Category: cultures

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Greetings from Home Lockdown in India

This is adapted from an email from my friend Jessica Kumar who lives in India with her family.

By Jessica Kumar | Twitter: @JessicaKumar_

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.

Now is not a time for productivity. It is a time for survival. @JessicaKumar_ Click To Tweet

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About Jessica:

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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.)

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No More Strangers {guest post}

By Jessica Udall | Website: www.lovingthestrangerblog.com

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.

Photo by HOTCHICKSING on Unsplash

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What If We Viewed Refugees as Guests? {guest post}

By Nicole O’Meara | Instagram: @nicoleeomeara

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.

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The Art of Following {guest post}

By Jessica Kumar | Instagram: @invisibleindia

I’ve never been much of a follower. I’ve always spent a significant amount of time in leadership or pursuing leadership. From a young age, people listened to my ideas and often went along with what I said.

In elementary school, I was pegged a leader of the playground. In high school, class president; in college, a resident assistant (leader in the dorm); in my career, a manager. My whole identity was built on being a leader.

In the Western world and all over the world, leadership is pursued, rewarded and compensated. Everyone is taught to build a following, pursue leadership opportunities and be an influencer.

However, in many cultures in the world, there is a high value in being a follower. People find their identity based on whom they follow rather than whom they lead.

I live in India, and there are beautiful things to learn here about following. You see many who are totally devoted to their guru and who will unquestionably do anything they ask or command.  In my community in India many of the women I know seek conformity and submission as success. Leadership is not a main measurement of worth or value.

Here in India, traditional women have roles:

  • follow your husband
  • follow your guru
  • follow your dharma (religion/duty/role in life)

I have learned a lot from being in a community like this. And in 2017 and 2018, I set a goal for myself-

My main goal was to stop leading, and become a follower. 

At this point in my life, I don’t have the expectations of a high pressure career and I have allowed myself to let go of the internalized success measurements that I used to gauge myself against. My identity in the community comes from who I follow and my roles of whom I serve.

“She is HIS wife.”

“She is HIS mother.”

“She is a follower of THAT guru.”

In this, brings an invisibility of self which is normal in Indian society, but begrudged in our Western world. And in this invisibility, I found freedom.

Learning to be a follower can produce beautiful things in our lives, including the freedom to admit that we don’t know everything, aren’t in control, and don’t have to “fix” things around us.

Even outside the Eastern world, the leadership model is being deconstructed. Leaders who are organic in reciprocal relationships are the ones who we want to follow. Effective leaders are the ones who expel their energies and share what they know, but also absorb knowledge and energy from those whom they come into contact with.

In essence, leaders who know how to follow are the ones others want to follow.

About Jessica:

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. Follower Jessica on Twitter @JessicaKumar_ (note the underscore.)

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A Backwards Way to Welcome Strangers {guest post}

by Sarah Quezada | Twitter: @SarahQuezada

I walked timidly up to the counter at the bus station. I needed to know where the bathroom was located. And while I may have been overwhelmed here in the first hours of my time in a new country, surely my mediocre high school Spanish had been waiting for this very moment. Donde esta el bano? I was prepared.

The man behind the counter smiled at me. I cleared my throat and executed my most confident Spanish question. As it turns out, I was not prepared for his response. A frozen grin crystalized on my face as he gave me detailed and lengthy directions to the restroom. I nodded and walked away. I don’t recall every finding that bathroom.

Being in a new country, not speaking the language. These experiences are incredibly vulnerable. And while mine was born out of a sense of adventure, many people around the world find themselves forced to migrate and re-learn the world and words as they know it. It is not easy.

Most of us have a desire to welcome these immigrants and refugees well. If we’ve grown up in church, we’ve often heard how God instructs us to welcome the stranger. And beyond that, many of us feel a civic responsibility to be kind and nice to others. But what does that mean?

My husband immigrated to the United States from Guatemala in his late 20’s. In a recent conversation, someone asked him how we can better demonstrate welcome to new arrivals in this country. Among his responses, he said something I’d never considered before. “Go into their spaces.”

