tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49056461561550633362024-03-13T12:12:29.344-06:00a failed millennialMy view on life, parenting, relationships, and faith from the lens of a self-declared failed millennial. Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.comBlogger589125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-42816640155041143262017-12-21T09:25:00.000-07:002017-12-22T06:54:03.117-07:00The Brutally Honest Christmas Card<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">One of my favorite writers, D.L. Mayfield, shared an older post of hers a few weeks ago on Instagram. It was her <a href="http://www.dlmayfield.com/dl-mayfield/2015/12/9/the-brutally-honest-christmas-card" target="_blank">Brutally Honest Christmas Card</a>, and it struck a chord with me this holiday season because all things are not merry and bright under our roof. As a writing exercise, I decided to make my own Brutally Honest Christmas Card using Mayfield's as a model for mine. We are not Christmas letter people or even Christmas card people, but it felt good to write this. It felt genuine. Perhaps if you've have had a hard year, it might be a helpful exercise for you to draft your own honest Christmas letter. One final note: the phrases in italics are her words. I decided not to change them because they fit so well, but I want to give credit where credit is due.</span><br />
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Seasons greetings from the Helzers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Qm_AWdT52h0eAUPfxJXrxxRbRg-C6oYHyRit7zBvWzFhQ3aH9QPRIEzJP1NS5wld7c9w4qcm2PvG2kTlzky7BwvA9SQtllOeeAjRGqvTJIIRQzKGxpw2oH2mGjmZg7CNEfGwnvh1Wxg/s1600/IMG_6221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Qm_AWdT52h0eAUPfxJXrxxRbRg-C6oYHyRit7zBvWzFhQ3aH9QPRIEzJP1NS5wld7c9w4qcm2PvG2kTlzky7BwvA9SQtllOeeAjRGqvTJIIRQzKGxpw2oH2mGjmZg7CNEfGwnvh1Wxg/s320/IMG_6221.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My fave photo of us from 2017 even though you can see all the fillings in my enormous mouth.</span></td></tr>
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2017 has been a terrible year, and we're happy it's almost over. In the last year, we...<br />
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had to replace two of our kitchen appliances in the same week that our dog of ten years, Sam, died. We continued to help our kids through tough traumas and losses. Trump is still president. White supremacists are emboldened, and our daughter is grappling with being one of a few black children in a sea of white children at school. Our son's trauma has twisted his brain so much that he believes if he is bad enough at home, then he will get to live with his birth parents again. This manifests itself in the form of constant sneaky behaviors. We've installed alarms on bedroom doors, locked up the medicines/knives/garage, and monitor the kids at all times.<br />
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Consequently, we've all started attending therapy. Some families fill their free time with extracurricular activities; we fill ours with therapy appointments! I started in on a regimen of anxiety medications to help settle my brain down. We have lived in a constant state of hyper-vigilance and anxiety since August, so we stay cloistered in our home where it's safe to cry and scream and throw things. Some of our friends and family send prayers, and others have sent meals; we are grateful for their support. But for the most part, we remain isolated from the world--our struggles tucked away like an emergency spare key. <i>It was the year of hard things</i>. We are surprised we are still standing.<br />
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But the other day when we were serving folks in need at a local church, my daughter saw a girl from school in line for food with her family. She left her post serving green beans and jumped in line so she could eat with her friend. She had no reservations about being on the other side of the table. My son dried dishes in the back and chatted it up with the church ladies like it was nothing for him. It wasn't a huge moment--just one Saturday in our lives, but I can't tell you how grateful I am for that moment.<br />
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For so many years I've longed for my family to be more normal. I've never considered that we are creating a new normal. And this normal, though it's hard: it's not all that bad. Sure, I still wish that my kids' old hurts would vanish; that they'd be whole and healed, but I guess I'm saying that I'm glad I get to love and support them even while they work these things out.<br />
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2017 may have been the year of hard things, but it was dotted with beauty. I pushed myself to a new distance and ran an ultramarathon with my best friend. I was accepted into a new MA in Social Justice program and am eager to learn. On the weekends, I continue to help folks in my community achieve their citizenship, and they teach me words in Spanish and Arabic and what it really means to work hard. My husband has found his niche teaching middle school and is learning how to be a principal. He helps his students deal with hard things like poverty, incarcerated parents, and living in foster care.<br />
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My son has grown even more curious about the world and is devouring history books and news articles and facts about presidents. He's making lists of the places he wants to visit someday but is finding peace and comfort in our home with a family that is his forever. He gives us a hug nearly every morning when he crawls out of bed.<br />
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My daughter has declared herself the defender of the vulnerable. She befriends new kids at school and plays with those who are lonely. She's started taking pages and pages of notes at church and is proud to show them to us each Sunday. Jesus is real to her. She's found a hobby that she is talented in, art. She spends hours watching YouTube videos learning how to draw and then tapes her artwork up all over the house. It's beautiful.<br />
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But most of all, we have grown closer to Jesus. We've learned he is not a two-dimensional historical figure or some bearded white guy in the sky. Jesus has never before felt more real and present to us. We don't understand all of the theological nuances surrounding our faith, but we know Jesus' mercy, and we'll continue trying to extend that same mercy to others.<br />
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2017 has definitely been a crap year, and I am not sad to see it come to a close. We may be bruised, but we know we're not abandoned. We're looking ahead to new mercies in 2018, and we hope you are, too. Wishing you and yours love and light this holiday season.<br />
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Peace,<br />
d.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-54500837994786925442017-11-22T15:43:00.001-07:002017-11-22T15:43:22.026-07:00Submission is not a four-letter word<br />
My husband and I are in a small Bible study, and together, our group has been working our way through Ephesians. This week we studied Ephesians 5, which contains the often misinterpreted submission verses. You know..."Wives submit yourselves to your own husbands..." (Eph. 5:22*).<br />
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I've heard more than one sermon in which pastors have encouraged men to quite literally rule over their wives. I've heard many evangelical men joke about "wives knowing their places" using Eph. 5:22 as the punchline thus turning the word 'submit' into a four-letter word for many women. But...I think those pastors and men got it all wrong.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman appears to be unhappy. Maybe she just heard a sermon about Eph. 5:22 where the pastor gave her husband permission to be a jackwagon and silence her. ..</td></tr>
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Often, these 'submission' verses are looked at solely through the lens of marriage rather than through a much broader lens, but Ephesians 5:21 states, "Submit to <b>one another</b> out of reverence for Christ."<br />
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Now, I'm a language person, so I know that the phrase 'one another' refers to many people. This is not a phrase to be used when talking about two people like in a marriage relationship (the proper reference to two people would be 'each other'). 'One another' has a broader implication, and to ignore this verse and skip only to the marriage references later on in chapter 5 is reading scripture irresponsibly.<br />
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There's a reason why Paul (author of Ephesians) includes verse 21: this concept of submission is not meant to maintain oppressive patriarchal relationships. Instead, Paul is referring to a kind of <i>yielding </i>where all believers set aside our own agendas in order to understand and be in relationship with others. We cannot be in fruitful, healthy relationships if we are unwilling to yield.<br />
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If you know me at all, you know I love me some podcasts. Recently I've become enthralled with <a href="http://www.theliturgists.com/podcast/" target="_blank">The Liturgists Podcast.</a> Not only is it well-produced, it's reflective and seeks to discuss the nuances of the Christian faith that many evangelical churches either gloss over or manipulate for their own profit. In a world where evangelical Christianity feels tainted and dirty, The Liturgists Podcast restores my faith. I listened to an <a href="http://www.theliturgists.com/podcast/2017/3/21/advocacy" target="_blank">episode today about advocacy</a>. One of the guests on this episode is<a href="http://www.mickyscottbeyjones.com/about/" target="_blank"> Micky ScottBey Jones</a>, an evangelical activist. Micky mentions mutual submission and explains how it allows us to understand the plight of those outside our daily frame of reference.<br />
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When I refuse to yield, my relationships with others will take a hit. I should be able to set aside some of my own needs and wants for the advancement of the other person if I am in a healthy relationship. More broadly, submission in the global context can look like yielding to a narrative outside my own experiences in order to try and understand someone else's life. Without submission, I can remain blind to the suffering of others. and therefore cannot work to overturn the tables of systemic injustice that plague many of my brothers and sisters.<br />
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Submission in this context, then, no longer feels like a four-letter word that my feminist self must burn down. Instead, submission feels essential. It feels radical. It feels revolutionary. It feels like bridge-building. And quite honestly, it feels more like Jesus.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Sidebar: So, why does Paul even talk about wives submitting to their husbands??? I'm no theologian, but here's what my common brain has come to understand so far: Ephesians 5:22 resides among a much larger context in the book of Ephesians, a book written to explain the new humanity, the unity we have been given through Christ (Eph. 2:11-18 and even most of chapter 3). Ephesians 4 and the first half of chapter 5 have instructions for how we are to adopt a new way of living as followers of Jesus and citizens of the Kingdom. The second half of Ephesians 5 and the first half of chapter 6 uses the family unit (something that would have been well understood and valued to the original audience) as an example for how this kind of living, this putting on of a new-self would work in a practical sense. All of the instructions Paul gives in chapters 4 and 5 require submission. The instructions for wives and husbands in Ephesians 5 are not to be read as individual mandates. It's an if-then relationship, which relies primarily on the husband to love his wife in a radical, sacrificial way similar to Christ's love for the church. </span></i><br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-80185487832258149582017-11-07T19:23:00.004-07:002017-11-07T19:47:17.343-07:00Not TodayYesterday morning I woke up sad with an emptiness in my heart. My kids are struggling with trauma--it's been an ongoing battle for the last four years, but these past four months have been intense and exhausting and emotionally depleting. It will be a year on Thursday that the mother of one of my oldest friends died unexpectedly. Another mass shooting over the weekend. Fractured relationships.<br />
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There really is so much brokenness in the world. So much that I'm finding it difficult to live mercifully lately. To live purposefully lately.<br />
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Yesterday I had a spare 20 minutes between school drop off and work, so I went for a walk at a little lake even though I just wanted to pull into a nearby park, let my seat down, and sleep. It was cold outside, 29 degrees, but the sun was shining, and save for a pair of Mallards, I was the only living being at the lake. I walked along the bike path that meanders through the park. I shoved my cold hands deep into my pockets and let my shoulders sag so I could nuzzle my neck and chin into my coat away from the morning wind.<br />
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As I walked, I wanted to be awestruck by the beauty of a cold, Nebraska morning. I tried to savor the soft crunch of nearly dried leaves beneath my feet. I stopped to take a few photos of the sun shining through some bare branches, the waves slapping against the rocks on the beach. I feel most at home in this world when I'm outside, so usually, nature has a way of pulling me out of whatever slump I'm in. <i>Not today</i>, I thought.<br />
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I wanted to confidently prayer walk around that lake, stomp out the grief with every step and hallelujah. I couldn't even whisper a prayer yesterday morning. <i>Not today.</i><br />
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What's a person supposed to do with grief? Do we sit in it, allow it to consume us? Do we share it with our friends? Do we write it down and fold it up, bury it in the backyard? Do we give it up to God as an un-glamorous, hot mess offering?<br />
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I didn't know what to do with my grief yesterday. Nothing seemed sufficient. I was ashamed of my sadness, at my inability to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps. You see, sadness is not Midwestern. Resilience is Midwestern. And my roots lie deep in the diverse Midwestern soil--dark black, clay-red, sandy.<br />
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I didn't know what to do, so I kept walking. One step, and then another. One thought, and then another. I went to work. I talked with students and listened to their stories about migrating here, about working in the meatpacking plants, about the risks they took just to reach America. I came home. I cooked dinner for my family and listened to my kids talk about their highs and lows for the day. I washed dishes and listened to my kids laugh and run through the house with my husband and our dog. I fell asleep listening to my husband breathe.<br />
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The world is still broken, but today I feel better. Maybe I feel better because it's a new day with a new perspective. I think, my improved outlook, though, has more to do with what I didn't do yesterday. I didn't have the energy to do, so instead, I listened. It's all I could muster. I listened first to my thoughts, then my steps, and then to others. And slowly, I began to feel better. The antidote today seemed to be slowing down enough to do one thing at a time and to listen to only that which is around me.<br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-39209262056109435292017-10-16T10:23:00.000-06:002017-10-16T10:24:00.824-06:00Becoming Un-Busy<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I read a thoughtful post last week called </span><a href="https://onbeing.org/blog/the-disease-of-being-busy/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The Disease of Being Busy”</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Omed Safi, a columnist for </span><a href="https://onbeing.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Being</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. It was an older post but is one that still rings true today. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-8b5c73d6-25fb-b109-027b-bbc23568cbf2" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are so, so busy, aren’t we? Americans like to do all the things. We pack our schedules full and then lament our 16-hour work days. Safi mentions that we are now doing this to our kids, too. We shuttle our third graders to painting class and basketball and gymnastics and dance; we have so many activities for them that we need planners just to keep track of our kids’ schedules. We rely on busy as Americans. But, as Safi mentions,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This disease of being ‘busy’ (and let’s call it what it is, the dis-ease of being busy, when we are never at ease) is spiritually destructive to our health and wellbeing. It saps our ability to be fully present with those we love the most in our families, and keeps us from forming the kind of community that we all so desperately crave.”</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This busyness is a gross habit, and I have lots of questions about it. I wonder what our busyness says about our own insecurities. I wonder what it says about our inability to just be. I wonder what it says about how we find our purpose. I wonder what it will do to our children…</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;">An empty to-do list?! Who does that?!