The books and websites on this list were recommended to me by women and men I respect. I haven’t read everything (yet!), but I’ve been working my way through the list. I’ve put an asterisk next to the ones I’ve read so far and recommend.
I’m grateful for these words, explanations, illustrations, and Scripture commentaries that are helping to articulate what I already believed in my bones to be true:
God gifts women to serve at every level of church leadership. A church that doesn’t urge women to use their God-given gifts is anemic, unhealthy, and missing out on a full-bodied church experience. History and patriarchy have perpetuated this enormous loss for both women and men in the church and society. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Not anymore.
Here are some books that will open your eyes to the faulty ways the church goes about reading, interpreting, and teaching the Bible, especially as it pertains to women:
How I Changed My Mind about Women in Leadership: Compelling Stories from Prominent Evangelicals by Alan F. Johnson (Editor)
Junia is Not Alone by Scot McKnight
Women in a Patriarchal World by Elaine Storkey
Online Resources:
Marg Mowczko–a website exploring the biblical theology of Christian egalitarianism.
The Junia Project–provides support, encouragement, and biblically-based resources to help women thrive in all areas of life.
CBE International–Proclaiming God’s design for equal partnership between men and women.
“One in Christ: A Week of Mutuality,” a blog series by Rachel Held Evans dedicated to discussing an egalitarian view of gender—including relevant biblical texts and practical applications. The goal is to show how scripture, tradition, reason, and experience all support a posture of equality toward women, one that favors mutuality rather than hierarchy, in the home, Church, and society.
This post includes affiliate links for Bookshop, an online bookstore with a mission to financially support local, independent bookstores.
As a person with serious chronic illness, I’ve been asked how the Coronavirus has affected me. To be honest: not much. These hard circumstances we are facing as a country are sometimes the daily norm for the chronically ill. Even in times when we’re not facing a pandemic, as a whole we tend to struggle with loneliness, isolation, financial insecurity, and more. For many with chronic illness, we’ve had years to come to terms with our circumstances. You haven’t. So I want to encourage you as we continue to live out this (to quote my HR director) “adventurous time.”
A huge percentage of the country is experiencing job loss, financial insecurity, fear, isolation, loneliness, and uncertainty. Feeling lonely, stuck, and unable (or scared) to resume ordinary life is difficult. Your feelings are valid. You may feel anger, sadness, or fear. But you also might feel relieved that you don’t have as many places to go; your to do list is cut short. It’s okay to feel these emotions. And they may change minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day. It’s a new (hopefully not forever) life, and it takes time to get used to.
The pandemic hasn’t been a big disruption to my life, it’s more of an extension of the way things were. Some days I forget about Covid-19 because it’s fairly usual for me to not leave my apartment often. While I experienced anxiety when the virus started to ramp up, it didn’t take long for me to realize my daily life wouldn’t be much different.
I do want to be clear that I have been privileged during this time to keep my job (and work from home) and to have found a bit of financial security (I was approved for disability literally right before life shut down). Chronic illness leading to reduced work and financial problems are sufferings I struggled with for many years and I’m thankful to have some resolution and peace. They are also hardships that didn’t happen overnight, but over an extended period of time. And resolution was over a long period of time too. You may find yourself in your current situation overnight. We all need endurance for our struggles, and this might be the beginning of your struggle.
The answers won’t come quickly. My heart has been incredibly heavy for many people experiencing hardship right now, and the ways I have been able to help in even the tiniest way is to be able to look at my own suffering and see and remember how God provides. Physical healing hasn’t been a reality for me, but God’s provision has looked like peace and acknowledging at the end of each day I had what I needed. What I think I need each day is different from what I have, and that’s also part of the acknowledgment and remembering of God’s provision.
I’ve learned how to sit with my suffering, and this has been especially helpful during shelter in place orders. When I find myself becoming anxious over data and news reports, I retreat to a quiet place and remember that each breath and moment is a gift.
While most of my days are currently unchanged, what is different for me is that I feel more noticed and more like a valued human being. I had become accustomed to being forgotten at times. The pandemic has opened my life up in a new way because I can more easily access activities. For example, there were many Sundays I didn’t go to church because I was in too much pain or was too exhausted, and now I can choose to watch the service online.
I’ve also noticed lately that people in the community have remembered me. There have been times in the past where I’ve laid on my couch, so sick, and unable to cook or get groceries and needed help. Now, because I am considered high-risk for the Coronavirus, there are friends and coworkers who text me when they are going to the grocery store to see what I need. I appreciate this immensely, but I struggle with why we didn’t care so much for each other until now–myself included. I can do a better job at remembering others.
What has become customary in the midst of a pandemic, I hope will be remembered when we emerge on the other side of social distancing. I will remember how my work showed me hospitality and kindness by making sure I was safe at home and how it is possible to have get-togethers remotely. I’ve enjoyed zoom groups. It’s easier for me to commit to a remote meet up when I don’t have much energy. What if in the future our small group in-person gatherings could also include someone calling in from their computer or phone? I’ll remember how people showed me love by making sure I had what I needed. I’ll remember conversations via Facetime, deepening friendships I may have missed out on.
These are difficult times, and more than ever, I have seen people loving one another and people reaching out to those who cannot leave their homes. When life re-opens in stages, let’s continue to love our neighbors. Let’s continue to extend hospitality, maybe in more ways than we thought possible.