What? To my Southern sensibilities, that phrase feels intrusive. When I think about being welcoming, I consider having an “open door policy” for my own home, where people feel free to stop by, stay for dinner, or sit and talk awhile. I think about intentionally inviting others into my space and being available to them if ever needed. But I’ve rarely considering foisting myself upon someone else as a welcoming gesture.

But my husband’s perspective was different. “Go into their businesses,” he said, “and spend your money there. Attend their churches. Play in parks in the areas of town where immigrants tend to gather.”

“Go into their businesses,” he said, “and spend your money there. Attend their churches. Play in parks in the areas of town where immigrants tend to gather.”

Click To Tweet
These acts, which involve me stepping into the vulnerable position of maybe not understanding the language or perhaps not picking up all the cultural clues, can be a gift and a sacrificial demonstration of welcome.

I think back to my first visit to Guatemala and the man at the bus station. He was certainly welcoming. He was kind. He smiled. He gave me directions in response to my question. But I look back now and wonder how different it would’ve felt if someone had come to me, volunteered to give me directions in broken English, or walked me to the bathroom. It would’ve been more uncomfortable for them, but I certainly would’ve felt welcomed and cared for. I want to try to practice that kind of sacrificial welcome. I want to try going into their spaces.

About Sarah:

Sarah Quezada is a writer living in a bicultural household in Atlanta, Georgia. She has a master’s in sociology and writes regularly at sarahquezada.com. She is the author of Love Undocumented: Risking Trust in a Fearful World (Herald Press, 2018). Click here to download her list of 15 ways you can support immigrants and address the migrant crisis today.

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BOOK GIVEAWAY

We’re giving away a FREE copy of Sarah’s book, Love Undocumented! To enter, visit either my Instagram post or Facebook post and tag up to four friends you think might be interested in her book. I’ll enter you once per friend that you tag. Giveaway will end next Wednesday, August 29th, at midnight (MT). No bots and only U.S. residents, please!

 

 

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The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger.” Follow along on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest posts or sign up for the newsletter below for links to the most recent blog posts, thought-provoking articles from the web, and a few of the things I’m into these days.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links

A Backwards Way to Welcome Strangers, by Sarah Quezada. "Go into their business, he said, and spend your money there. Attend their churches. Play in parks in the areas of town where immigrants tend to gather. These acts, which involve me stepping into the vulnerable position of maybe not understanding the language or perhaps not picking up all the cultural clues, can be a gift and a sacrificial demonstration of welcome." #choosewelcome #welcomestrangers #wewelcomeimmigrants #immigration #howtowelcome

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Hot Pooris and an Open Door {guest post}

By Mary Grace Otis | Instagram: @theglobalmomshow

Piping hot pooris, puffed up perfectly—waiting for us. Crisp masala dosa, coconut chutney, sambar, idly. South Indian breakfast was fresh, hot, and free at Aunty’s house. We would hop in a rickshaw some mornings at 7 a.m. and head to her house in order to eat breakfast there and be back in time for work at 8:30. We usually didn’t call ahead. We just showed up—two single girls in their twenties, hungry for hot food and a home.

Robin and I had been college roomates, then spent several years working various jobs, she in China and North Carolina, me in Germany and Alabama. Both of us were ready for a new adventure, so when I called her up and asked her to go to India with me for a year, she immediately said yes. Now that we were here, we were grateful for every glimpse of kindness and welcome shown to us by new acquaintances who would soon become friends.

India was wrapping us up in its cacophony of sounds, scents, and symbols, and we were loving it. But all the unfamiliarity would often lead to sensory overload, and we found refuge in the home of Aunty and Uncle Sundararajan. The two had an arranged marriage—he a Christian, she a Hindu. His evangelicalism led him to leave his caste and convert –something that lost him dear family relationships and reputation. She married him anyway, finding him kind and trustworthy. As he traveled, sharing his faith, he asked his wife, a multi-linguist, to work with a Bible translation society translating scriptures. When she translated the book of John, she came to believe in the man called Jesus. Since then, the two had lived a dedicated life of ministry together.

Their home was always open—a steady stream of guests coming from all over India to record gospel messages and readings in different tongues to reach those who did not have scripture yet in their language. With two boys in their twenties also living at home, their house was a natural gathering spot for young people working at Google, Dell, and Seimens who were far away from their own families.