</span></td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="color: #444444;">Recently I wrote a post about the necessity of coupling prayer with action. Christians (and non-Christians) are quick to offer thoughts and prayers in times of tragedy or tumult, but they aren’t as quick to offer actual, legitimate help. In fact, a reader recently commented on my last post about the complexities of schedules that often prevent us from taking real action when people are hurting. He mentioned that we have a difficult time giving up our lifestyles, and I think this reader is onto something.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For many of us (especially those of us living in middle or upper-middle-class America), our lifestyles revolve around busy. This busy can give us access to certain tangible and intangible privileges. Certain jobs or positions give us notoriety--a sense of distinguishment in our communities. Some of our kids’ activities give us an “in” with a particular group of parents. Other connections or involvement in various activities may give us greater access to resources. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let me be clear: I think these privileges can all be leveraged for good, but I fear that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">we</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> directly benefit more from these than</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> others </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">do. So, then, giving up our lifestyles means giving up our self-interested access to these privileges. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br /></span>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Matthew 19:30 and Matthew 20:16, Jesus explains to his disciples that “many who are first will be last, and many who are last will be first.” And in John 3:30, John explains “He [God] must become greater; I must become less.” What these verses have in common is a surrendering of self, which is precisely what is necessary to reorient ourselves out of a life of busyness. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’d argue that this is why it’s so hard for middle/upper-class American families to rearrange their lifestyles: We don’t want to. We don’t want to live without our comforts. We aren’t ready to sacrifice. We aren’t ready to deny self and take up our cross (or the cross of someone else). We are addicted to our busy schedules. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to push back against this cultural construct of busyness. We need time for silence, for regrouping, for connecting with God, for engaging in community and fellowship with others. And, did you know there are actual physical </span><a href="https://www.fastcompany.com/3052061/how-solitude-can-change-your-brain-in-profound-ways" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">benefits</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to solitude? I’d argue that we should all be more intentional about our schedules. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even overfilling our schedules with God-honoring things can be detrimental. We would do well to evaluate the motive behind our busy schedules. They can be filled with good and holy and honorable ambitions, but if they aren’t done out of love, if they are done out of pride, then what is the actual point? And if pride is our motivator, will we even be able to sustain this work to do the most good for the most amount of people? </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t think it’s a coincidence that today’s scripture reading in the</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Common Book of Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> comes from the short book of Haggai. In the first chapter, we learn that Haggai, a prophet, is speaking to Judean leaders about what God has told him about the Judeans. A prophet never brings a popular message, and Haggai is no different. He explains that the Judeans have worked hard to create good lives and beautiful homes for themselves while God’s temple lies in ruins. He continues by explaining that the Judeans are never satisfied (and will never be satisfied) because they’ve misplaced their priorities. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b> </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can imagine that many Judeans were probably offended by this message. Likewise, I imagine that many people today would be offended by this message that is still relevant in 2017. A change of lifestyle is a hard pill to swallow. </span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I begin thinking about a new semester, I’m reevaluating my commitments. I love all the things I’m doing, but I often find myself being sucked into the “dis-ease of being busy” (Safi). I’m learning that a full life doesn’t always equal a full schedule. What about you? Are there commitments you could let go? Is your full schedule preventing you from completing God’s priorities for your life? </span></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-72932651860849078312017-09-25T20:34:00.001-06:002017-09-25T20:34:55.177-06:00When praying is not enoughThere are a few Christian platitudes of which I am simply tired: <br />
<ul>
<li><i>#blessed</i> (Especially when it's used after something superficial like finding a good deal in the clearance section at Target.)</li>
<li><i>God never gives you more than you can handle</i> (Just...no....this is steeped in wrong theology. God DOES give us more than we can handle. Remember the thorn in Paul's side?)</li>
<li><i>I will pray for you </i></li>
</ul>
For the record: I'm guilty of using all of these at one point in my life...especially the last one. It's not a bad thing to pray for people in times of distress. As we see in the gospels, Jesus himself prayed during times of distress. However, do you know what he did more frequently? He acted.<br />
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<i> </i><br />
I'm slowly moving my way through the book of Matthew, and my biggest takeaway is how frequently Jesus was compelled to act. He healed people, fed people, trained people for ministry, called out religious zealots, turned over tables, raised people from the dead. There are more instances of Jesus acting in the book of Matthew than there are of Jesus praying. Matthew 9:36-38 reads,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"When he [Jesus] saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, 'The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.'"</blockquote>
Jesus was moved to compassion by people on the fringes--compassion that resulted in both prayer and action. I fear we're missing this as a collective body of Christians. When I pause to think about how many times I've promised prayer to a person without any sort of accompanying action to lighten his/her burden, I'm quite ashamed. I think there's a few reasons for my inaction, but the main might be that I have not allowed myself to be moved by compassion often enough.<br />
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So, how do we do this? How do we step outside of our own personal tragedies (I don't say that with sarcasm) and allow ourselves to be moved to compassion?<br />
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I think the answer can be found by examining Jesus' behaviors throughout the book of Matthew. Obviously, Jesus was born with a bent towards compassion, but Jesus deliberately spent time with and served people. What separates Jesus from so many of us is how involved he was in people's lives. While it may have been an interaction in passing, Jesus' actions in passing were both tender and relevant to people's immediate needs (see the book of Matthew for more). And he was constantly doing this. There were certainly times when Jesus isolated himself to pray and hear from God, but he didn't cocoon himself in his own issues for long. I think there are seasons for cocooning, but if we never step outside our own front doors and into the lives of people who are struggling--if we never look past our own issues, then I'm not sure we'll ever be moved to compassion.<br />
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Additionally, a quick scan of one of the gospel accounts will reveal that Jesus did not hole himself up with the religious elites. He kept his circle broken and engaged with and served the outcasts and the criminals and the poor and the strangers. Go back to Matthew 9:36: Jesus was moved to compassion by the harassed and the helpless. When we sit safely in white, middle class America for too long, we can begin to ignore the plight of others because it's not right in front of us. Ignoring the suffering of others is a disgusting privilege I'm learning that I possess. I can deactivate my social media feeds, turn off NPR, and engage only with my closest friends and pretty much avoid being faced with major catastrophes or injustices. In contrast, when I engage with the "harassed and the helpless" in my communities, I have opportunities to be moved to compassion and practice the long lost art of empathy.<br />
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If we aren't moved to compassion, then we'll say things like "I'll pray for you" when someone is vulnerable enough to share his/her struggles with us and then leave it at that. We'll add a two-line blip in our church bulletins about praying for those impacted by the hurricanes/earthquakes/other natural disasters.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXOfYm2wl0mp-ii3TRpSBh1qrFC2hN4bqDippZ8jsznLGI_iI2iNkXA_dq5kXzrGltNAYR3kuigREWw2xBVi5p1mZbkQJRuYI9g97ZXRHYoLce2W2AS9g04Rulkc3xok0ay3KBkaZ2nY/s1600/pexels-photo-268013.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="1280" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUXOfYm2wl0mp-ii3TRpSBh1qrFC2hN4bqDippZ8jsznLGI_iI2iNkXA_dq5kXzrGltNAYR3kuigREWw2xBVi5p1mZbkQJRuYI9g97ZXRHYoLce2W2AS9g04Rulkc3xok0ay3KBkaZ2nY/s320/pexels-photo-268013.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know why this image made me laugh so hard, but it did. So, it's here for comedic relief. Thanks, Pexels, for keeping it light. </td></tr>
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What if we acted like prayer alone was not enough? What if we allowed ourselves to be moved by compassion? How different would our communities be? How much richer would our relationships be? We don't need big, costly actions--but when a friend is struggling with balancing work and parenting and asks for prayer, can we also bring that person dinner one night to lighten the load? When a young woman dies at a rally organized by white supremacists, can we pray for Jesus to fix it while also listening to the lament and rage of our brothers and sisters of color? Can we be compelled then to turn away from systems of white supremacy from which we have directly benefited for so long? When difficulty strikes, when people ask for prayer, we have an opportunity to show compassion like Jesus did throughout the gospels.<br />
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It's easy to read a post and feel all the feels and commit to change. It's much harder to do the self-examination required to think about why we haven't been compelled to compassion in the past or to examine why we've substituted prayer for action. It's more difficult to rearrange our busy and often self-serving calendars to make time for engaging with folks. It's not glamorous to serve people and meet their immediate needs. It's hard to build relationships with people who don't look or think like us. It's all harder when Jesus is our measuring stick. May we be a people, though, who engage in the hard and holy work of compassion, of backing up prayer with action.<br />
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<i></i>Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-33137606571886795642017-08-13T00:52:00.001-06:002017-08-13T07:42:24.644-06:00Complacency, security, and statusIt's well past midnight where I live, and I just can't sleep. For the past hour and a half I've been reading the book of Amos from<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Justice-Bible-Imitation-Leather-Brown/dp/0310437199" target="_blank"> God's Justice Bible</a>. The intro to the text fantastically describes the context surrounding the book:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Originally, in the time of the judges before the people of Israel had a king, each Israelite family had its own land in an agricultural society where wealth was decentralized. But during the period of the monarchy, a small group of powerful people around the kings use legal and illegal methods to seize the land of many people. Those who lose their land fall into poverty, and the powerful become very wealthy" (Sider and Davis, 1263). </blockquote>
So, Amos--a shepherd turned prophet (i.e. a regular guy who smells like animal dung), is called by God to speak about Israel's future destruction due to the systems of injustice they created. Amos is speaking this message to the fat-cats in Israel who have gained their wealth by oppressing others (Amos 2: 6-8; Amos 5:10-13). Sider and Davis mention that Amos's message is particularly unpopular given that he is speaking about the future during a prosperous time for Israel. Nobody takes him seriously, and in the end, it costs Israel when they are defeated and taken over by the Assyrians in 722 B.C.<br />
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You see: God <i>hates </i>injustice and oppression. He doesn't take either lightly. In fact, Amos 4:12 is ominous and terrifying: "'Therefore this is what I will do to you, Israel, and because I will do this to you, Israel, prepare to meet your God." Isn't this chilling?! I mean, seriously.<br />
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What strikes me so much about Amos, though, comes later in chapter 5:21-6:7. In this section God calls out complacency, security, and status. <br />
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Hold up: did you you read those last three words? Complacency, security, and status. He is LIVID with folks who were not grieving over the ruin of Joseph (6:6) and instead carried on worshiping in church like nothing happened. He is livid that, instead of grieving, these folks are lounging on fancy couches (none of those Craigslist couches that I got in my living room), dining on fancy (non-frozen) food, playing on instruments like they're in some sort of jam band, drinking literal bowls of wine, and rubbing themselves up with swanky lotions. Amos tells these people: You will be the first to go into exile.<br />
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I don't know where you're brain is at right now, but when I read this, I thought of America. I thought of me and all the times I scrolled past pictures of kids sold into the sex trade and didn't even shed a tear. I thought of the times I kept walking past people in need on street corners in my own town. I thought of the time I stayed silent when a shop owner I know made a racist remark. I thought of all the times I spent my extra dollars on something frivolous like a stupid shirt or a stupid $4 cup of coffee instead of padding my monthly tithe or giving it out to someone in need.<br />
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What do complacency, security, and status have to do with the recent displays of hatred, racism, and bigotry in Charlottesville, Virginia? EVERYTHING.<br />
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Complacency leaves many of us* white folks turning our backs because we can afford to. It won't cost us anything to look away from white nationalists, to plug our ears and ignore the old Nazi chants, "Blood and soil!" that could be heard on the streets near the University of Virginia.<br />
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Security causes us to cling to that which is familiar--it causes us to insulate ourselves in our white circles, hole up in our less than diverse neighborhoods, and fear those who look different than us. Irrational fear, implicit bias, and the desire for "security" cause us to lock our doors when a black man walks in front of our car at a stoplight. Security causes us to opt our kids out of the large, diverse school system and into the smaller, more homogenous smaller school district--all of these behaviors perpetuate racism, and we all know racism fuels the white supremacy movement.<br />
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And status? Man. Status causes us to refrain from sharing <i>that</i> article because our boss might see it, or our in-laws might think less of us, and we can't rock that boat. We can't have people thinking lesser thoughts about us (even if our convictions are Biblical). That would be a travesty. Or worse: status sometimes drives us to say all the right things about Charlottesville and to create all the right hashtags because it elevates our status. It brings in the "likes" and makes us feel good.<br />