About Heather:
Heather Legge is a storyteller at heart with a desire to create a warm place for people who experience loneliness and feelings of isolation during hard circumstances. Sorrow and hope, suffering and joy, grief, and love; all can coexist. Raised in New England, she lives in Virginia with her two middle school aged daughters, two cats, and a hedgehog. Heather has several serious chronic illnesses that have shaped her story and her desire to truly live each small moment. Heather graduated from Wells College in 2001 with a B.A. in Public Policy, concentrating in social policy and bioethics. You can find more from Heather at www.livingthesmallmoments.com and on Instagram @heatherand2girls.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: a group of travelers finds themselves stranded, due to one disaster or another, on a tropical island, let’s just say somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. The question now, for the rest of this movie or TV series, is how will they survive, and, ultimately, will they make it home?
Yeah, I know, I’ve seen it, too. Feels a bit tired, doesn’t it? As a writer, and a professor of writing and storytelling, I fervently preach against predictable plot points and clichéd characters. “Avoid the tropes!” I might have admonished my students, when I still had a class to go to. But now, as an American expat living (or “stranded”) in Hong Kong during this current pandemic, tropes and clichéd characters seem all but impossible to avoid.
Superficially, everyone appears to be fulfilling the role set out for them in the script. Of course, nature is the villain in this one, so that’s easy—a tried and true antagonist. If it’s not aliens (said with no judgment aimed at my alien conspiracy theorist friends) or zombies, a virus works just as well as anything: a comet, an immediate global freeze, a cataclysmic seismic something rather involving shifting tectonic plates … as long as a scientist can explain it to us laypeople in a thirty second scene with some maps and cool graphics, we don’t really care.
Next, we need some human representatives of ideological differences voiced through political infighting: “We need to get these people out of here!” “Are you crazy?! All that will do is cause panic!” “It’s too late for them! We need to seal the borders now!” “We can’t firebomb that town! Human life is too precious!” Personally, I like to hear Morgan Freeman’s voice narrating the case for humanity, but … we have who we have, and they’re all acting their parts as best they can.
Moving on, crucially, we need the protagonist, followed by a cast of all the other personality types: the anxious one, the gruff one, the funny one, the hapless one, etc. Like I said, I study stories for a living, and I see why we like this kind of tale. It’s got everything we like: drama, action, suspense, all that we fear and all that we want to believe about the human spirit. And, naturally, we are all the protagonists in our own stories, so we identify and rejoice at the happy ending. Heroes all!
Having said that, I recognize that this is not fiction. And maybe that’s what is most frustrating me: I don’t know how to write it. Or, I should say, I don’t know how to write it without falling into tropes. Everything I might write feels clichéd: responses by governments, businesses, media outlets, our varied cast of characters, the conflicted protagonist … we’ve seen it all before.
If it were fiction, I could change it, like a writer changing history to make it more like how we would have liked it to be, or at least to cut out the boring parts. Instead, we have a plot that’s painfully dragging. Sure, some parts are fairly dramatic.
Hong Kong, for example, has had quite the year. We had the whole “protest thing,” starting spring of 2019, which I won’t go into but suffice it to say drastically and fundamentally impacted our daily lives here in this “special administrative region” and lasted into January of 2020, coming to no resolution but instead being unceremoniously usurped by what was then called “the novel coronavirus.”
We had already become acclimated to school and business closures, as well as event and trip cancelations, throughout the fall (our school term ended with finals having to be hastily conducted online) and tension between Hong Kong and mainland China was already palpable, so the only difference between the virus shut-down and the protests shut-down for most of us was that instead of “watch this space for daily announcements about closures,” we now had “school will be conducted virtually for the remainder of the term.”
In the West, the effects of the virus became a bigger story later (a topic for another time), but in Hong Kong, this has been the story since the end of January. Many expats began to read the writing on the wall, so to speak, or were simply too exhausted or too out of work to continue on here and began the exodus in February and continued on into March.
Now, it’s important to remind you, reader, that this is my story and I’m the protagonist here—this means you’re meant to be on my side. I could spend time trying to convince you with likeable and reasonable arguments for my decision to remain—most of it involving the fact that I had already decided this was to be my final year in my current position and I was making arrangements to move elsewhere to start at a new institution come fall and so wanted to finish out the term in Hong Kong and leave at the end of April—but, for the sake of brevity, I’ll just describe my decision this way: as my colleagues and friends began their similarly understandable and well-reasoned escapes, I did what seemed fitting for my character.
My role, which I accept, is to stay calm. I get things done, take things in stride, respond with logic, action, and, at times, humor … it’s the role I was born to play (putting aside conversations of nature vs. nurture). So, when my April 27th flight was canceled on April 2nd, I absolutely did not panic. Instead, I cried. I cried because, like all of us, I’m tired. I’m tired of cancelations, unrealized visits by friends and family, refunded play and festival tickets, month after month of online work/church/socializing/life, which feels like only partial living, and I’m tired of not knowing the ending and not even knowing when we will get the ending. It feels like being part of a TV series whose writers have abandoned the project midway through or have been told to put the writing on hold, and now it’s just dragging on with filler subplots, no end in sight.