On Sunday afternoons, we would often show up at lunch time, knowing that if we did, we would be naturally included at the table. In India, the guest is never turned away. Guests are sacred. Guests are honored. Guests are always welcomed.

Guests are sacred. Guests are honored. Guests are always welcomed.

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What a blessing it was to be received with a seat pulled up to the table and the table filled with people willing to share their portions so that we could partake.

I didn’t realize until I became a wife and a mom just how much work this constant meal-making was. How Aunty rose early every day to roll the chapati, stir the sambar, boil the dahl, puree the chutneys, and fry the vegetables. She cooked for hours, preparing food to be available for whoever might arrive. She was willing to cook more when more people came.

Aunty and Uncle’s house was better than any restaurant. Not only was the food fantastic, but the company was as well. Sometimes I just sat in the kitchen on a stool and talked to Aunty while she worked. Other days I chopped the carrots and bell peppers or flipped the breaded eggplant sizzling in a cast iron pan. Some days I walked with Uncle to the Richmond Town market to pick out the best tomatoes or curry leaves.

Several nights I slept there in a simple guest room, with mismatched batik bed covers and a foam pillow. But in that bed was the sweetest sleep. There were no matching sheets, no fluffed pillows, no flowers on the end table—no end table. But for me and Robin, the welcome was not in fancy things or perfectly decorated rooms, the welcome was found in the food, the fellowship, and the simple feeling of belonging. The attitude was: “There’s always a place for you at our table. No matter when you come, you are always welcome.” For two girls alone in India, that was the best hospitality we could have asked for.

Living in the U.S., my hospitality muscles have atrophied. I’ve been exhausted from work and child rearing, and my home seems to be an ever-evolving mess. I’m reticent to invite people over because my life often feels chaotic. Then there’s the space issue–our dining room table doesn’t fit more than six easily, and the rest of the house is crowded with five bodies living in a “small” (by American standards) home. And I don’t have the cooking chops of Aunty–my meals are often assembled from pre-cooked ingredients or are simple staples like spaghetti, stir fry, or tacos.

But these are all excuses. Excuses that my Indian friends did not make. They had people over anyway. Even if everything was not perfect. I was invited into homes where newspaper was the tablecloth and the “sofa” was a hard wooden board on legs. I’ve been squeezed into a kitchen the size of a closet (and not an American walk-in closet!), and I’ve sat on plastic stools pulled up to a coffee table for dinner. And all of it was wonderful because the hosts made me feel welcome. The expectations were different. The food was important, yes, but more than that, the joy of welcoming someone into a home was the most important part. Of course, there are perfectly large banquet halls in India that are filled with absolute elegance and luxury. There are homes that are magically decorated and opulent in their beauty. But the ones I felt the most welcome in were those where the host simply said “pull up a chair, you are most welcome.”

About Mary Grace:

Mary Grace Otis is a writer, editor, and podcaster who lives with her husband and three boys in northern Michigan. You can find her podcast and posts at theglobalmom.com, join the Global Moms Network on FB, or follow her on IG @theglobalmomshow.

 

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

We are giving away a copy of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way, so visit my Instagram or Facebook post and tag up to four friends and you’ll be entered one time per friend that you tag! Giveaway ends Tuesday, July 31st, at midnight (MT). Only U.S. residents, please! (and no bots….)

 

 

 

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The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post if you have a good idea!

Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. You can find all the guidelines here.

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

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Keep Your Eyes Open & Your Easter Napkins Close at Hand {guest post}

By Kelly Simonsen | Instagram

Keep Your Eyes Open

“Cause if you never leave home, never let go
You’ll never make it to the great unknown till you
Keep your eyes open, my love” – NEEDTOBREATHE

The maxi taxi rolls to a stop at this dilapidated bus station
and I am more than ready to leave its sweltering interior.
After riding for ten hours with the windows firmly shut
my lungs beg for fresh air.

Our first smell in this new place
is the customary Eastern European cigarette smoke,
lingering on clothing,
swirling through the air,
orienting us to this unfamiliar world.

A group of gangly teenage boys stare at us,
the four obviously American girls
with their gigantic bags of luggage
and casual, foreign attire.