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Complacency, security, and status. These were all things the Israelites struggled with way back in Amos's day, and they're things we struggle with today in America. God hates these things; his rage is clear. Yet, many of us cling to complacency, security, and status because they're easier, they're tidier, and honestly, they earn us more approval. But you guys: there has to be more to this life than protecting our own interests. Afterall, God created us to be in companionship with one another (see the creation story), and we just can't be good companions if complacency, security, and status dominate our choices. My prayer for us is that we'd replace complacency with activism, security with calculated risk, and status with the desire to be last. Let's be good companions. Let's move outside of the familiar to engage with people who are different from us (we can start by diversifying our social media feeds and our reading lists). Let's shut our mouths so we can only hear. Let's allow ourselves to grieve with those who are grieving instead of telling them to grieve a different way. May we seek to undo systems of oppression so "justice [can] roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-falling stream!" (Amos 5:24).<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>*As much as it pains me, I deliberately use the word 'us' here because complacency, security, and status have driven me to make some decisions I now regret and am working to undo. </i></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-64786276917121603842017-06-15T13:36:00.002-06:002017-06-15T14:56:08.525-06:00Why we left our comfortable church<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Recently my husband and I made a difficult decision to leave the church we had been attending. We chose this church when we moved to our community two years ago because it had excellent youth ministries, was close to our home, and it seemed to be growing. My husband and I took steps to get involved. Our kids were learning and forming relationships with adults who seemed to genuinely care for them. Of course, no church is perfect, but overall--we were comfortable in our church.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But...comfort was ultimately the problem. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Church services were carefully crafted with cool sets and timed with snappy videos. There was a light show and artificial smoke as a backdrop to pop-worship music. The church was recently renovated with a mixture of wood and steel giving the building a cool, industrial vibe. The pastor had catchy sermon titles with three predictable and mainstream points. There was a coffee shop outside the sanctuary. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFo28TvBWRn0a1NZkQwMGPDwSAqaIDP5EZonkP0LqU0sYvC82bnyrIEsp3QLmJYUKLUPLvmJDf5dolEDuYmoNNCRrnpwHrxLS76ymhNjf6ZeuDNhSppEB-qZrx2TE2QcPGfq4yW-X3iZg/s1600/pexels-photo-248963.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="1280" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFo28TvBWRn0a1NZkQwMGPDwSAqaIDP5EZonkP0LqU0sYvC82bnyrIEsp3QLmJYUKLUPLvmJDf5dolEDuYmoNNCRrnpwHrxLS76ymhNjf6ZeuDNhSppEB-qZrx2TE2QcPGfq4yW-X3iZg/s320/pexels-photo-248963.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock concert or evangelical worship set? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was all a very tidy, aesthetically pleasing, and comforting experience. There is nothing inherently wrong with aesthetics, and many people thrive in church settings like this one. However, for me, church began to reaffirm my white middle class existence and felt too much like American culture. </span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My church remained mostly silent at human rights violations in Syria (and other countries), silent about the gunning down of black men and women, silent about the growing white supremacy movement, and silent about hateful rhetoric and legislation directed toward immigrants and refugees (despite being located in a community with high numbers of immigrants and refugees). We didn't pause to interrupt regularly scheduled programming to acknowledge or grieve or even talk about the church's role in all of these injustices. And silence in the face of injustice feels a lot like consent. My heart began to harden against the church as an institution. </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A quick read of the New Testament shows us that Jesus didn't live a comfortable existence and neither did his followers. He was constantly pursuing the outcasts, challenging legalistic religious leaders, and meeting people's immediate needs. Jesus leaned into the messy places; he didn't run from them. His mission was antithetical to culture, and ours (as the church) should be, too. The more I studied the New Testament this year, the more uncomfortable I became at my comfortable church.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before bringing out the proverbial pitchforks, please know that my husband and I took steps to make ourselves uncomfortable in this church. We started a small group (which is a huge step for my introverted-self), we began volunteering in our community with our small group and tried to promote this to other small group leaders. All of our efforts, though, didn't change the fact that our church was still comfortable, and our hearts were hardening more and more each day. So...we left.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My cynicism isn't directed specifically towards the church we left; it actually expands to the trend in the American Evangelical church to create a church experience that feels strangely like American culture despite Jesus' clear teachings that our lives as believers should be markedly different from culture. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In her book, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a Failed Missionary on Rediscovered Faith</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, D.L. Mayfield writes, </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“As we see again and again in scripture, righteousness is not simply a clean heart or hands scrubbed of blood. It is a people acting out justice in their everyday lives; they are tied together, everywhere in scripture. The oppressed are written in every book, nearly on every page of the prophets and psalms. How could I have missed it for so many years?” (187) </span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If the church fools itself into thinking they are doing right by simply not doing obvious wrongs, then we’ve missed a major mark of Christianity: justice. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am guilty of residing in comfort and mistaking it for righteousness. Now, I don't want coffee shops and comfort because these won't bring me closer to Jesus. I want to be challenged to see beyond myself. I want to be encouraged to regularly help others inside AND outside the church. I want to be challenged to give radically and not just of my money. I don't want a perfect church. I want a church where it's okay to come in broken and messy because Jesus is enough. I want a stripped-down church that loves Jesus without the trappings of American culture. I want a church that’s unafraid to be political (but not partisan); one that values listening more than intervening and trying to save. Now, I long to be among a body of believers who pursue justice because if we’re not, then we become oppressors--and that’s simply not who Jesus was.</span></div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-8794413644396449462017-05-23T19:42:00.000-06:002017-05-23T19:43:19.102-06:00Silencing the inner criticI tend to be rather critical of myself in pretty much all aspects: work, running, wife-ing, and mothering. I've always been my own worst enemy. At times, this quality is helpful as it pushes me to reflect and change and improve. But most times the critical voice inside my head is so damn annoying--like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gm8paBMbZTA" target="_blank">Janice's voice from </a><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gm8paBMbZTA" target="_blank">Friends</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Sure you ran 11 miles, but you could've run a little faster. </i><i>Did you hear that rude comment J said to K? You know he learned that from you, right? </i><i>Don't bother applying for that job; you'll never get it. </i><i>You're feeding your kids sandwiches again? When was the last time they ate something green? No, Skittles do NOT count. </i><i>Your husband probably would be more happy with a more traditional, more feminine, and more stable woman. </i><br />
<i><br /></i> For me, this voice is loudest during moments of chaos--when the schedule gets busy and things begin to slip out of my control, and so, I fight and claw to regain that control. I do things like choose my kids' outfits when they're perfectly capable of choosing their own clothes. I reject all help from my husband. I run farther and faster. I snap at my kids when they drop crumbs on the table. As you can imagine, I am a very unpleasant person to be around when I let that Janice voice win out, and it happens more than I care to admit because it's so easy to focus on our flaws. It's easy to make a list of all we don't have, all we haven't accomplished, all of our mistakes and failures. Our culture lives with critique on the tips of our tongues because we are afraid of failing or being forgotten or messing up our kids.<br />
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Yesterday, J came home from school, and as he was unpacking his backpack, he asked me if he could tell me a sad story.<br />
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"Sure, bud. What's the story?"<br />
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"Addie was telling me about her mom's friend who had a baby, and that baby died. They're all really sad about it. So I made a card for the family. I gave it to Addie to give to her mom," he explained.<br />
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"That<i> is</i> really sad. It's nice you made a card. What did the card say?"<br />
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"I don't remember. Something about how I know that baby will have peace in heaven and how I will pray for peace for the family."<br />
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I hugged him, told him he was a sweet boy and said that someday he might make a good counselor, pastor, or teacher because of his tenderness for others. He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal and scampered off to play.<br />
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But his compassion and tenderness IS a big deal. He's an 8-year-old boy. I couldn't stop thinking about that card this morning while I slogged through a cold, windy, and wet 10 miles. I get reflective whenever I run, and I was tempted to shrug off my son's moment of compassion and think instead about how on my two-week vacation from work, I didn't have lunch even once with my kids at school. But I stopped myself because, honestly, it just feels better to think about my son making a card for a family who is struggling. And you know what? Even though there have been so many people to influence his life, his dad and I have taught him to care for the vulnerable. We teach him (and K) this when we make it a priority to come to people's aid, when we send a gift to cheer up a friend who is struggling, when we serve a meal to folks in our community each month.<br />
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It feels arrogant to focus on our successes, so a lot of us just don't. However, if we only dwell on what we're doing wrong, we'll live a miserable existence. We've got to train ourselves to recognize, acknowledge, and honor the small victories in life (and pray we don't get a big head along the way!). Chances are, we are responsible for these as much as we are for the failures and flaws in our own lives.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-75520121408492874572017-05-03T20:08:00.002-06:002017-05-03T20:20:08.646-06:00Pulling up a seat in the smoking section<br />
<i>Parents are responsible for their kids. A kid's behaviors often reflect their home lives. The kid must've learned these behaviors at home. </i><br />
<i><br /></i> I've heard these claims spoken by daycare providers, teachers, parents, and (gasp) these are beliefs I once held. ...Then I became a parent to two kids who experienced physical and psychological trauma during pivotal developmental years.<br />
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Suddenly, these statements no longer felt true. Even though my kids have been adopted for three and almost two years, they still struggle (and will always struggle) with trauma. Often they still feel threatened in situations that an outsider would not perceive as threatening. Sometimes they still eat as if food may not grace our dinner table again. Many times they still melt down when they receive even the tiniest of consequences. Are these behaviors a reflection of our home lives? I don't think so. Our home is far from perfect, but generally speaking, my husband and I work hard to maintain a consistent and loving home where curiosity is encouraged, mistakes can be learned from, a home where our kids can be kids with room to play and explore. We try to help our kids identify big feelings, and we give them tools to help them work through these. But, as is the habit of trauma, sometimes our kids' pasts seep through the cracks in their lives that we have desperately tried to repair.<br />
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Yesterday, my phone rang at 10:30 AM; it was my kids' principal. She replayed an outburst my son had in his classroom; he was unable to be redirected and had to spend the rest of the morning in the principal's office. I hung up the phone feeling overwhelmed and mortified about my son's behaviors. In fact, my first response was to email J's teacher to apologize for his behaviors. I spent the rest of the day beneath a dark cloud of shame.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimv9TvULoHmYr_L-swgAqzrdayGo-VzNinilAc1yvgBwaERzitdba0KTMw6uHdDqckkpeCrf9LdT2OZFLHtaaJlc5YDPblxOhswqazapMj5R5BTsxBdnZVqI72Vm2lJrVYq1KbOEx4kkk/s1600/pexels-photo-192642.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimv9TvULoHmYr_L-swgAqzrdayGo-VzNinilAc1yvgBwaERzitdba0KTMw6uHdDqckkpeCrf9LdT2OZFLHtaaJlc5YDPblxOhswqazapMj5R5BTsxBdnZVqI72Vm2lJrVYq1KbOEx4kkk/s320/pexels-photo-192642.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a real cloud of shame, but it's pretty damn close. </td></tr>
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My brain knows that J's outburst was likely from a perceived threat and not an act of defiance, but I couldn't convince my heart and gut to agree with my brain. I felt responsible for my son's behavior. I wasn't home enough, I yell too much, I don't hug him enough. I worried about what the teacher thought of our home life, what J's classmates would tell their parents about the scenario, and what those parents would think of us. I was in a downward spiral of shame when I finally texted one of my best friends who also is a foster-adoptive mama and is familiar with parenting kids from hard places. I asked her when I would stop feeling so ashamed for my kids' behaviors. My friend is wise and kind and calm. She talked to me about losing my reputation to reach others...she reminded me that my reputation is eternal, and directed me to a sermon she recently heard on Luke 15: <a href="http://discoverlifegate.com/messages/love-can/love-can-unbind-us/" target="_blank">Love Can Unbind Us from Pastor Myron Pierce. </a><br />
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If you haven't read Luke 15, you really should. It's my favorite picture of Jesus because he turns religion upside down. In the first two verses we learn that Jesus is openly fraternizing with tax collectors and "other notorious sinners," and the religious leaders clutch their pearls and generally LOSE THEIR DAMN MINDS about it. They complain and whine because <i>these </i>people are not righteous enough and clean enough to be spoken to by someone associated with the church. Jesus hits them with the parable of the lost sheep and explains that he will leave 99 "found" sheep to chase after 1 lost sheep. But he doesn't stop there. He continues to explain that he won't wag his index finger in disapproval at this sheep. No! He will throw a big freaking party with the best wine to celebrate the 1 who was rescued. This is Jesus: constantly pursuing the un-welcomed, constantly risking his reputation to love others so they may be unbound from whatever binds them.<br />
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Pastor Pierce concludes his sermon with a call to action for followers of Christ:<br />
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"May we be willing to sit in the smoking section and come out smelling like smoke for the sake of those who are in desperate need to be un-bound"<a href="http://discoverlifegate.com/messages/love-can/love-can-unbind-us/" target="_blank"> ("Love Can Unbind Us")</a>. </blockquote>
There are still parts of my son (and daughter) that are bound by trauma. When both of my kids moved in, I agreed to walk beside them, to be vulnerable to rumors and funny looks and isolation in order for them to be un-bound in Christ's love.<br />