A brief aside here: In storytelling, there’s a common plot device called deus ex machina. It’s a Latin term, used in Greek theatre, meaning “god from the machine.” The gist of it is that, when characters find themselves in an unsolvable situation, they can be rescued suddenly by some outside force, like the hand of God reaching in, via ancient Greek set design and machinery, and hoisting them out. Commonly referred to examples now would be The Lord of the Rings eagles soaring in inexplicably to save the day or the Jurassic Park T-Rex crashing in from nowhere to chomp the other dinosaur that was imminently threatening our protagonists.
The idea is that help can always come, inexplicably or supernaturally, from above. It’s actually a nice idea, but nowadays, deus ex machina is considered by many in the industry to be “lazy writing.” The protagonist should save herself, be proactive and resourceful. Think Sigourney Weaver’s character, Ripley, in Aliens: yes, a machine is used defeat the seemingly undefeatable alien, but it’s not God in the machine—it’s Ripley. She knows how to control it, and she is the agent of her own victory.
Returning to our story, I will once again say that I’d be much more comfortable if this were fiction. I could give my protagonist an ability to fly planes or access to high-tech gadgetry, friends in the Pentagon (or Stark Tower), a magic lasso, unlimited resources, or, at least, stellar martial arts or warrior moves à la Catwoman or Wonder Woman. But as it is, this being nonfiction, I’m not sure what proactive measures I can write in for my character.
Waiting feels decidedly non-heroic, and waiting for “the hand of God” to swoop in and rescue me, despite my own personal faith that this is possible, still feels a bit like lazy writing on my part. But I guess that’s where I have to leave it. As far as cliffhangers go, this isn’t much of one—the protagonist is left safe on an island, packing boxes, reading, going for hikes, and checking emails for updates on flight statuses.
Will she get off the island come May, or will it be June? Only Deus knows. And hey, maybe I’m not the protagonist, after all. Maybe I’m the hapless one—the hapless writer, hanging out in the writers’ room, waiting for the go-ahead to write the ending. Until then, I’ll just be here, hoping the series doesn’t get canceled and reconsidering my thoughts on heroes and machines, eagles and aliens.
About Andrea:
Andrea Stout is a teacher, writer, and storyteller. She currently lives and works in Hong Kong. Follow her on Instagram.
It’s hard to believe a little over a week ago we were writing from a hotel room in Delhi, trying to get a flight back to our city. Through a lot of drama, stress, and uncertainty we made it back home on the 23rd just in time to get groceries and basic supplies.
On March 24, the Prime Minister of India announced a lockdown for the next 21 days, until April 15. There was only a four hour advance notice given and we are fairly sure it will be extended past April 14. All flights, road transportation, busses and trains are stopped. Everything is closed except for food stalls, hospitals, certain banks, and pharmacies. We are able to walk to nearby shops to get groceries and basic supplies.
We see many friends in the US who are able to go out for walks and bike rides as long as you stay away from people. That’s not the case here. The prime minister used words referring to the religious concept of Laxman Rekha–“An uncrossable line has been drawn across the home of your door.” Although people are supposed to be allowed to go out for groceries and medicine, police are roaming the streets and have been known to beat people who seem to be out for the wrong reasons. Law and order here is something of a fuzzy concept, and people are being driven by fear to stay home.
Since Italian tourists are the ones who brought COVID19 into India, there is paranoia about foreigners. I won’t be going out much, if at all, in the near future, since my presence makes people more uncomfortable and fearful.
The poor and marginalized will be the most deeply affected by this lockdown as about 300 million of them survive on daily wages (no salary.) There is also currently a huge migration of people, mainly from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, who are WALKING from Delhi since their jobs have basically vanished overnight and there is no transportation available. That’s a 620 mile journey! This time is certainly unprecedented in history.
And yet people seem to remain pretty calm here. We are thankful we still have access to groceries and so far we haven’t had any shortages of the essential items. People in India are used to things not going according to plan. School being shut for ten days at a time without notice is something we are used to. Not getting back what were supposed to be “refundable” deposits is something that happens here all the time. Security is relative. Inconvenience is a way of life.
Like many in other countries are asking, we’re also wondering things like “Who will take the garbage out today?” As many of you have heard us describe on our podcast, India is a “make it from scratch” culture. At least in our city, we don’t have dishwashers, canned food, or clothes driers. We usually have house help that assists us with the labor required to keep a basic house running, but since no one is allowed to leave home, we are adjusting to a new way of life which requires several hours a day of physical labor. Most of our days are found in food preparation, cooking, cleaning and making sure our house remains in good order, free of pests and a safe place to shelter for the foreseeable future.
The kids enjoy a combination of helping with housework, coloring, playing on our balcony and bicycling in the house. We are trying to do some educational activities an hour or so a day. Much like everyone else on the planet, our productivity is severely hampered and we are coming to grips with that as the days pass.
Now is not a time for productivity. It is a time for survival.
A global nomad from birth, Jessica Kumar currently lives in India where she and her family are involved in economic development work and small business. She and her husband run a podcast, “Invisible India,” where they talk about scrappy travel, interview interesting people and explore the interactions between East and West through the lens of a cross cultural, interracial couple. Find Invisible India on iTunes,SoundCloud and Stitcher as well as on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. She also writes articles related to cross cultural life at www.globalnomadism.com. Follow Jessica on Twitter @JessicaKumar_ (note the underscore.)
