was driving on the road or not. We engaged two boys who would swim ahead of the truck and let us know the depth of the water. In some places the water would be all the way to their necks. We couldn’t stop as we never knew when it would stop raining ..." —Eugenio, guest writer
Life That Matters

This morning, before my 9:30 appointment for a haircut, I drove out to my son's house to borrow his wheelbarrow and pick up my husband's portable workbench. My daughter arrived just ahead of me. She and my daughter-in-law are painting the living room.

The journey was uneventful. We encountered no unexpected charges. There were no roadblocks. I did not fear for my life, nor the life of my daughter. Blue skies accompanied us, but even when it rains the paved county road is fully navigable. In the worst winter storms, it is plowed and sanded.

I cannot wrap my mind around a place where traveling 223 miles takes 6 hours of hard driving, where bandits strike at dawn and children swim in front of moving trucks.

Yet, my heart knows this place. I see this war-torn land through the eyes of my friend Kimberly, a sassy red-head, a woman of frailty and strength, a woman who cares for orphans in Sudan.
Her heart is with the children. The 600 orphans in Christ-centered indigenously directed care centers. The tens of thousands* living and starving in the bush. Her heart is on two continents. She has taken mine as well.

A Heart Not Big Enough

When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
Isaiah 43:2

* Estimated 1 million orphans in Sudan today. Source

Rw

Morning Glory

"So, in regard to disagreeable and formidable things, 

prudence does not consist in evasion or 

in flight, but in courage." —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Last night, in a dream, I was being suffocated. Someone was holding me down, menacingly covering me, imprisoning me beneath a stale quilted blanket held over head and face. As panic rose in my consciousness, the frantic beating of my heart recklessly abandons me, threatening to assist my aggressor in accomplishing my untimely death. In the moment I am most afraid, a whisper of peaceful calm encourages me to focus on my breathing, to slow my own heartbeat, to release my fear, to remember my Creator.

I enjoy this makeshift trellis in my garden, an ancient and rusty chunk of fencing salvaged from a dear friend’s backyard. Today, she no longer lives on the property where we spent hours uncovering this treasure. Violence visited. She will relocate. When she is gone, the tattered fencing will remain in my garden and every day it remind me of her.

Today a morning glory is blooming gently amid the shadows. Like a gentle whisper she will grow, using the rough and jagged metal as support throughout the brightest day and the darkest night.

Beautiful. Temporary. Courageous.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear,

but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

2 Timothy 1:7

.

White Lotus

My friend May is someone who seems to footnote every thought. She works in a toxic environment, her every word open to public scrutiny, subject to management surveillance and beaten into submission by unbridled criticism.

Her footnotes drive me crazy, yet in May I see a hero.

Like a lotus flower growing up from the murky bottom of a back- water pond to emerge in full bloom above the stale water, May has an inner beauty gracefully revealed when her true voice rises.

Today
I am
a woman
grateful
for freedom tasted
in writing
my own
words
here

a woman
heart touched
encouraged
by those who inspire me
with their words
and with their lives

a woman
breathing fresh air
a fragile heart
beating
a flawed human
hearing
a message of hope

a woman
grasping
for courage
while
speaking
into the darkness

a woman
who chooses
to turn
and see
the darkness
until each person
on this earth
rises from
the murky water
and is welcomed
into the Light

Rw

White Lotus Sherry and Debbie are sisters in faith, women who helped open the eyes of my heart to the tenacious darkness of trafficking and the unlimited potential of healing in Christ ~ using simple construction paper colors and a beautiful Krama as a blindfold.




Deep in Your Soul by Michael McFadden
“I hate quotations. Tell me what you know.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson. What message is yearning inside you? What is something you know deep in your soul? Don’t look for someone else to describe it. You do it. Write it down. Write it as a poem, a sentence or even just a string of words. Just make sure you get it to paper. MM

Be You

Be You by Elizabeth Presson
In one sentence, who are you?

I am an Encourager, a speaker and writer of words, seeking to inspire others with courage, spirit and hope.

Rw

Crumpled Risk

With each breath, within each moment, I choose.

Like a middle school teacher who gets tired of picking up trash, will I walk past the crumpled paper in the hallway? Or, will I stoop to pick it up?

The enemy counts on our bodies getting tired; our hearts choosing to look the other away; our minds deciding to walk past the crumpled mess, to leave it for the custodial staff, for the people who are paid to keep the hallways tidy.

Somewhere deep inside us, we know there is risk in stopping to notice a crumpled mess. Sometimes the risk will be manageable.
A student may see us and laugh. A colleague might roll her eyes.

Sometimes the risk will be bigger than we imagined possible.

In picking up a crumpled paper, I risk that on my way to the trash I will uncrumple the paper and discover that the paper held in my hand is . . .

. . . an email

. . . an email to a student

. . . an email to a middle school student from an adult

. . . an email filled with inappropriate innuendo.

I cannot unread the uncrumpled words before me.

In this breath, in this moment, I must choose between a simple task and a difficult journey. I can choose to throw away an uncrumpled paper. I can choose to begin a journey that I know will exhaust my heart.

How will I choose?

Rw

A video: Julie

My gratitude to all the people who teach AND care. Thank you!
As I wrote, I thought of two teachers. My 3rd grade teacher was someone who instilled in me an appreciation for the rules of grammar and spelling. She will like the word tidy. My high school biology teacher was someone who invited me to think like a scientist and use words to describe my observations. He will like the word uncrumpled.


Courage to Connect by David Spinks
Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. - Ralph Waldo Emerson Who is one person that you’ve been dying to connect with, but just haven’t had the courage to reach out to? First, reflect on why you want to get in touch with them. Then, reach out and set up a meeting. DS