Our first order of business is locating a bathroom.
Between paying for our pink square of toilet paper
and experiencing the glory of the squatty potty
our bathroom expedition is a prime example
of full-immersion baptism into the culture.

Our guide leads us inside the ramshackle station
and I notice a massive mural on the wall.
He says it’s a remnant of Soviet propaganda,
and my history-loving brain is intrigued by
the mosaic of geometric shapes
delineating the communist view of society.

The interior of the station makes me feel uneasy
but the warmth of our hosts eases my feelings of trepidation.
They greet us with huge smiles and Moldovan chocolate,
giving us an opportunity to practice saying mulțumesc
and accept their radical hospitality.

And Your Easter Napkins Close At Hand

We transition from the station to the home of Magda,
our feisty Romanian host,
who moved to Moldova in pursuit of her calling
to work with marginalized youth.

The entrance to the house is charming
with a canopy of vines,
a freestanding porch swing,
and some scattered toys belonging to the neighbors’ kid.

On our first night,
and in every moment that follows,
Magda is overwhelmingly welcoming!

But I am so nervous.

It’s my second time overseas,
and my first time experiencing a homestay.
Nineteen-year-old me doesn’t know how to relax and be
in a space so radically unfamiliar.

Magda makes spaghetti for us
(to this day the best I’ve ever tasted)
and as we sit down to eat, she passes out napkins bearing the phrase
“Paște Fericit!”

She looks at us
and slyly,
in a manner we would soon recognize as Magda’s humor peeking through,
remarks, “it means
Welcome Girls!”

Our Romanian-speaking American friend bursts out laughing,
explaining that the napkins were leftovers
from the Easter celebration of six weeks prior
and as such, fittingly say,
“Happy Easter!”

The laughter cuts through my anxiety,
and here I sit, four years later,
remembering.

I spent one week with Magda which,
in the scope of meaningful human interaction,
is a mere blip on the radar.

And yet, her kindness,
and spunk,
and gracious welcome of a scared American college student remains with me
and inspires me to go and do likewise.

Maybe I’ll never again see that Chinese international student
who I picked up from the airport and settled into her dorm room.

But maybe,
someday,
years down the road
she’ll write a poem about my welcome.

Or even better,
she’ll invite the visiting scholar from Rwanda
to sit at her dinner table.

Because hospitality is a give-and-receive dance,
transcending our natural boundary lines
with laughter and food and the recognition
that maybe the best thing we could possibly say
in this age of discord is
“Come on in!”

About Kelly:

Kelly Simonsen is a cross-cultural friendship builder, INFJ/Enneagram 4, lover of people, music connoisseur, creative cook, wordsmith, and world traveler with roots in the Pacific Northwest who is learning to live well with chronic pain and exploring how her passions and visions can become realities in her life. However, at the heart of it all, she’s a woman who is learning that the core of her identity is the beloved of God, and that is enough. She writes at learningtoloveagainblog.wordpress.com, and can be found on social media on Instagram @kellysimonsen and on Twitter @kel_michelle_ .

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

We are giving away a copy of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way, so visit my Instagram or Facebook post and tag up to four friends and you’ll be entered one time per friend that you tag! Giveaway ends Tuesday, July 31st, at midnight (MT). Only U.S. residents, please! (and no bots….)

 

 

 

***

 

Our theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

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Cape Town Hospitality {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY


By Patrice Gopo | Twitter: @patricegopo

Hidden beneath the clang of random crockery, the rustle of a few books, and the musty scent of cardboard boxes, I find three canvas paintings of cupcakes, maybe 8-inch square.

I draw my finger around the shape of one of the cupcakes and touch the rough edges of some unidentifiable art substance resembling upscale puffy paint or inedible frosting. Feeling the trio of canvases in my hands, I envision where I will place these paintings in my new home. In time, I know the cupcakes will find a place of honor on the blank walls because of my admiration for the artwork, but even more for the artist. Gazing at the bright images reminds me of the type of woman I want to be, the type of wife and mother I hope to become, and the type of home I want to have.

I remember the day in Cape Town as I was leaving Daphne’s house, my daughter snapped in her baby carrier on my chest, my feet ready to make the short walk back to my flat. Beside the entrance to Daphne’s catch-all room that doubled as a sewing room and artist’s haven, I saw the paintings of cupcakes.