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As are most things in life, this act of sitting in the smoking section and coming out smelling like smoke is easier said than done. It is hard to let go of my reputation and to shrug off the old beliefs I once held because I care an awful lot about what other people think of me. Maybe you can relate. Perhaps you have felt called to love and serve a marginalized group of people but you worry about what others might think if they see you breaking bread with someone from a lower social class or a different culture than yours. Maybe you feel led to move to an "undesirable" part of town but you worry that others will call you irresponsible or say you're putting your family in danger. Maybe you feel pulled to trade your comfort so that others may be more comfortable and you fear folks will call you crazy. Whatever it is, I hope you have the courage to do it. It won't be easy, and people will criticize you, and your reputation will likely be damaged, but remember: you were also once bound by something and set free by Christ's radical and unwavering love.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-72489296415515227042017-03-27T18:00:00.000-06:002017-03-27T18:00:01.776-06:00Aging Happens<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When it comes to outward appearance, I’m pretty low maintenance. I’ve never had my eyebrows done (I don’t even know what that means). I don’t know how to apply eye-shadow. Anything requiring wax on my body terrifies me to the core. I don’t even wear makeup most days. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An actual picture of all my cosmetics in a super fancy container. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nobody told me, though, that when I turned 30, I’d be entering a new era of face maintenance. Perhaps the most annoying body change I’ve seen in my thirties has been a development of dry flaky skin on my face that makes me feel like a snake awkwardly shedding its skin. Last week, after my seventh application of Vitamin E oil on the pesky unscathed dry patches, I remembered hearing about a face scrubbing device with a catchy name. The device was only $10 at Sephora and was cleverly named </span><a href="http://www.sephora.com/cleaning-me-softly-facial-cleansing-brush-P392375" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cleaning Me Softly</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">...a play on the classic Fugees song, </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Killing Me Softly.” </span></a><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We don’t have a Sephora where I live, but lucky for me, we were heading to a town with a Sephora that weekend so I could run a half-marathon. I had only walked through a Sephora once before a few years earlier. Honestly, I just hung on the outskirts examining the rhetoric of the advertisements on the wall while I waited for my friends to buy an assortment of makeup brushes. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, before we returned home from our weekend away, I dragged my family to the mall. I left my husband and kids in the car promising to be swift. Malls always make me a little nervous; they’re filled with people, things, loud noises, and smells. They take me back to my middle school days when I begged my parents to drop me off at the mall so I could eat soft pretzels and flirt (unsuccessfully) with boys way too old for me at the Sunglass Hut. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite an impending headache from sensory overload, I was confident when I opened the big double doors to the mall containing Sephora. As I neared the store, nestled in the middle of a JC Penney, I grew more and more self-conscious. The store was packed and teeming with people fondling makeup brushes; I overheard a woman asking about blotting papers. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What the f are blotting papers?! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wondered silently.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Men and women sleekly clothed in black, faces neatly made up wove in and out of the crowd asking people if they needed help and offering suggestions. My introverted self wanted to cut and run, but I wanted that damn face scrubber.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bare-faced and self-conscious, I remained on the perimeter of the store. My eyes furiously scanned the shelves as if I were on some sort of game show where time was of the essence. My heart raced. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cleansing Me Softly…$10.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">..I muttered over and over again as if saying the product name and price would help me find it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can I help you?” chimed a voice behind me. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spun around quickly, feeling caught--as if I had shoved my pockets full of lipsticks. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No.” I said sharply, hurrying to the other side of the store to get away from the employee. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The employee side-eyed me and rolled his eyes. I realized my tone must’ve sounded rude and thought about apologizing, but then I figured he had seen my bare face and realized I was clueless and hopeless. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I must’ve walked around the perimeter of that store six times before I ran out seven minutes later--empty handed. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Did you get what you needed?” my husband asked gesturing to my empty hands. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No. I froze. There were too many people and too many foreign objects.” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He laughed and grabbed my hand to give it a squeeze, “You’re funny. I love you.” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, I hope my charm overshadows my snake face,” I muttered gesturing to a dry patch. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My husband laughed again, “I didn’t even notice. But if you feel uncomfortable, just buy one of those things online. No big deal.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He kept driving while I begrudgingly searched for “face brushes” on Amazon. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I eventually found a reasonably priced face exfoliator that gently scrubs off my old lady skin and leaves me with a soft, non-snake face, but that’s not the moral of the story here. The point is that no amount of expensive face creams or exfoliating devices will prolong aging; it happens just as sure as the sun rises in the west each morning.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not the same dewy brunette my husband met 12 years ago. I’m a graying thirty year-old who exfoliates her face twice a day. I’m softer around the mid-section, and I have some weird, visible blue veins on my right calf. I have permanent red marks on the bridge of my nose from wearing glasses for 22 years. I now talk about things like retirement, and I spend actual free time making phone calls to my state senators. Instead of going to the bars on the weekends, I hunker down at home with store-bought beer (way more economical). My life is nothing short of dull because aging and doing daily life is simply not glamorous. With aging, though, comes a different sort of self-assuredness that transcends physical appearance. Little things like burning dinner don’t have as much weight as they once did when I was newly married and trying desperately to make my husband’s favorite meal. Conversely, ordinary moments like a quiet morning with a cup of coffee and my own thoughts feel bigger and more precious than they ever have before. Because I have more experience than I did when I was 20, I now can see the bigger picture of life, which makes setbacks easier to deal with. At 30, I am surrounded with some of the best people--my friendships are void of drama because ain’t nobody got time for that in their thirties. While I don’t always embrace the physical aspects of aging, I wouldn’t trade the comfort of my thirties. I’ll gladly take a little dry skin in place of the hustle of my twenties. </span></div>
<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-46235993405827698612017-03-08T20:58:00.001-07:002017-03-08T21:02:36.427-07:00Why I don't choose joy in tough situationsIt's been a good while since I've written anything here. In my defense, I had a <a href="https://teacher-scholar-activist.org/2017/03/02/the-path-of-most-resistance/" target="_blank">post due </a>for another site that I procrastinated like a good writer does, and it left me zapped. Actually, winter has a way of dragging me down. It's dark and cold and keeps people indoors; it drives an active, outdoorsy person like me a bit bananas. On top of this, our dog died, our kitchen appliances went on strike, and my husband's work schedule feels relentless. I've found myself wallowing in the muck this winter, trying to climb out but slipping each time I get a strong footing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a sad sight. </td></tr>
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Currently, I'm reading Tish Harrison Warren's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Liturgy-Ordinary-Sacred-Practices-Everyday/dp/0830846239" target="_blank">Liturgy of the Ordinary</a>, </i>and it's been so thought-provoking. Essentially, the book is about embracing the ordinary moments in our lives and finding God in something as mundane as brushing our teeth. Chapter four explores the everyday moments of chaos that we encounter and encourages readers to view these as opportunities to see how much grace we need. Harrison Warren writes about the conundrum of finding more peace while she lived in a conflict zone than while living in her safe, middle-class life in the States:<br />
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"I had a theology of suffering that allowed me to pay attention in crisis, to seek small flickers of mercy in profound darkness. But my theology was too big to touch a typical day in my life. I'd developed the habit of ignoring God in the midst of the daily grind" (55). </blockquote>
I can relate. It's easy for me to see glimmers of God at work in big, chaotic situations--especially when they're not directly impacting me. But when my dog dies and all my appliances quit and it's cold and my husband is gone on the weekends---I don't see glimmers of God. Instead, I see endless chaos. This begs the question: how do we see God in the everyday chaos?<br />
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I think it's different for every person. Harrison Warren writes about engaging in a habit of repentance:<br />
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"Our communal practice of confession reminds us that failure in the Christian life is the norm" (57). </blockquote>
I like this idea. Confessing the times I overreacted, the times I too easily traded peace for anger--this practice of zooming in on my behavior allows me to zoom out so I can begin to see God in the bigger picture.<br />
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Earlier this week, my husband and I ripped out a set of cabinets to make room for a new refrigerator since our old one decided it was simply too tired to continue operating consistently. We sopped up water that leaked from the thawing freezer, taped off walls that needed to be painted, and moved everything out of the kitchen cluttering the rest of the house. All the while, I swore under my breath. I snapped at my kids when they walked through the kitchen. It was contained chaos at best.<br />
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An hour later we were out to dinner with our kids eating greasy, sub-par Chinese food. We dipped crab rangoon into sweet and sour sauce and talked about our day. The kids chattered about their recent field trip to a science museum and their lunch time trades. My husband made funny faces at the kids, and they laughed. Suddenly, I was overcome with gratitude for my kids and my husband and this little family God created.<br />
<i><br /></i> <i>Lord, I'm a damn fool. Forgive me for my shitty attitude, </i>I prayed.<br />
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My kitchen was still a hot mess of water and broken appliances, but here we were--a little family of four with money to replace the damn refrigerator and still enough to eat crappy Chinese take-out.<br />
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Repenting isn't easy, and we may come to it kicking and screaming or reluctant as hell. However, there is a sort of tenderness and humility that comes from the act of admitting our wrongdoings and asking for forgiveness. I once thought that I could make it through tough situations if I could just choose joy. It was a cliche I believed; I thought making a choice to be joyful would somehow overshadow my frustration, that joy would allow me to see God at work. It didn't work. Instead, I grew more frustrated when I couldn't push out what I deemed as bad juju. Joy is not an anecdote for sadness or frustration. The truth is, every moment, every feeling is purposeful, and God came to redeem not a perfect world; He came to save a broken world. If we can acknowledge our reality and repent of our sinful reactions to our reality, perhaps we will be able to zoom out to see God at work in the bigger picture of our lives.<br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-40261229033683423132017-02-19T18:06:00.000-07:002017-02-19T18:06:01.044-07:00Prairies, vulnerability, and relationships<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGq-7OBrx9rWjD6R2GdKj8-SyqdN68IdGyoTTvaNxsL9y12yDh0Plg8e-3CnfmXhYizDJXzt4VcPREYIRnrTYj0AtsutXORvvDYqNxc_sxt9J2T3MSlVj4Bqx0_npA88T9vE9TrEhovg/s1600/prairie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGq-7OBrx9rWjD6R2GdKj8-SyqdN68IdGyoTTvaNxsL9y12yDh0Plg8e-3CnfmXhYizDJXzt4VcPREYIRnrTYj0AtsutXORvvDYqNxc_sxt9J2T3MSlVj4Bqx0_npA88T9vE9TrEhovg/s320/prairie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the paths at <a href="https://cranetrust.org/" target="_blank">The Crane Trust</a></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />Out here in the open prairie, there's a sense of vulnerability. There are no trees, no buildings, no people to hem me in. I am exposed on all sides. My bright blue jacket is a stark contrast to the golds and browns and grays of the prairie waking up after a cold winter. I find myself walking slower out here, more cautiously, my head swinging from side to side searching for any signs of danger. My right hand clasps my runner's mace--just in case. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-d40073a5-5908-2792-f062-832e7398febc" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One mile into my wandering, though, I can feel a loosening in all my muscles as my body relaxes and my stride quickens. Now comfortable with my surroundings, the threat of danger has passed. I let my eyes focus on only what is right in front of me--a path through the tall wild grasses. I'm finally able to enjoy the solitude. There are not many places a person can go to get pure solitude without a hundred distractions. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmq53UhydYVngWBPoKtLyTkjvHhBT1djL116P_wHrwDfPm8RcNrBN-ZzoRnx3S9grgRuC2Tbwf2Mk9ZnDhbo_45Ywsz44DbY318666ITU9wnNXywon3F-HHpmBj17i3r38_xSdC_-XMg/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmq53UhydYVngWBPoKtLyTkjvHhBT1djL116P_wHrwDfPm8RcNrBN-ZzoRnx3S9grgRuC2Tbwf2Mk9ZnDhbo_45Ywsz44DbY318666ITU9wnNXywon3F-HHpmBj17i3r38_xSdC_-XMg/s320/tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bare cottonwood</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />I come to a lone cottonwood in the middle of the prairie. Her branches reach out tall and bare; her leaves--dried and gray crunch beneath my feet. There's a bleached white log next to the tree inviting me to sit awhile, to dig my notebook out from my satchel, and write. I am exposed from all sides in the open prairie, but still, I sit and write, spilling some of my deepest thoughts on this ivory Moleskine paper. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Throughout the rest of my hike, I think about this vulnerability on the open prairie and how it relates to new relationships. My husband and I have moved three times in ten years, so engaging in new relationships is something we've done often. I'm an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/INFJ" target="_blank">INFJ on the MBTI</a>, so while I'm deeply introverted, I have a need for significant relationships with others. These relationships aren't formed quickly; they take time and work, and my introverted side often just wants to ignore this need for connection because relationships are hard. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The newness is awkward and clunky and leaves our heads on swivels as we anticipate rejection. Not able to fully let ourselves be vulnerable, we hang back cautiously keeping conversations focused on the unseasonably warm winter in the Midwest. We glide over the surface of topics only an inch deep.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vulnerability is difficult, but the payoff is incredible. Having friends who can eat tacos at your sticky table is oddly satisfying. Having one person you can tell even your darkest, most unflattering thoughts to is freeing. But to get here, we have to let ourselves be truly seen. We can't do this with just everyone, or it will destroy us. Vulnerability expert, Brene Brown, writes in her book </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">:</span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Vulnerability is based on mutuality and requires boundaries and trust. It's not oversharing, it's not purging, it's not indiscriminate disclosure, and it's not celebrity-style social media information dumps. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vulnerability is about sharing our feelings and experiences with people who have earned the right to hear them</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">" (45).</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes, depending on our stage of life, achieving vulnerability in relationships can take years. The older we get, the harder it becomes to develop meaningful relationships: we get busy, we get burned, we might even withdraw altogether seeking comfort in things. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we are brave enough to consistently seek out these friendships, we will eventually find those rare and coveted relationships--the ones that allow us to go deep. Suddenly, there seems to be a loosening of our tongues, a dropping down of the barriers we so often hide behind. And sometimes it's impossible to even pinpoint what it was that allowed for this vulnerability. It may have been a rare act of generosity, too much red wine, a pan of lasagna shared at exactly the right time, a 17 mile run in the country, or maybe a combination of these events. When you find people who have earned the right to hear about your feelings and experiences, don't let go of them. </span></div>
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-4342272306039131872017-02-07T12:31:00.000-07:002017-02-07T12:34:52.423-07:00Book review: Jesus Feminist It took me a month, but I finally finished <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jesus-Feminist-Invitation-Revisit-Bibles/dp/1476717257" target="_blank"><i>Jesus Feminist </i>by Sarah Bessey</a>. I should add that I'm a SLOW reader, especially when it comes to deeply philosophical texts, and this book was dense. To me, a good book does one of two things: advances my thinking or makes me forget where I am. <i>Jesus Feminist</i> didn't make me lose track of time and forget where I was, but my 'ole wheels were a-turning throughout the book. Specifically, I learned a lot in the areas of studying scripture and a woman's "role" in the church.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><b>Studying Scripture</b><br />
First, Bessey makes several arguments for how we should study scripture. (It's worth mentioning that Bessey is well-versed in theology and has spent several years serving in different ministries.) Early in the book she suggests four keys for studying scripture: wisdom, the Holy Spirit (who provides wisdom), Jesus, and all the scriptures (seems legit, right?!). She continues:<br />
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"I believe it's misguided, and probably profane, to look at a diverse collection of books written over thousands of years--history, poetry, law, Gospel accounts, proverbs, correspondence, and other writings--as absolute literal instructions without context, as we [humans with our own context and histories] understand them, in all cases" (Bessey 57-58). </blockquote>