This summer I had the opportunity to return as a counselor at a Bible camp I worked at in college. I was thrilled to head to the mountains to spend the week with some first to third graders. I donned my staff shirt, put on a brave face, and led them in hikes, games, songs and adventure. Over those few days, I saw eight little girls bond over games, songs and giggles.
One of my girls, Sarah, was a refugee from Cameroon. Our counterpart male cabin also had eight boys, and two of those boys, John and Dylan, were Sarah’s cousins. Idaho is not a particularly diverse state. In high school we would joke about the many shades of white in Idaho. But in Boise we have a pocket of refugee families. The churches that supported the camp also helped refugees adjust to American life.
Each morning, I would coo softly to the girls, “It’s time to wake up ladies.” I’d move by each of the bunks and pat the heads of each one until their eyes fluttered open.
Sarah would look at me, smile, grab my arm and say “I’m soooo tired!” with a huge smile plastered on her face. Despite her exhaustion she was the first one dressed and ready to head out. Later in the day, when my eyes would barely stay open, Sarah would run up to me, wrap her arms around me and exclaim “You are my second favorite counselor!” To which I would fall to the floor proclaiming the injustice of it all, as I should be her first favorite counselor. Her smiles and laughter fueled me into the next hours of our day. At the end of the week, I drove Sarah and her cousins back to Boise.
We loaded into my car and headed out on the long drive back to the city. The two boys mostly spoke French, and did not seek any attention from me. “Any of you guys want a coffee stop?” I asked as we pulled into the biggest town we’d hit until we arrived home.
“Yes!” The ruckus from the back almost drove me off the road, but we made it into the shop.
“All right kiddos, you can each pick one treat. What were you thinking, John?” John looked up at me with big eyes and grabbed the largest rice krispy treat from the top of the pile. I bought coffee, and we headed back onto the road. “John what’s your favorite candy?” I glanced back at him in the rearview mirror, and he looked at me.
“Snickers!” He eventually answered and returned to speaking to Dylan in French.
“Dylan,” I asked, “what’s your favorite color?” he paused, looking equally confused and answered, “Green!”
“You know,” Sarah chimed in. “Our teacher can speak French.” My heart melted. She’d called me ‘teacher’ a few times over the week, but every time it caught me off guard.
“Yeah, I know a little,” I said. She beamed at me from the back seat. “I can tell you the story of the Little Red Hen in French.”
“Yes please!” Sarah exclaimed. I recited the story I had memorized in high school.
“Il y a une petite poule rouge.” Giggles erupted from the back seat. “What? Is my accent really that bad?”
“Yes!” John yelled. A light flickered in his eyes– one I hadn’t yet seen the whole week we’d spent together. “I cannot understand what you are saying!”
“I can.” Sarah answered. “She said ‘Once upon a time there was a little red woman.’”
“No!” Dylan joined in the fun. After stumbling through the rest of the story, they clutched their sides with laughter. The next three hours flew by, and I connected with the kids in ways I hadn’t until that point.
We drove to the church to meet their parents, and the kids bolted from the car. They ran around yelling and playing. Their parents arrived, and the two boys didn’t even look back–just rushed into their parent’s car. Sarah hugged me.
“Promise me you’ll come back next summer?” I said.
“Yes! You’ll be there right?” Sarah asked.
“I’ll try my best.” I shook her dad’s hand, and told him Sarah was a fun kid to have in my cabin. (All of this was in broken French/English.)
I climbed back into my car, soaking up the silence, and surveyed the damage from their lunches in the back seat. I had spent the week trying to connect with Dylan and John. I had asked them questions and tried to play with them, but it wasn’t until I attempted to speak French with them that they came alive. I wondered how many positive interactions those kids had with adults who only spoke English.
In a world where everything for these kids was different–the culture, the language, the people and the surroundings (aka camp)–it must have been comforting to have someone try to connect with their culture rather than thrust our culture upon them.
Jesus tells us to welcome the stranger. I wonder how much easier it would be to welcome strangers if we allowed ourselves to be strangers in the cultures of those we are trying to welcome. Instead of inundating foreign visitors, immigrants and refugees with the new, perhaps it would be better to share some of what they know and love. Maybe that way, I’ll eventually become Sarah’s first favorite counselor.
About Jessica:
Jessica Peretti is a software engineer by day and a blogger by night. Her interests include hiking, running, backpacking, coding and weight-lifting. She loves working with kids and singing with her church’s choir every Sunday. Follow her on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, or on her website.
It’s a cloudless, cool morning in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Strapping my nine-month-old on my back in the style of Ethiopian mothers, I leave our fifth floor apartment and descend down into the hustle and bustle of pedestrian traffic: shawled women carrying heavy loads of groceries, groups of uniformed school kids on their way to class, traveling salesmen hawking their brooms, mops, and other wares, and blue and white taxis weaving and blasting syncopated rhythms. I attempt nonchalance as I pass shade-standing onlookers who call out “Ferenj (foreigner), Hello!” and then elbow their friends and chuckle at my accented Amharic greeting.
There is no way to be cool, to fit in. I feel the eyes staring.
I am a stranger.
I duck into a shadowy shop selling aromatic produce along with all manner of convenience items. This shop will become a near-daily stop for my back-riding baby and me— for phone cards, for toilet paper, for powdered milk—but I do not know this yet.