Bessey uses this holistic approach of studying scripture to explain Proverbs 31, not as a handbook for how to be a "godly" woman. Rather, she explains that Proverbs 31 was intended as a celebration and acknowledgement of women's courage that was "memorized by Jewish husbands for the purpose of honoring their wives" (Bessey 58). Many women come at Proverbs 31 with their own experiences of being held to unrealistic expectations (whether self-inflicted or culturally imposed), and with this context, Proverbs 31 can certainly feel like an unrealistic measuring stick. Bessey's holistic approach to scripture rather than a literal interpretation of scripture feels freeing, and honestly---it makes a boatload of sense. <br />
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Likewise, she places great emphasis on examining scripture in the context of the culture and the times in which a text was written.<br />
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"Life in Christ is not meant to mirror life in Greco-Roman culture. An ancient Middle Eastern culture is not our standard. We are not meant to adopt the world of Luther's Reformation or the culture of the 18th century Great Awakening or even 1950s America as our standard for righteousness. The culture, past, or present, isn't the point: Jesus and his kingdom come, his will be done, right now--that is the point" (Bessey 77). </blockquote>
Just a few pages before this passage, Bessey presents a variety of scriptures often quoted (and often controversial) in the church when discussing what it means to be a woman. She spends time turning these scriptures and their literal, evangelical interpretations upside down to analyze them in the context of the culture to determine WHY they were written and what they meant in that time. I've always been an advocate for studying scripture in context, but I've just never had someone spell out <i>why</i> so clearly. <br />
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<b>A Woman's Role</b><br />
Earlier in the book, in the chapter "A Redemptive Movement," Bessey encourages readers to abandon narrow definitions of "'biblical manhood or womanhood'" realizing, instead, our place in God's redemptive story. She explains that the Bible contains many verses of how masters should treat slaves. Does that mean that slavery is Biblical and right?<br />
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"Given God's creation and repeated prophetic mandates in scripture of equality and freedom and justice for the oppressed, God's dream for humanity is clearly not slavery" (Bessey 28). </blockquote>
With sin came oppression and patriarchy and slavery and evil and a host of injustices (including gender inequality). Are women designed to have no voice, to only be an echo chamber for her husband (or to even be married)? Absolutely not. <b>God simply had a better plan for us</b> that we f'ed up. So, what was God's design for women?<br />
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The chapter "Dancing Warriors" breaks down the Hebrew worlds originally used to describe women (ezer kenegdo); she explains that women were created to be a perfect match for man. Additionally, the Hebrew word (ezer) used to describe women is the same word used as a reference to "God as Israel's helper for military purposes" (Bessey 78). We weren't created to be assistants to our husbands, a man's secretary. Instead, we were created to be <b>equal partners in battle</b>--"women were created and called out as <i>warriors" </i>(Bessey 78).<br />
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<i>Jesus Feminist </i>was refreshing. This sorry excuse of a book review doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of all I learned. If you've found yourself wondering what role women should play in ministry, or maybe you're a woman who has had your gifts overlooked or downplayed simply because of your gender, or, perhaps you're struggling to understand how to apply scripture in a modern world--if any of these ideas apply to you, consider giving this book a read. If you do decide to read it, send me an email and let me know your thoughts on the book. I'd love to discuss it with folks! <br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-71658632455026430542017-02-06T11:16:00.004-07:002017-02-07T13:15:01.840-07:00A poem: Palm up in offering<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-1b243fa8-1935-2b60-c442-34f52d5883aa" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Note: I've been rather quiet on this space lately. I'm still struggling to figure out how to process recent events, especially the recent executive order banning refugees from seven countries. So, to help me process, I wrote a poem. It's not polished or even share-worthy, but it is honest. Maybe you're also reeling during these difficult times; if so, take good care of yourself. Try reading or writing poetry or take a walk or eat a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies or cook a meal for a friend. Do all the self-care things, so you can take care of others. Also: Thanks to my fellow writer, Lisa Leshaw, for the title suggestion for this poem! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Palm up in offering</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One week after President Trump's </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">executive order on immigration, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I let fear propel me to action and sent an email to a </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">refugee resettlement office checking in on the families</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">set to arrive in my town this spring.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My family was hoping to welcome a family from Somalia.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I had been looking forward to doing my part.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I imagined sharing a meal with this new family--</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.somalikitchen.com/cambuulo-iyo-maraq-rice-with-adzuki-beans-in-a-spicy-tomato-sauce.html/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">cambuulo</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> and tacos,</span><a href="http://www.somalikitchen.com/shushumow-somali-crystallised-pastry-shells.html/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">shushumow</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> and apple pie</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">dotting the new farmhouse table my dad made for me--</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">the table that I prayed would be used as a bridge</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">during these difficult and divided times.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Our kids, naive to cultural differences,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">would play together</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">even though they don’t share the same language.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Within minutes, I received a response:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Due to the recent executive order,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">we are halting all resettlements.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Thank you for your willingness to help.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I set out for a run in the freshly fallen snow</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">and turned on a</span><a href="http://www.sortaawesomeshow.com/shownotes/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">podcast</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, thinking</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">of the families who were turned away.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.sklevy.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Sara Kate Levey,</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> an American Jew living in Los Angeles</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">spoke about her connection to the Holocaust:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Her father in-law was a teenager.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The tattoo of his number still remains</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">on his arm.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A living testimony to the</span><a href="http://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2017/01/30/1939-refugees-st-louis-manifest" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">last time</span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">our country turned away refugees.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Our government stuck out its hand,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">not a hand outstretched--</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">but an open palm in halt formation.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fearing</span><a href="http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/us-government-turned-away-thousands-jewish-refugees-fearing-they-were-nazi-spies-180957324/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"> Nazi spies</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> would surely slip in</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">among these 900 Jewish refugees,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">our government pointed the boat back home.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Upon their arrival home,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">they were not welcomed with parades and balloons</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">and children waving those patriotic mini flags.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">No.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The last time we turned refugees away,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">more than 250 of these 900 were slaughtered.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Levey, an American Jew, said:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We feel the fear Muslim-Americans feel right now.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s in our bones.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fear is in my bones, now, too.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s in the bones of many Americans,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">pulsing through our bodies,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">breathed out in different ways.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A friend told me the other night to let go of that fear.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I don’t think I want to because</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">this isn’t a paralyzing fear--the kind that catches me</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">unaware at two in the morning,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">breathless and rigid.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is a holy fear.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The kind that shows us what the world is capable of, and</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I want this fear to move me forward,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">to spur me on towards love</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Instead of holding me back from love.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I want this fear to move me forward</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">to open my home,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">to open my hand,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">palm up in offering.</span></div>
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-32997981592760962352017-01-23T20:39:00.000-07:002017-01-24T08:06:28.114-07:00Just another women's march postI didn't attend a women's march this last weekend, but I wanted to.<br />
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I spent the day with a dear friend who has encountered some rough patches in her life over the last six months. We spent the day hunkered inside talking and eating cookies while our kids played. We ate tacos together, and our kids asked (again) if we were all related. I wasn't at a march because a friend needed someone to sit with her, and even though the day was tinted with a bit of sadness as we acknowledged all she has so bravely endured, it was a good day, one of healing.<br />
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But if I had gone to a march, I would've waved signs, held hands with my friends, and shouted loudly.<br />
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I wanted to march as a way to protest the hateful rhetoric--particularly towards women--that fueled our new president's campaign.<br />
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I wanted to march because sexual assault is as common as white bread on grocery store shelves. I wanted to march for <a href="http://journalstar.com/news/local/911/lincoln-woman-was-beaten-shot-husband-charged/article_6ecfe23a-8237-5038-9c38-53b4d239b5b2.html" target="_blank">Kelsey,</a> a woman I went to high school with, who was beaten and then murdered by her husband a few years ago. I wanted to march for the Hispanic woman who showed up at a shelter I volunteered at, her hands shaking, her kids crying, her face red and streaked with tears. I wanted to march for that one time back in 9th grade when I said no to a boy, but he did not respect my no. I wanted to march to show support for the <a href="https://www.rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence" target="_blank">millions of women in our country</a> whose no is not respected.<br />
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I wanted to march for my daughter--a fiery girl with a competitive streak--my daughter who once had a near stranger say to her: "I bet you're bossy, aren't you?"<br />
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I wanted to march for one of my current students--a strong, single, Muslim mother of four kids who told me she feared for her daughters' safety as Muslim kids growing up in a small, Midwestern town.<br />
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I wanted to march for more fair treatment of women at work. For my friend who was once told by a colleague, "You should smile more."<br />
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I wanted to march for the women in my faith circle who have been belittled by men of faith, who have had their questions silenced and their gifts ignored.<br />
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I wanted to march for my son--a little boy who witnessed domestic violence at an early age. I wanted to show him all the strong men who show their strength not in how hard they can hit a woman, not in how much they can control a woman, but men who show their strength by marching alongside women.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend participated in the Omaha women's march. She sent me this picture; the sign says:<br />
"I march for my mom, my grandma, my aunts, my cousins, my teachers, my friends, and for that girl over there that I don't even know. My future wife." </td></tr>
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I've seen a lot of negative feedback about the women's marches that happened this weekend, and it doesn't surprise me. There's always push back to protests and marches. What is incredibly disheartening are the many comments I read from strangers, acquaintances, and friends who say they don't understand the purpose of this march. Many believe that women are now equal to men (I mean, women can vote now, right? So what's the big deal?). Many (I think ignorantly) equated the women's march as a one-sided issue march: an attack on pro-life issues. Others asked what good a march would do? I mean, why not <i>do </i>something?<br />
<br />
While women have many of the same legal rights as men, we are often not treated as such. The women's march was a multi-dimensional show of solidarity over the many, many issues that impact women today. Marches and protests have been important events in our culture. They can be incredible displays of unity and give folks a renewed strength to fight for justice. My friends who participated in these women's marches are amazing people who put their feet to the road on a daily basis helping others, who work tirelessly to raise kind kids (some of whom are not even their own); their participation in a women's march was just an added layer of advocacy. <br />
<br />
I was not frightened by these marches. Instead, I was encouraged to see millions of women, men, and kids exercising their rights and marching around the world in a (mostly) peaceful display of solidarity, each with their own reasons. It was refreshing to see such unity despite how divided our nation and world seem to be lately. If you marched last weekend (or wanted to march): why did you? I'd love to hear your reasons!Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-26754391257686661402017-01-18T13:14:00.000-07:002017-02-06T13:33:27.689-07:00Winter rhythmsToday, the people of Nebraska are emerging from their homes after an ice storm halted daily commutes in the majority of our state. Due to the weather, I've been confined to the treadmill for too long. I was finally able to run outside this morning, but it was a slow and slick five miles.<br />
<br />
I had to watch my step more than normal and kick the pace down to one minute slower per mile. This kind of running can be a bit torturing for someone like me who likes to just zone out and fall into an 8:30/mile pace. It was good for me, though, to slow down.<br />
<br />
I could feel the cold air sting my lungs while the sun provided a welcome warmth on my face. To help slow my pace this morning, I downloaded an acoustic playlist on Spotify. It was slow and deliberate music. The kind of music one listens to while drifting off to sleep. Throughout the five miles, I noticed things like the way the ice glimmered like diamonds on the sidewalk--like that old Tom Waits song, "<i>Diamonds on my windshield...tears from heaven."</i> I noticed the birds and their warbles overhead. It seemed like ages since I last heard the birds. I noticed the way the grass bent in submission to the ice, a sort of bowing to its power. I noticed how quiet my neighborhood is after the morning rush. I noticed the crisp smell of winter giving way to the damp of thawing--the earthy smell of wet dirt.<br />