At this point, I have only been in the country for a few weeks, and this is my first solo shopping trip. Such a simple task, yet I am nearly paralyzed with fear.
“Can I help you?” asks a teenage clerk.
He is trying to be professional but looks puzzled that a foreigner has entered his shop. I look at him, Amharic words bobbing in a sea of adrenaline, just out of reach. I take a deep breath. I blink. And finally, a single word comes out as a squeaky plea: an English word that (mercifully) is the same in Ethiopian Amharic.
“Mango?”
Relieved that I am finally speaking, the clerk smiles and starts throwing softball-sized, multicolored fruits into a hanging scale, gesturing towards the numbers and raising his eyebrows in question. I hold up my hand, “Enough.”
A second Amharic word! And he understood! The joy of communication thrills me, and I wipe the anxious sweat from my palms before reaching into my purse for Ethiopian birr.
He says a number as he ties the heavy plastic bag. But what number? I can’t remember. I ask him to repeat, looking at the available birr in my hand like it is an indecipherable puzzle. I feel stupid.
He grabs a notepad and writes the number: 27. Saved! I gasp for air, heart pounding, as I try to remember which color is for which denomination: red for ten, blue for five, white for one. After much too long deliberating, I give him exact change, say thank you, and hurry out of the store, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
I used to be good at this … this living of daily life, I think, wistfully. I wasn’t always this incompetent. But what used to work in my home country won’t work here, and I must start over. From zero. From scratch.
Things looked up from there. From the beginning, I (an awkwardly bumbling cultural baby) was warmly welcomed into Ethiopian society and helped along my way by friends and strangers alike. Even the chuckling, staring onlookers would often step in to give directions or fend off a persistent heckler when I really needed it.
Ethiopian culture as a whole is exquisitely hospitable, and I was the beneficiary of that beautiful openness. I was welcomed to that fruit shop dozens and dozens of times, to all the shops around it, and to homes and churches, weddings and funerals. I was shown love to the point that at least in my neighborhood, I was no longer a stranger, but a known friend.
After years in Ethiopia, my family returned to the United States for a season, and my eye is now magnetically drawn toward confused, newly arrived immigrants. I sense their fear and shame and frustration on a visceral level, since my own memories of those feelings are indelibly imprinted on my memory. The feeling of being a stranger is hard to forget.
But I fear for what immigrants will find when they settle in the US, or other Western countries. Will they ever lose their designation as “stranger”? Will they ever be known as “friend”? Americans are—to put it delicately —not really known for our hospitality. Our focus on minding our own business and taking care of our own can come across as cold indifference. But how can we do otherwise when individualism is the very air we breathe?
Most of what I now know about hospitality has been learned through first unlearning presuppositions that predispose me to “every man is an island” isolation. In its place, I’m following a different path, inspired by the lives of non-Westerners who have welcomed me so graciously, who have shown me that getting to know others and being known by them is one of life’s greatest gifts. I’m learning to swallow the excuses about being “too busy” to unwrap it. How can a person be too busy for loving connection?
Ethiopians welcomed me when I was a newly-arrived in Ethiopia, as I said, but I’ve also been amazed by how immigrants to the US have graciously welcomed me (a local) into their lives. Those who ought to be honored as guests are eager to become hosts—inviting me into their apartments, their circles, their confidence. Their bent towards hospitality is infectious, life-giving and paradigm-shifting for me. I shudder to think that I could have missed this: the quiet metamorphosis from stranger into beloved, more beautiful than the journey of the most brilliant butterfly.
“I was a stranger, and you did not welcome me,” says Jesus in Matthew 25. What a tragically missed opportunity. Our God is one who hides behind things that are scary, calling to us: “Come closer. Draw near to what you fear. I’m on the other side!”
In a world plagued by “stranger danger,” Jesus is dancing to a different beat. When I’m dancing in sync with him, I realize I’ve never met a stranger, even if they are from a distant place I’ve never visited.
As I meet immigrants for the first time—whether they’re overwhelmed and swimming in adrenaline like I was on that first solo shopping trip in Addis Ababa, or exhausted by year after year of cultural stress—I see Jesus standing beyond the awkwardness of new beginnings, ready to welcome us into the beauty of knowing and being known.
About Jessica:
Jessica Udall writes on crossing cultures and following Jesus beyond polarized rhetoric and into street-level everyday love for those who are different. She is married to a wonderful Ethiopian man and has two children. Her favorites include having conversations with interesting people and drinking strong Ethiopian coffee, preferably at the same time. You can visit her at her blog, www.lovingthestrangerblog.com.
My first experience with refugees was when I was very young, although I didn’t learn the word, “refugee,” until many years later. I was taught to call them, “Guests.”
For a short time, my father worked for an inner-city mission in the Bay Area of California. As a mechanic, he was responsible to keep the mission’s vans and buses running. When they were short-staffed, my father drove the bus to pick up Guests and bring them to the mission. On occasion, I was allowed to accompany him on these trips.
I sat on the front seat and watched as the bus filled with people very different than me. Dad told me they were from Vietnam and Cambodia, places I didn’t know how to find on a map. Brown-skinned parents carried tired children, some without shoes. They whispered words that clipped and twanged in my ears. Their clothes, in various shades of brown, hung loose on every one of them. The oldest, wrinkled and hunched over, were given the best seats, a clear sign of reverence even a child could not miss. As they piled in, I wondered why they were there and why they looked so sad.