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One of the reasons why I love the Midwest so much is because of the seasons. There are, for the most part, four distinct seasons here. We have crisp autumns, frigid winters, rainy springs, and fiery hot summers. We Midwesterners have developed activities and rhythms for each season. During the winter, houses are shut up, curtains are pulled closed, and we all break out our favorite sweaters. We pour big cups of tea and stir pots of hearty soup. In the Midwest, winter produces a kind of slowing down.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random winter photo...thanks, Pexels, for your free pics. </td></tr>
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A professor in graduate school once told me that I wasn't very Midwestern. He thought I spoke too sharply, moved too quickly, and in a way, I suppose he was right. I'm learning to train my body to adapt to the seasons, but the slowing down is often difficult for me. It is easy to grow discontented with the cold and count the days until spring. The older I get, though, the more I understand the necessity of a Midwestern winter. Fall, summer, and spring each beg us to be out and about and moving around, but winter is a time of drawing in. A time of introspection. A time of rest. And it only comes around for about three months a year (although, in Nebraska--the winter can last four or five months!).<br />
<br />
I want to learn to savor the winter like a bowl of beef and barley soup. I want to allow myself the space and freedom to just sit instead of constantly moving. I want to take pleasure in the shuffling of winter running. I want to give myself permission to pull my curtains tight and hunker down beneath blankets with my kids so we can better appreciate the movement spring will inevitably bring.<br />
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Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-89696588899624347272017-01-16T21:51:00.004-07:002017-01-16T21:58:51.841-07:00I Have a Dream, 54 years laterToday is MLK Jr. day, and thanks to the ice storm, everyone in my house had a day off from school. (Side bar: I'm disenchanted with our town's main school district that serves 9,000 diverse students and my community college system that doesn't honor MLK Jr. day as a federal holiday.) So, we listened to Dr. King's <a href="http://www.npr.org/2010/01/18/122701268/i-have-a-dream-speech-in-its-entirety" target="_blank">"I Have a Dream"</a> speech as a family. I've listened to the speech and read and taught Dr. King's writings many times, but today the speech came alive for me in a way it hadn't before. There were a few sections in particular that really jumped out at me, so for my daily writing, I decided to pull these from the speech and then write about them:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I have a dream that [...] one day right down in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today."</blockquote>
My family looks like a picture of racial progress: two white parents, a brown son, and a black daughter. This fact is not lost on me. While we listened to a part of the speech today, my daughter stood by my side, holding my hand. Her dark brown hand rested comfortably in my white hand, and my eyes filled with tears. The fact that my family can even exist comfortably is evidence of progress, but as Dr. King said in 1963, there is still work to be done.<br />
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"This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism."<br />
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The same message applies in 2017. While we have certainly made progress in race relations, our country now feels more racially divided than it has in the last thirty years. The news headlines whisper stories of racism, and I see this played out in my communities. Our state's major cities like Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island are divided into neighborhoods by race. You can almost circle certain areas of each city and identify which group of people lives in each area. Of course, this isn't mutually exclusive, and there is racial crossover in all neighborhoods, but our cities remain racially divided.<br />
<br />
In my central Nebraska town, there is a fair amount of diversity. The largest demographics are comprised of Hispanics, caucasians, and a smattering of African immigrants and refugees. Despite this diversity, I still hear white folks lament about the growing number of Spanish speakers in our community. They say ignorant things like, "If they don't want to learn English, they should go back where they came from" as if learning another language is as easy as buying a sack of potatoes at a grocery store. My daughter came home from school the other day and explained very matter of factly how one boy made fun of her dark skin color. These are explicit displays of racism that don't include examples of <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/hnigatu/racial-microagressions-you-hear-on-a-daily-basis?utm_term=.qeejG92nW#.ko4JdO9Vo" target="_blank">microaggressions</a>.<br />
<br />
Microaggressions like near strangers touching my daughter's hair in public...without asking. People staring at our family as if we are foreigners from another world and then telling me of their one black friend or relative like that gives us some sort of common ground on which to stand. Comments like, "Look at her beautiful dark skin!" Or questions like, "Where'd you get her?" likening her to an item picked up off a shelf. Responding to the Black Lives Matter movement with the phrase All Lives Matter. And my favorite microaggression: <i>I don't see color</i>.<br />
<br />
And then there's the silence towards matters of race. I can't figure out if I should categorize this as explicit racism or microaggressions, but this silence is what <strike>concerns f</strike>rightens me the most. Reluctant to engage in tough conversations, people fly by news articles, current events, or discussions about race as if ignoring the matter will make it go away. All this does is perpetuate racism. We must engage in hard topics, meet them head on at our dinner tables and in our sanctuaries and classrooms and places of business if we want racism to be diminished. A high school teacher once told me, "silence is consent." To be fair, this statement is certainly problematic, but I truly believe that silence in the face of racism is acceptance of racism.<br />
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"It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. [...] Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual."</blockquote>
In 2017 there is still urgency in Dr. King's movement. His work is not finished. We can't watch footage of protests in Baltimore and Charlotte and Baton Rouge and New York and then return to business as usual. Racism is alive and well in our society, and we would do well to acknowledge it and then take steps to alleviate it.<br />
<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-8385929825907678162017-01-14T22:04:00.002-07:002017-01-14T22:04:25.631-07:00Saying goodbye to SamWe had to say goodbye to our family dog, Sampson, yesterday. He was 10 years old, and his death caught us all off guard. Just a few weeks before he passed, he was tearing around the backyard with the kids. But at the start of this week, I could tell something was up with him.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam--lounging around last week on the arm of the couch</td></tr>
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He laid around more than usual; he was slow to get up; and his food dish sat full and untouched. On Wednesday, I came home after my morning run expecting Sam to greet me at the door, tail wagging like he normally does. I opened my back door, and there was no dog to greet me. I hollered his name and listened for the jingle of the tags on his collar, but still...nothing. One of his favorite spots to go when we're gone is in the basement to lay snuggled on the bed, burrowed in my grandma's quilt. That's where he was, but when I called for him again from the doorway of the spare room in the basement, he only looked at me and then rested his head on his paws. I sat next to him, softly stroking his head. "What's wrong, bud?" I whispered. "Do you want a treat?"<br />
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I expected his head to pop up and his ears to perk, but they didn't. He just laid there, staring at the wall across the room.<br />
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I thought hearing the sound of the treat jar rattling might help, so I retreated upstairs to snag the silver canister of Snausages--a recent Christmas present. I sat the treat at the top of the stairs. He slowly climbed upstairs, put the treat in his mouth, and then spat it out. Day three of not eating.<br />
<br />
The vet managed to squeeze him in that day and diagnosed him with a stomach bug citing many dogs with similar symptoms. We had medicine for him and were to be sure he ate a little each day and drank water often. He was expected to bounce back in 2-4 days.<br />
<br />
But it didn't work out like that, and the next night we were back at the vet because he wasn't eating or drinking or keeping his medicine down. His tail slowly wagged when he heard the receptionist greet him. When she took his leash from me to take him to the back, though, he looked back at the kids and me with big, sad eyes and pulled against her towards us. I fought the urge to bend down, rub his ears, and give him a quick peck on the head because I feared looking like too much of a softy. I wish I would have because the next time I'd be rubbing his ears and kissing his head would be the next day to say goodbye.<br />
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There were tumors. Lots of them. Too many to safely remove.<br />
<br />
"You can choose to operate if you want, but I fear I'd be wasting your money. There's just so many," the vet said gently.<br />
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And so, yesterday, we all gathered on our little rug in our living room, where we had all laid so many times before, to say our goodbyes. It was the hardest goodbye I've ever said. He sat patiently as we all took turns kissing his head, petting him, telling him we loved him, and crying--our tears falling on his fur. Normally, he'd make eye contact with me, locking his wide, black eyes on mine. Instead, he just looked the other way, turning his head each time I cried as if he just couldn't bear to see me upset. His mouth never quite closed; it was like he wanted to pant, but he just couldn't muster up the energy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids, saying goodbye to their best pal </td></tr>
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<br />The whole ordeal only took about 30 minutes before my husband, eyes red and bleary, scooped him up and wrapped him in a towel. He sat him on the floor of our Subaru, the same spot he had ridden so many times. The kids and I watched from the front door and sobbed as my husband drove away with our dog. Our dog of ten years--the one who drove us mad chewing up everything as a puppy. The dog who laid in bed with me for days after I found out I would never have biological children. The dog who slept under each of our kids' beds for at least a month after they moved in. The dog who always wanted to be with us wherever we were.<br />
<br />
Sam was more than just a dog. He was a constant in my and my husband's life. We brought him home a few months before our one-year wedding anniversary. We grew up with him. He was our source of laughter, our comfort when we were sad, our companion. In a way, he taught us some of the skills we would later need as parents. He was the only constant in our life. Through moves, deaths, infertility, a failed adoption, job changes--he was by our side.<br />
<br />
And now: he's gone. We're left with nothing but his stuff sprinkled throughout the house and memories. What I would give for one more good, healthy day with him. One more time to hug him close to me, to throw his raquetball for him, to hear my son laughing as Sam chases him--one more time to hears his collar jingle and see his tail poking out from under our bed.<br />
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Our pets are only in our lives for a short time, but they manage to burrow into our existence and become part of our daily rhythms. When they're gone, life just feels...empty.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-10950870599019574002017-01-11T13:25:00.002-07:002017-01-11T13:31:38.839-07:00Book chats with Danielle: Present Over Perfect<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just finished the book,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simpler, More Soulful Way of Living </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">by Shauna Niequist. Shauna was a guest on a podcast I listened to a while back, and listening to her talk about this book was compelling because I've suffered from a habit of hustle for most of my adult life.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The subtitle of the book really gives the story away--it essentially narrates her journey from a frantic way of living to a more sustainable, joy-filled life. At the end, Niequest writes, </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"[...] I was on a dangerous track, where I was giving the best of myself to people and things 'out there,' while the tender inner core of my life and home were increasingly stretched, pressurized, brittle. And now they're not. Now the most beautiful, well-tended, truly nurtured and nourished parts of my life are the innermost ones, not the flashy public ones. That's just as it should be" (228-229). </span></blockquote>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This quote really is the heart of the book--how and why we must nurture ourselves.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think this book likely speaks to many women since the expectation of women in our society is to do </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>all</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>all</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>all</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. For me, this book came five years too late. In my mid-twenties, I battled with these same pressures and eventually traded my frantic pace of life for a slower one when my husband and I welcomed our second child into our home.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are ideas from the book that I'll be exploring in the days to come: Which emotional resources of mine have been depleted? How did they become so? Who did God create me to be? How do I fully embrace this? What am I attempting to outrun?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the most part, though, it was a chore to even finish the book. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First, at page 92 the book seemed redundant, and I still had over 130 pages left. Each "chapter" (really, these were more like essays or blog posts) is short and essentially seems to say the same thing: </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I was in a habit of biting off more than I could chew. I needed to slow down.</i></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> This message might be better communicated in a series of blog posts rather than an entire book.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The second issue I had with the book was the glaring sense of privilege from which Niequest writes. Her first detailed revelation of needing to slow down was during a family snorkeling trip in Hawaii. The chapter is titled, "Tunnels"--as in tunnels of reefs. She ends this section with, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'm thankful for that day, weaving through the tunnels with my precious boy, when the violence inside me became profound enough to shake me into new solutions" (73). </span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a trend now in literature (in both sacred and secular) to fashion a non-fiction book in this way: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Woman writer is unsatisfied with her life; goes on a vacation and has big, life-changing revelations. </i></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And these books are wildly popular. I've got a bad case of wanderlust, but my current stage of life doesn't allow for extravagant travels, so admittedly, I enjoy reading about other people's cool trips and what they learn along the way. Nevertheless, I worry about this message of privilege--especially when it's tied to a major Christian publisher like Zondervan. I worry about associating privilege with spiritual revelations. This book feels like it's written for a particular social class, and that's fine--a writer has to narrow her audience; but it feels like more and more mainstream Christian publications are written for the middle to upper-middle class, and I worry about the message this sends. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then there's the implication of this as a Christian publication with many references to God but little reference to scripture. I don't think it was Niequest's intent, but it seems to me that the book can be misread as a book that reinforces an "I am enough" theme without reinforcing the gospel message. I don't buy into a theology that promotes earning God's love and approval, but I do subscribe to a biblical view that believes God sent Jesus to save us because we couldn't save ourselves. I understand the concept of taking ownership over our own lives and not allowing others to dictate how we spend our time and energy. Niequest encourages readers to embrace agency in their own lives. She writes, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You can live on a farm or out of a backpack. You can work from your kitchen or in a high-rise. You can worship in your living room or a cathedral. [...] You can wear slippers or heels, eat steak or kale, read poetry or spreadsheets, fall asleep to the hum of the city or out under the stars. You get to make your life" (103).</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While it's true that we get to make these choices, the book felt more about engaging in things or experiences that make us happy rather than dying to self (Romans 8:13). My friend, Amee, and I were texting about this book, and she said, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I like the concept of simplifying our life and saying no to things so we can say yes to others, but I feel like the bigger picture of why we should do that isn't really about us and making 'me' time; it's to use that time to invest in things that impact eternity. I want to free up time to bake cookies for my neighbors so they can know Jesus. I want to free up resources so that they go to others because Jesus gave up so much for me. Not so I can relax and have more margin."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn't agree with Amee more. I traded a life of hustle because I physically couldn't keep up anymore. I found that when I said no to certain things (things that were good and honorable), I was able to say yes to opportunities like having coffee with a stay at home mom at the end of her rope, helping immigrants become American citizens, feeding the hungry in my community, volunteering in my kids' school. I felt like <i>Present Over Perfect</i> focused too much on saying no in order to say yes to self-serving things. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you're at a point in your life where hustle has become habit, where you feel like life is a matter of checking certain boxes and pleasing certain people, then you might find </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Present Over Perfect</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to be a worthwhile read. However, if you're of the Christian persuasion and reading this book, consider the larger message of the gospel: A Jesus who came to save us because we couldn't save ourselves; let that message compel you to trade a frantic, hustled life for more space to serve others.</span></span></div>