Once, I followed the crowd off the bus and into a small chapel. The room was familiar enough, with lines of wooden pews and a large oak table near the front. There, the Guests sang hymns using strange words, not the words I sang to the same tune on Sundays. I watched more than listened as a man at the front stood to speak. It didn’t need to be in English for me to recognize the sounds of a fiery gospel message. The children fell asleep while their mothers rubbed their heads and the preacher droned on. My sister and I would have run off to play in the back of the room after such a long sermon but these children stayed with their parents quietly. My first experience with refugees, guests to our country, was simply a look at tired, weary people.
My second experience with refugees came three decades later. Our church partnered with a local ministry to share Thanksgiving dinner with Arab refugees. With our favorite Thanksgiving side dish in tow, my husband and I packed our three children into the van and drove to Sacramento.
Our two youngest children, adopted from Ethiopia, were still learning English at the time and didn’t understand Thanksgiving or why we were eating turkey dinner with strangers who also didn’t understand English. In a way, they had more in common with our Arab guests than we did, being equally new to every holiday and social gathering. As a mother to little newbie Americans, my heart opened to the discomfort our Arab Guests were experiencing.
We entered a crowded hall packed wall-to-wall with people. Families entered, timid and wide-eyed. Some recognized a ministry worker from the local coffee shop that also served as a translation center. Others clearly knew no-one. They wore an array of Middle Eastern clothing mixed with Goodwill hand-me-downs: ill-fitting jeans and half-worn sneakers.
We found our assigned table and set out our holiday dish. A translator introduced us to the Guests we would dine with, a man and his wife and three children. Just like us, a family of five. Our hosts for the evening gave a mini-lesson on pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving dinner but I doubt many in the room understood.
The Guests who sat at our table had come to Sacramento from Syria less than one month earlier. The mother brought a plate of hummus to share and sat silently in a beautiful black headscarf. The father was more eager to talk. Our translator kindly relayed their story as the father told it.
They were from Syria but left suddenly after he was shot in the leg, he explained as he pointed to his thigh still wrapped in a compression bandage. ISIS soldiers came to the hotel where he worked and shot him, accusing him of being friendly with Americans. They did not want to leave Syria like so many of their friends had but after the shooting, they had no choice. Having lived away from home three times in my life, I understood the desire to be home. It was clear to me that while they were guests in our country, they would dearly love to be back home.
Sometime later, I realized my children and their children had left the table to play in the corner. I looked at the mother with the universal expression that says, “I’m ok with this if you are.” She smiled back, displaying the first sign of comfort all evening. In that moment, I realized the relief my children brought this tired mother and I was grateful we had come. I gave my kids a thumbs-up signal and off they went. Our Ethiopian children and their Arabic children found a way to cross the language-barrier: a game of tag. It seemed to be universally true that mothers from all countries get worn out by antsy children and children can lead the way to crossing cultural boundaries.
Sharing a holiday meal with refugees opened my eyes to many things, perhaps the most practical is this: food facilitates connection. In the end, we gobbled up their delicious hummus and our hungry, weary guests left with full tummies. My children brought joy to their family just by being kids. And as we sat together, my husband and I listening to their story gave dignity to their journey. It cost my family so little to connect with these Guests, to make them feel comfortable in a season when every day is filled with small discomforts. Hospitality, I learned, is a simple way to welcome the stranger, to welcome the Guest.
About Nicole:
Nicole O’Meara writes about community, adoption, and hope. As a survivor of undiagnosed disease and a mother by adoption of children with trauma backgrounds, hope is the anthem in her home. Nicole lives with her family and sweet aussiedoodle in the Sierra foothills of northern California. Find her at her website, or on Facebook or Instagram.
Hospitality growing up was backyard grilling, a living room full of people eating Christmas cookies after a local community concert, encouraging cards written to friends and family, bowls of popped corn for teenage sleepovers, and a listening ear. It was not unusual for neighborhood kids to be playing in the yard even if we weren’t there, or for a kid to walk in and open the refrigerator for a snack. I truly believed this would be the story of my adult life – partly because I have so many happy memories and partly because it was the example I was given.
In my early years growing up, my mom had an open door. Friends came in and out and all the kids of my parents’ friends were friends. If someone needed help, it was given without hesitation; everyone took care of each other. We moved to New England when I was eight and the houses were a bit more spread apart than the close-knit neighborhood I started life in. Regardless, if someone had a new baby, my mom was there.
If someone came over, the door was open.
When my friends wanted a place to hang out, it was our house. Even in the four years that she battled ovarian cancer, my mom opened her heart and home to others.
I moved south after college and quickly got engaged to be married. The easy-going way of hospitality that I knew was exchanged for china dishes, elegantly casual attire, formal wedding and baby showers, closed doors, unspoken rules, and enormous homes kept pristine by cleaning services. I was in culture shock and my mom had died a couple years before, so I couldn’t ask her if this was some kind of new normal and what was expected of me.
When I became a wife and then a mother, I was so overwhelmed that I rarely invited people over. I was ashamed of my house not being perfect. Even when people dropped off meals after my babies were born, I felt silent judgment for not having it all together. I was also confused because the visits seemed to be for the purpose of holding the babies and not for actually helping. This is not the way my mom did it. If she brought a meal to a new mom or someone who had been sick, she was also washing the sink full of dishes or doing a load of laundry.
I began a small rebellion in my late twenties by hosting college students and purposefully leaving dishes in the sink, piles of clutter lying around, and occasionally some laundry that needed to be folded. This was real life and I was determined to show that it was not about having an impeccable home and well-designed plans. I was going counter-culture and it felt good and right. I reclaimed my dream of my kids getting older and eventually having an open door and yard for their friends and my neighbors. We moved into a small neighborhood with cul-de-sacs and even though there were no kids nearby, I knew they would eventually come.
My home would be the one with the swinging door and coffee on the porch, backyard barbecues, and the sounds of kids playing. But, just as we all find ourselves in situations that were not what we dreamed of, so did I.
Divorce, moving from my neighborhood to an apartment complex, and a difficult illness took away my hopes of an open door and yard. I probably spent too many years grieving this and other losses, but that doesn’t mean that new dreams can’t be imagined.
It’s easy with a chronic illness to become isolated and lonely and to feel forgotten. I am exhausted all the time and my income is impossibly small, both of which make it difficult to go out or to provide for guests. I found myself not making plans to go out in my free time in case I didn’t feel good. I didn’t invite people over for the same reasons. I would sit at home, alone, feeling sorry for myself.
There are definitely times where rest has to be my number one priority, but I also need to revisit hospitality and what it means now.
My new-to-me-life equals new-to-me-ideas about hospitality. It’s more about opening my heart and making places wherever I am, whether at home, a coffee shop, at work, a friend’s house, or out in the community. If I am already going to be somewhere, I can find a way to make it a place of welcome; extend myself as a welcoming person. It’s even possible to do hospitality from afar by writing notes. Who doesn’t love finding a card in the mailbox amidst bills?
My heart softened a couple years ago when I had made plans to get together with another mom at my church. We hadn’t met, but had messaged on Facebook a few times, realizing we had some things in common. We made plans to meet for coffee. On the day we were meeting, I woke up feeling unwell. I texted her and let her know that I didn’t think I’d be able to go out and meet but that she was welcome to come to my apartment. She showed up, and I answered the door still in my pjs.
I welcomed her, handed her a blanket to use while sitting on my couch, and climbed back into my comfy chair under a pile of blankets and a heating pad. I felt like the epitome of a bad host, but I also didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to make a friend and to extend welcome no matter the circumstances. As my new friend got ready to leave, she told me she had never felt more cozy and welcomed than she had that morning, simply because there were absolutely no expectations. She could be completely herself because of how low-key it was. I was astonished. I could do this!
I lovingly refer to this now as “blanket hospitality.” If you come over, make yourself comfortable on my couch with blankets and pillows and conversation. We might have coffee or popsicles. All are welcome, and you will see my piles and messes, but maybe that’s just what we need to do to show others that no one is perfect and that the relationship is far more important than appearances.
About Heather:
Heather Legge is originally from New England, but currently lives in Virginia with her two girls. She tries to make places in her heart for those who are hurting. She loves reading, coffee, and is learning to play the violin. You can follow her on Instagram at @heatherand2girls.
I reached this epiphany recently at stoplight, as I rolled my toothpaste-blue minivan up next to a red-hot Ferrari. It was a contrast too comical to ignore. So, I rolled down the window:
“Wanna race?” I teased, from my towering, sixteen-cup holder perch. The driver smirked and revved his engine. He left me in the dust, but not without a new metaphor to ponder.
Like it or not, we’re all part of this human race.
Within moments of a “positive” on a home pregnancy test (provided aim is good), we’re involuntarily and irrevocably nudged off the starting blocks. A barrage of benchmarks accost our lives in utero: Movements are measured, heartbeats counted, and that’s all before labor (which is often too early or late).
We welcome our beloveds with a kiss and an Apgar score, with many metrics to follow. Blink and these scores evolve into ABC competency, “unofficial” Pre-K soccer goals (that are counted anyways), ACT/SAT results, college acceptance letters, suitable relationships and bank accounts balances.
For better or worse these metrics are constant companions, pushing us through life at breakneck speeds. We pity those who straggle behind, but press on towards an ever-allusive finish line so we can win . . . we’re not sure exactly what. We fear that if we slow down, we’ll surely be lapped by something or someone; which means, we all just keep going in circles.
Years of pounding this course have frayed the fabric of my soul. I’m always winded and perpetually losing pace. It’s no wonder:
I’m the minivan, not the Ferrari.
Why am I pushing so hard to check the next box, when it’s always followed by another? Are these metrics, escorting every lap of life, a proper plum line? I must finish the race; but who says I should break the tape at world record pace?
Perhaps there is time to roll down the window, and just pause.
When I pause, I see things both heart-breaking and beautiful. I see glimpses of humanity as the dust clears: Some sprint by while others limp; a few can only crawl. There are others slowing too – Samaritans quietly crossing over to help some who stumble, and others stranded on the ground. They’ve tossed conventional measuring sticks, falling behind to usher others ahead.