<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-75388800755045581102017-01-06T13:48:00.003-07:002017-01-07T08:59:54.042-07:00Technology: Setting boundaries to avoid gluttony It's Friday, which means a long run day for me. About a year ago, I added <a href="http://www.sortaawesomeshow.com/" target="_blank">The Sorta Awesome Show</a> podcast to my listening line-up on long runs. Today's episode was all about technology and the ways it helps and hurts us--a topic I've thought of often. While I fall into the digital native label because of my millennial status, my family wasn't quick to adopt all the technologies.<br />
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I vividly remember when my parents got their first mobile phone: a car phone in a bag sometime in the mid to late 90s. I was mystified that my mom could make a call <b><u>FROM HER CAR</u></b>.<br />
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We even had a computer during my elementary school days, but I don't think we had internet at home until I was in junior high. My small Catholic elementary school got a tiny computer lab when I was somewhere around fifth or sixth grade, and it was a big deal. We played Oregon Trail and learned basic keyboarding skills, but I don't ever remember doing anything on the internet until junior high.<br />
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The technology I really loved, though, was my stereo complete with a fancy cassette deck. Music has always been my thing. I know the pain of rewinding and pushing play at just the right time to listen to a song over again. When I became interested in song lyrics, I often would listen to a 10-second snippet of a song, pause it, and then scribble down what I thought were the lyrics. Anybody else do this?!? Those were the good old days of technology.<br />
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My junior high years brought MSN Messenger, and it wasn't even worth asking my parents if I could have it. They were strict about the media we consumed, and the thought of me talking to a stranger on the internet would've sent my dad's blood pressure through the roof. Working around this, I used my cousin's and friends' computers and their Messenger accounts to talk to whatever boy I crushed on at the time.<br />
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In high school, I primarily did most of my writing and research for classes at school. Maybe my memory is not serving me correctly, but I don't really have any memories of getting on the internet at home until I was a junior in high school (2002-2003). I'm pretty sure this was the year I got my first email address so I could start researching scholarships and colleges.<br />
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I got my first cell phone when I was 16, but I didn't have text messaging until I was a freshman in college. I still remember getting my first text message. I looked at the tiny screen of my Nokia flip phone, saw a text from one of my friends, and muttered, "What the hell is this?!" Soon after, I of course added text messaging to my cell phone plan.<br />
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I may be <i>of </i>the digital native millennial generation, but I wasn't really <i>in </i>it. I still live under a bit of a rock when it comes to tech. I've only looked at Tumblr once (and it was downright maddening) because a student in one of my classes used it for a project. I rarely open Twitter, and admittedly, I don't really get how it works. I had Snapchat for about six months, but I didn't use it enough to justify it taking up space on my phone. Even still, technology and social media have managed to become a regular part of my life. In our home, we have a television, a desktop computer, two laptops, two tablets, and two smart phones. I use Facebook and Instagram and Google Drive and Blogger and email multiple times a day. I refresh all my news apps at least twice a day to keep up on current events.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the devices....</td></tr>
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In <a href="http://www.sortaawesomeshow.com/shownotes/2017/1/6/ep-83-is-tech-taking-over-your-life" target="_blank">episode 83</a> of The Sorta Awesome Show, the hosts discussed the concept of digital obesity and brainstormed ways to step back from all the technology things. This is tough to do as a freelancer (I'm still recovering in terms of numbers and reach from the last 30-day social media fast I did), but I do need to be more intentional about my usage. At the end of the podcast episode, the hosts challenge listeners to "engineer [mental] solitude in their lives." My technology habits could use more boundaries, so here's what I'm going to try:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Fasting from social media on Sundays (similar to the host of TSAS). My family is entering show choir season, which means Nate will be gone from sun-up to past sundown on Saturdays. Sundays, then, will be our family days.</li>
<li>Investing in an old-school alarm clock for my bedroom. My alarm is currently on my cell phone, but every morning when it goes off, I open up Facebook and Instagram and scroll through all the things before I'm even out of bed. I waste probably 30 minutes every morning doing this nonsense, and for what?! There's really no purpose to it.</li>
<li>When I come home from work, I want to park my phone in the kitchen because I fear I'm teaching my kids horrible habits. I don't want my kids to be ruled by their devices and develop separation anxiety when away from them. Parking my phone in the kitchen will free me up in the evenings. After dinner and showers, our little family cozies up in the living room to wind down for the night. The kids usually play a game or read on the rug, and 75% of the time, Nate and I are on a device. I don't want my kids to think that technology is the only way to wind down. I'd rather they see me reading, writing, coloring, or playing with them. </li>
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It's not possible for my family to go back to the "good old days" without internet or devices, but I do have a responsibility to set boundaries for myself so that I avoid gluttony and to set a good example for my kids. What about you? I'd love to hear about your experiences setting boundaries with technology. Are there any areas of tech usage that feel out of control to you? What are ways you reign it all in?<br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-90483097562475274882016-12-31T14:18:00.003-07:002017-01-01T00:23:23.945-07:002017: Keep BreathingI love lists and goals, but I've never been much of a new year's resolution person. Perhaps this is because I'm already fairly driven and determined. I'm never okay with being complacent, and once I decide I want to do something, I am sure to get it done.<br />
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However, while listening to one of my favorite podcasts,<a href="http://www.sortaawesomeshow.com/" target="_blank"> The Sorta Awesome Show,</a> I discovered that some people establish words or phrases to guide their year instead of more traditional new year's resolutions (seriously, I'm so behind on the times). I'm a word person, so something like this really appeals to me. I thought I'd try it out for 2017 since 2016 just makes my stomach turn a bit.<br />
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I know it may be a cliche, but 2016 was fraught with hard times. We helped friends and family through some tough stuff this year including marital turmoil, career disappointments, miscarriage, death, illness, dreams deferred (shout out to my man, Langston Hughes for that phrase). It seems like every month we were walking a friend or family member through something tough. Add to this our own dose of difficulties, a toxic election cycle, and contentious current events. My highly empathetic self is just depleted. I feel like I've been holding my breath for an entire year. My shoulders and back ache, and I find myself having to deliberately unclench my body. So, my phrase for 2017 is <i>Keep breathing.</i><br />
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It seems silly that a person would need to remind herself to breathe, but I'm finding that it's not instinctual for me. What is instinctual for me is to panic, react, flip into "fixer" mode, make lists, prioritize. Admittedly, I'm a bit ashamed by the simplicity of this phrase. I want something more bold, more catchy, more share worthy--something like:<i> Choose adventure,</i> <i>Pursue joy,</i> or <i>Kick fear in the face</i>. <i>Keep breathing </i>seems too ordinary and boring, like it should be wearing a pilling wool cardigan in an earth tone, a black t-shirt, a pair of gray trousers, and simple black flats....so, basically, what I wear everyday.<br />
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The more I've thought on the phrase, though, the more I realize how risky this intention is for me. I think I hold my breathe out of fear of coming face to face with my own flaws and insecurities. I hold my breath in fear of disappointing others. But when I hold my my breath, all my flaws and insecurities are magnified; I end up with a tired mind, a sore body, and unhealthy relationships with the people in my house as I become a tightly wound ball of thread with no end in sight to unravel.<br />
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I want to be able to breathe and relax my shoulders once in awhile. This means that I'll have to be intentional about what gets my time and energy. I'll be choosing the things that allow me to breathe in God's grace, like volunteering and engaging in relationships with others. I'll choose the activities that give me time to breathe and settle my soul--like running and reading and writing and traveling.<br />
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Here's a list of the things I want to do in 2017 that will still allow me to breathe (have I mentioned that I'm a list-lover?!):<br />
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<li>Run a 50k: I love the discipline of training, but I need a new distance to challenge me and keep me interested. I've always been intrigued by ultramarathoners. They're a different kind of people who seem less worried about paces and more focused on the experience.</li>
<li>Invite people over for dinner more often: I'd love to have people over once a month because I think the best conversations happen when people can commune together. </li>
<li>Continue engaging with the marginalized in my community: I'll continue serving as a citizenship preparation tutor for the Multicultural Coalition, feeding folks at Messiah Lutheran's Saturday Suppers once a month with my family, and in 2017 our family will start helping resettle refugee families through Lutheran Family Services. If there's anything I've ever been so convicted of, it's to love people on the fringes just like Jesus did. It's not always easy or comfortable, but it's humbling kingdom work. </li>
<li>Travel: I don't need anything extravagant, but I want to take my kids to new parts of the state and country. We've looked at renting out those cute little cabooses at Two Rivers SRA in eastern Nebraska, visiting the Niobrara river, and hiking in some mountain range in Colorado or Wyoming. </li>
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I'd love to hear your intentions for 2017. What word or phrase will guide you this year? What do you hope to accomplish? Leave a comment below!<br />
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Happy New Year!<br />
<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-44745514150797870372016-12-20T10:13:00.000-07:002016-12-20T10:13:00.999-07:00The moment before the photoConfession: I'm terrible at documenting moments via pictures. I have a sister in-law who is great at it; she always seems to remember her camera, snaps a photo at just the right time, and makes awesome picture books for her kids. She isn't a professional photographer, but her pictures have captured some beautiful moments.<br />
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My style is much more...<strike>lazy </strike>casual. I take photos on my crappy cell phone and then do a mass printing of them two times a year. I give my kids the stack of photos and task them with putting the photos in their plain colored photo albums void of scrapbooking embellishments, fun captions, and stickers. I made two photo books for them once on Shutterfly, and each time it was a huge pain in the ass. I tend to be paralyzed by choice, but I also can't make an uninformed choice, so I spent an hour scrolling through all 1,764 embellishment options...for one page. My kids love these Shutterfly books and look at them often, but they also look at their giant, simple photo albums just as much.<br />
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My inability to snap photos at just the right moment paired with my preferences for interior design, means that we only have two actual photos hanging in the public spaces of our house: a picture of Nate and his dad and a black and white photo from K's adoption day in July 2015.<br />
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K's adoption day stands out clearly to me despite it happening smack-dab in the middle of one of the craziest seasons of our lives. We had just finished moving into our new house in central Nebraska the day before her adoption. The week leading up to this day was filled with moving, unpacking, cleaning, painting, and other moving related nonsense. We woke early to make K heart-shaped pancakes and drive the two hours back to Omaha.<br />
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If you've ever been to an adoption hearing, you know they are fairly anticlimactic. The judge for our case was especially dry, so within ten minutes of walking into the courtroom, the hearing was over. It had been a long nine months to get to this point: there were emotional family team meetings, safety concerns, and a turbulent transition process. When the judge asked us if we'd be willing to make a commitment to K, Nate and I both fought back tears as we said yes.<br />
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Of course, our tears were partly rooted in joy as we realized that this beautiful, resilient girl sitting in our laps was now 100% ours. We cried at the beauty of adoption: just two years prior we mourned the pain of infertility and a lost infant, and now we had two kids that shared our name via foster-adoption. Our tears were also a reflection of sadness as we realized what this adoption meant for our daughter: it meant her first family didn't work out. We cried for the loss that our new daughter will always carry with her, and we cried for her first family--for the pain that surrounds all parties in adoption.<br />
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Friends of ours hired a photographer for us to capture K's adoption. After the court hearing, we walked a few blocks to take our first official family photos. It was the end of July in eastern Nebraska, which means that it was unbearably hot and humid. The move, little sleep, and the heat were a dangerous tonic. The photographer kept a good sense of humor throughout the whole hour, and patiently guided us into poses that would make for cute pictures, but the four of us were miserable.<br />
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K frowned through most of the photo session. I'm sure the heat was the culprit, but deep down I worried that she was unhappy with her new family arrangement. My fear consumed me and caused me to irrationally snap at her. I don't remember what I said, but I remember the immediate sense of nausea I felt after the words slipped out of my mouth. I wanted to reach out and grab the words, tear them up, stomp on them. I remember my husband's gentle (and sweaty) hand on the small of my back trying to remind me to go easy. I remember K's lip quivering.<br />
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Nate reached out to our new daughter and squeezed her arm. He bent down to her level. "I know you're hot," he whispered. "We're almost done. A few more photos and then we'll go play somewhere cool."<br />