I see a father put down his phone, to look up at his child. I hear the single mom’s “yes” to the caseworker asking her to welcome a second child. I glimpse the teacher, lingering long enough after the bell to gift his struggling student with a kind word. I catch the customer, pausing just long enough to meet the cashier’s eyes and smile. They pause, as He did from the beginning:
When He saw what He made was good, and again to seek the pair who ushered in its corruption. He perceived Sarah’s pain, Hagar’s rejection, and David’s unborn frame. Then with human eyes He paused, and peered beyond earthly flesh: In the crooked tax collector, the unclean cloak-toucher, and the wayward woman at the well. He paused for imperfect humanity, again and again, to usher in divine glory.
This is the paradoxical beauty of falling behind.
To decelerate in this life seems like sacrilege. Surely, we’ll be lapped – passed up, passed by, or passed over. But to pause is to shadow the God who sees * the souls around Him and declares, “the last will be first, and first will be last.” **
I’m too slow for my life. Now, I’m thinking about driving even slower. Because whenever I wait for the dust to clear, I see that “human” matters infinitely more than “race.” In the pauses I remember: It’s not about when I finish, but who finishes with me.
*Genesis 16:13 (NIV) **Matthew 20:16 (NIV)
***
Despite a deep desire to belong, Nichole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins. Visit her blog at www.walkthenarrows.com.
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I dreamed of having a family ever since I was a little girl, playing with Cabbage patch kids and running through the schoolyard with my sister. And I always assumed I’d have no trouble starting a family.
I married at
age 23, bursting with newlywed joy over the man I’d met on a blind date. Over
the next nine years, I watched my friends have babies, went to baby showers out
of obligation, and finally was able to name the uneasy envy I was feeling.
Wayne and I were trying to get pregnant too, with no success.
We hated
hearing about anyone’s pregnancy announcement. I began to feel bitter and I
hated that too. I’d been battling epilepsy since the year we were married, and
I felt like the infertility was salt in a wound. Why me? Why one more burden?
Why so easy for all my friends and seemingly impossible for us? My spirit was unsettled;
I prayed in anger and hope at the same time.
As in so
many areas of life, the Lord was calling me to step up, out of my comfort zone.
There’s always adoption. But I rejected that thought; that’s something other
people do; I was surely not cut out for that.
But reality
was setting in: the fertility treatment wasn’t working, and the burning desire
for a baby wouldn’t subside. The idea I’d been trying to squash kept popping
up: What would it look like to adopt? Over many tears and gentle urging from
Wayne, I finally said yes.
With the
help of a Christian adoption agency, we learned the legal process and worked
our way through each overwhelming step. We created a book about ourselves, an
open door for a birth mom to choose us. It felt odd, like advertising
ourselves. We were told it would be a two year process, an unappealing thought
when we were so ready now! So we were thrilled to be chosen within two months,
and it seemed like a great match.
The birth
mom knew she was having a girl, so we prepared the baby’s room and were flooded
with gifts and baby décor from eager friends.
I was
swelling with anticipation, an excitement I hadn’t felt in years. Then two
weeks before the due date, my bubble was burst. Our adoption agent called to tell me the birth
mom had changed her mind. I felt it physically first, as the wind was knocked
out of me and I sank to my knees. I gasped for air and cried so hard I couldn’t
speak. Those tears would go on for days.
We knew
adoption came with this risk. Even after you take the baby home, there’s a
window of time where the birth mom can reverse her decision. But nothing can
prepare you for that.
Now I was
swelling with anger, not happiness. My spirit was crushed thinking about going
back to square one. We closed the door of the baby room and took a weekend in
the Colorado mountains to regroup. Day after day, I cried to God and prayed for
the right birth mom; I absolutely couldn’t deal with another one who changed
her mind. The thought made my stomach churn. The Lord was nudging me gently and
I knew He wanted me to forgive. It was the most un-natural desire at that time,
so I kept praying through it.
And the roller coaster continued. About a month later, we got a call. A birth mom was in the hospital with her newborn, in crisis, realizing she had no realistic way to support her baby. She’d thought about it off and on throughout her pregnancy, we later learned, and now we were the chosen parents.
We scrambled
together what we needed to take home our baby girl, 48 hours old. We didn’t
even have a car seat, so we borrowed one. I opened the door of the nursery,
trembling with the fear of another rejection.
Not this
time, though. The birth mom signed papers to expedite the legal process. That
little girl was ours and my joy was overflowing. It was another incredible
mixture of emotions, and extremely humbling to think about the tough choice
that young woman made.
My daughter Rachel is 7 now. There is no way to describe the joy she has brought us. I cannot fathom any other child being ours. People tell me she looks like me, and I just smile and think, the Lord had this covered. We do stay in touch with her birth mom and visit sporadically. We explained to Rachel very early that she was adopted, that her birth mom wanted the best life possible for her. That satisfies her curiosity now, and as she matures we’ll keep talking through it.
I have seen
much evidence of the Lord’s “beauty from ashes” promise over the years, but
perhaps none as powerful as our adoption experience. I would go through it all
again for the joy of finally becoming a mom.
About Suzanna:
Suzanna Price is a Colorado mom who loves Jesus and anything outdoors. She has a wonderful husband she met on a blind date, and they have walked together through many ups and downs including her battling years of seizures and the brain surgery that cured them. They have a seven-year-old daughter who loves reading, playing outside and camping. Follow Suzanna at her blog, on Facebook, and on Instagram.
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