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We followed our photographer to a new spot up against a warehouse converted into an art gallery--a red brick building with windows long fogged over. Nate hoisted the kids up onto the window ledge and reached out to tickle each kid. They burst out in giggles, and immediately the tension was gone. The kids tickled each other, and Nate and I laughed alongside them, and the photographer captured it all. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHmAxOu6fzFdXa3i7wIM6KXHiBfcxlRfbEdBcmzhZndnlTKuGaizHj8y46wnmQKRIBrulfqtn6SA4gy9jqbtN6JLGzsi_21YPw9NRw7IqORGzTys6C7VbiOpd1Fl1Pfg4tdLbTuowEN4/s1600/11856270_10100365360661869_3745731916757910750_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHmAxOu6fzFdXa3i7wIM6KXHiBfcxlRfbEdBcmzhZndnlTKuGaizHj8y46wnmQKRIBrulfqtn6SA4gy9jqbtN6JLGzsi_21YPw9NRw7IqORGzTys6C7VbiOpd1Fl1Pfg4tdLbTuowEN4/s400/11856270_10100365360661869_3745731916757910750_o.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
There is so much joy evident in this candid shot of our new family, but I think it's just as important to remember the moment right before the photo. Nate and I have learned that creating a family isn't all picture-perfect moments. We've discovered that there will be trials and bumps along the way, and we could let these define our family or we could acknowledge them and then find ways to laugh.<br />
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On the days when everyone is vomiting, when the principal calls to tell me of an issue with one of my kids at school, when my anxiety feels out of control, when my husband struggles to enjoy his job, when I think about all the pain in the world--on those days, it's tough to laugh. We all need something or someone in our lives who can remind us about the redeeming moments in life. For me, it's this picture. What/who is it for you? Feel free to leave your responses in the comment section.<br />
<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-85185817764103847012016-12-15T19:56:00.000-07:002016-12-15T19:57:19.846-07:00Speaking the truth in love...even in the middle of a dumpster fire<i>Note: The pronouns 'we' and 'us' are used in reference to a collective body of folks who believe in Jesus. However, I do believe that parts of this post can be relevant to those outside the Christian faith.</i><br />
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A few days ago, a friend sent me a message; in it she wrote, "I don't know how to have faith anymore. I feel so angry at and hurt by religion and followers of it right now. I don't know how to reconcile my feelings and find a way to differentiate the Truth from what I feel drowned by."<br />
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I have a hunch that my friend isn't the only one who feels this way. 2016 has been a great big dumpster fire leaving many feeling exhausted, weepy, hoarse from screaming, and paralyzed. In this hell of a year, I've seen church-going, Jesus-loving people lose their cool and spew hateful words all in the name of trying to "spread truth." Speaking truth is one thing, but I tend to believe that truth should always be shared with love. But, what does this all mean?<br />
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First, I think it's becoming increasingly clear that we live in a <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2016/11/16/post-truth-named-2016-word-of-the-year-by-oxford-dictionaries/?utm_term=.821552289244" target="_blank">post-truth society</a>. We're inundated with fake news and we even have <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/12/07/503626660/trump-reportedly-picks-oklahoma-attorney-general-scott-pruitt-to-lead-epa" target="_blank">government officials who deny truths backed by science</a>. This has even stretched into the church with <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2016/10/31/the-high-cost-of-popular-evangelical-jen-hatmakers-gay-marriage-comments/?utm_term=.f05b7a0fb59b" target="_blank">Jen Hatmaker </a>being attacked for her evolving views on gay marriage as many Evangelical believers shout at her for twisting truth.<br />
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I'm learning that I have to do more and more work to decipher fact from fiction lately. But when it comes to the Bible, I don't fact check it anymore--I take it as truth. However, I don't condemn fact checking of scripture; I actually think there is a time in many people's faith walk for fact checking scripture. For me, the Bible is truth, but that doesn't mean I understand everything in it. I don't have a theology degree, and I haven't studied Hebrew or Greek. I'm a Bible believing, Jesus loving Christian who still struggles to understand parts of scripture. And this is why I'm incredibly careful about having theological discussions with people. I don't want to misrepresent Jesus even more than I already do, and I don't want to alienate folks, either. I aim to speak truth in love, so here are some things I try to consider before engaging in conversations of theology:<br />
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<b>What is the context of our conversation? </b>In other words, what larger issues surround this theological issue? Sometimes I get so hung up on the surface level issue of a conversation that I neglect the bigger picture. Determining the issues that reside below the surface always helps me to understand the bigger picture to communicate truths more clearly and effectively. I also try to take into consideration my own biases keeping them and my emotions in check. <br />
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<b>Where is this person at spiritually? </b>I used to think that my job as a believer was to convert people to Christianity. I once interrupted a conversation in a college cafeteria to ask a person if they knew Jesus. I seriously did this, and it did not go well (#howembarrassing). If I had known about <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhkLdScfLPk" target="_blank">Nick Miller's panic moonwalk</a>, I would've done it then.
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The older I get, the more convinced I am that my job is not to convert people. I do have a responsibility to share the gospel message with folks, but I no longer interrupt conversations to be "salt and light." Instead, I try to form relationships with people first, meeting their immediate need for companionship. And even then, after a relationship is formed, I use discretion when engaging in theological discussions so as not to alienate anyone. I'm more interested in building bridges than in tearing down wrong truths. With this mindset, I've still been able to forge incredible relationships with people who don't have the same spiritual beliefs as me. These people are just as important in my life as those who share my beliefs because they push me to have a more three-dimensional view of the world.<br />
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<b>How can I reach common ground with this person in order to have a productive conversation? </b>When we find even one thing that we can agree on with another person, we open a path to dialogue. I tend to agree with my man <a href="http://www.criticalthinking.org/pages/socratic-teaching/606" target="_blank">Socrates</a> about dialogue being the way to understand complex issues. Contrary to current communication trends, people <i>can </i>have civil conversations about contentious topics, but it takes work on the part of <i>all</i> people engaged. We've gotta be just as eager to listen to people as we are to share our own opinions. <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/womensmedia/2012/11/09/10-steps-to-effective-listening/#6bc3291226fb" target="_blank">Actively listening</a> to people is tough work, but when we do it, we're often able to connect with people who initially seem vastly different than us.<br />
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Speaking the truth in love is more than saying only kind things. It actually requires us to be thoughtful with how we proceed in sharing truth. I'm learning that tough theological conversations are best had face to face and over a shared meal so we can pay attention to the entire person. If you are a Jesus believing Christian, then you and I have a responsibility to speak truth in love. The world is watching and listening to us right now. Let's take care with how we represent the Jesus we love.Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-86336699173692540102016-11-28T22:52:00.001-07:002016-11-29T10:23:33.609-07:00RestlessEarlier this fall, I interviewed for a programs writing position with the<a href="http://www.preemptivelove.org/" target="_blank"> Preemptive Love Coalition</a> (PLC), a nonprofit waging peace in conflict zones. I didn't tell but a handful of folks because I knew from the start that it was a longshot job. I have little writing experience (in the grand scheme) and zero international writing experience, but I took a chance, and went ahead and applied for it anyway because I appreciate the mission and history of the PLC and wanted desperately to be a part of this.<br />
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You see, since I left teaching, my life often feels a bit void of meaning. I really don't mean to be melodramatic, but teaching was everything for me (which was actually part of the problem). For me, teaching was an act of social justice. Much of my teaching was an act of defiance--a pushing back and maneuvering around confining standards. It was picking the books and the articles and creating the assignments that went above and beyond the standards and fanned critical discourse. For me, teaching was an outstretched hand to the kid whose hand had been slapped too many times. But, there are dark days to teaching...many dark days, and many days I left whatever school I called home feeling like I had the shit kicked outta me by administrators, parents, colleagues, and kids. Even on these days, though, I knew my work had meaning. But I don't feel pulled back into teaching. (I know that sounds so woo-woo, but I feel like I have a new, undiscovered purpose.)<br />
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Still, there are lots of things I'm doing now that bring me great joy and allow me to really engage meaningfully in the world around me:<br />
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<li>Parenting two small people adopted from foster care, showing them another meaning of the word family, giving them opportunities to interact with the marginalized, loving them wholeheartedly no matter what. </li>
<li>Preparing folks in my community for their citizenship exams, listening to their stories, empowering them to achieve a dream. </li>
<li>Feeding people--whether it's serving meals to folks in need through a local church, feeding my family, or feeding my friends in Bible study, it feels significant to meet a person's most basic need. </li>
<li>Empowering students to make their own choices in writing, to tell their story; encouraging and teaching my students to form logical arguments because I know this skill transcends any college writing assignment. </li>
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You see, I<i> can</i> identify genuinely good, joy-giving activities in my life that I don't take lightly. I've filled my schedule with them. Maybe it's the millennial in me, but I still feel like I'm grasping a bit for that one task that would be as meaningful as teaching was. I hoped I would find it in the programs writing position with the PLC, but I didn't get the job. Someone amazing and more qualified got it. I wasn't surprised, but now that I've come close, now that I know jobs like that one exist, I feel simultaneously restless and helpless. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I feel like the lady in the top, center of the image.</td></tr>
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The world feels like a dumpster fire: Brexit, a Trump presidency, Americans' tendency to lean towards deliberate ignorance, Aleppo, racism, mass acts of violence....The job with the PLC felt like a tangible step of action towards these issues. Now, I'm having a hard time putting my fingers to a keyboard because my words all feel meaningless when I think about the issues our country and world are facing. I've had moderate success with freelancing for various parenting blogs in the last year, but the brighter the dumpster fire of the world, the harder it is to write. The hard stuff with a social justice slant often doesn't get picked up by sites, and if it does, the views are low, and then my faith in humanity wanes. </div>
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If you're hoping for a nice ending to this post sprinkled with insight, you'll likely be disappointed. It's late where I live, my head is swirling with anxieties, and tonight, I'm fresh out of insight. So, can anyone relate? When your world is consumed by flames, how do you find purpose? How do you take tangible steps towards some of the big social justice infractions of our time? Feel free to continue the conversation in the comments section or send them through email (use the contact me button on the left). </div>
Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4905646156155063336.post-58636729618792130082016-11-17T18:20:00.001-07:002016-11-17T21:24:16.486-07:00On going homeToday I drove back to my hometown, Columbus. My parents no longer live there, and my grandma has passed on, so it's been awhile since I've been back. Today my visit was a somber one. One of my first friends from when I moved there in the seventh grade, my college roommate--lost her mom too soon. Today we celebrated her full, fun life.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving home</td></tr>
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Just like death has a way of digging up the bones of old memories, so does place. Things I hadn't thought about in years suddenly became vivid recollections as I turned off the highway:<br />
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Sneaking to my cousin's house a few blocks away to use her MSN Messenger.<br />
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Riding pegs with my first middle school crush--Robbie Reisdorf--who would later take me to homecoming in high school, who I feared would not pass the required breathalyzer. Whose aloof behavior I quickly became disenchanted with, desiring someone with more drive.<br />
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Sitting next to a fire and smoking Clove cigarettes on a sandbar in the Loup River with friends who I was sure would be my friends forever--people I haven't seen in years, spread across the country doing things they love.<br />
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Saturday evenings spent swinging and talking about the future at the park near my high school. Holding hands with boys on the landing near the top of the slides.<br />
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My grandma's house--the basement full of boxes and National Geographic magazines and clothes for dress up. Learning how to flip an egg on grandma's old stove. Running to the nearby park with my cousins on Thanksgiving day to have some freedom from the adults.<br />
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Playing countless games of catch in the summer with my younger brother in the street outside of our house on 40th Avenue.<br />
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My high school where I fell in love with writing and American Literature. Where I grew comfortable in becoming an individual who marched to the beat of my own proverbial drum.<br />
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Watching Monty Python and listening to Simon and Garfunkel at a friend's house that ended with an awkward kiss on the back porch beneath the glow of a bare lightbulb while the guy's little sister looked on from the back door. Walking out to my car the next day after school to find a burned CD of Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits and a note scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper that read, <i>I thought you'd like this</i>.<br />
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Getting my nose pierced at a place called Skin Tight, passing out during the piercing, and coming-to on the front steps with the guy who pierced me while my friends planned their next tattoos and piercings inside the shop.<br />
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The track at Pawnee Park where I spent many evenings and weekends practicing hurdles and dreaming of earning a scholarship.<br />
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The funerals for grandparents and cousins and great-aunts and great-uncles and turkey sandwiches and mini bags of potato chips in the parlor at McKown Funeral Home.<br />
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Downtown: Frankfort Square and it's tall trees where I'd steal away to read after school. The public library and the tiny 4x5 art gallery tucked away upstairs. Reading Kahlil Gibran poetry and drinking black coffee with a friend at a coffee shop.<br />
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And then not looking back as I left that town, an angsty 18 year old set out to learn the real ways of the world that my hometown surely could not teach me.<br />
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Now, 13 years later on a cold November day, I'm feeling a little sentimental for my hometown. I want to tell my 18 year old self that this place would soon mean something to her. I want to tell her to look around a little longer because there would come a day where she'd truly have no need to return except for sad occasions. I want to tell her that someday she'd be homesick to return to a familiar place. I want to tell my 18 year old self that someday she wouldn't know where to claim as home because of her gypsy soul. But I can't go back. Instead, I point my car towards my new home--my husband's hometown--and hang onto these memories wanting to bottle them up saving them for another day when I need a good dose of nostalgia.<br />
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<br />Daniellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00841687726160919504noreply@blogger.com1