“Those are cute,” I said knowing the talents of my hostess.

“Thanks. Do you want them?”

“I can have them?” I stooped to the ground, shifting my daughter’s weight to give me more space to kneel. My fingers traced the shape of one of the cupcakes.

“Yes, I’m trying to find a new home for them. Too many paintings in the house.” Her arms motioned to the walls on both sides of the hallway covered with a mixture of artwork and photographs.

“Yes! I want them.”

My imminent return to America sometimes felt as if I were counting down the days until the start of school. At other moments, I felt like a bright-eyed child counting down the minutes until Christmas morning. In the midst of those confusing emotions, I wanted to cling to this home and this woman who had cared for me as an extension of her own family.

Daphne rescued things others would likely discard. White shirts that stained or yellowed with time were dyed black. The desk that was too old, too big, and too much of a nuisance found new life as end tables. A lonely wife was offered genuine friendship.

She and her husband attended the church my husband brought me to right after our wedding and my move to South Africa. Just when my own well of loneliness threatened to submerge my head and leave me gasping for mercy or a return ticket to America, she invited me to be part of her life.

I would drop in for an occasional visit, and her smile made me think she was hoping I’d stop by for a chat. She answered the door dressed in blacks, whites, and shades of grey. Sometimes color burst forth in a shiny beaded necklace or a pair of orange flats. The linens and cottons flowed on her body like a spring breeze or gentle stream matching the ease of her own words.

“Hello! Are you coming for a cup of tea?” she would say.

To me, her cups of tea reminded me of water in her garden. In much the same way that she coaxed her plants to flourish through water, I flourished during conversations that came with Daphne’s tea. She listened to my stories and dispensed encouragement through her own personal experiences. Her eyes were pregnant with the wisdom that comes from years of life, marriage, and motherhood.

As we talked over tea, her hands were constantly creating: salads for lunch, mosaics out of old china, or sketches in her notebook. As I watched her hands in motion, I felt the urge to revisit creative parts of me long neglected. I imagined Daphne’s childhood was filled with birds with broken wings, necklaces that no longer clasped, and friends with painful family secrets.

A few months after my daughter’s birth, Daphne held my baby in the crook of her arm while I sat across the table watching them. The sticky sweet smell of new baby and the spice of fresh cut flowers gave the room the peaceful aroma of God’s creation. Daphne glanced at me as I enjoyed a rare, hands-free moment and sipped my tea.

“Try to remember what you like to do,” she said. “They grow up.” Her eyes glanced down at my daughter, “And one day you’ll want to remember what you liked to do before they were the only thing you did.”

Maybe it was at the end of that particular visit when I found the cupcake paintings. Or maybe it was months later after another visit whose words may have been different, but the comfort existing in the room was still the same. What happened just prior to securing the three paintings, I can’t recall as it blends into one long, pleasant memory.

Now in my new city of just over a year, I stare at the blank walls of my new house while my hands hold colorful paintings of cupcakes.

I am reminded that Daphne’s paintings challenge me to give of myself and the things I create. This may be a meal I prepare for guests, a home I long to decorate in the calming design of coziness, or a poem I write for my daughter. I am also reminded of my desire to let my love for God translate into care for my family, my friends, and the people who divinely link to my life in ways I didn’t plan.

And, finally, as I glance once more at those paintings and write this final sentence, I am reminded to be kind to myself and cherish my own dreams.

***

About Patrice:

Patrice Gopo is a 2017-2018 North Carolina Arts Council Literature Fellow. She is the author of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way (August 2018), an essay collection about race, immigration, and belonging. Please visit patricegopo.com/book to pre-order her book. Facebook: @patricegopowrites  Instagram/Twitter: @patricegopo

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

We are giving away a copy of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way, so visit my Instagram or Facebook post and tag up to four friends and you’ll be entered one time per friend that you tag! Giveaway ends Tuesday, July 31st, at midnight (MT). Only U.S. residents, please! (and no bots….)

 

 

 

***

 

Our theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

*This post originally appeared at Ungrind and is used with permission.

**Includes Amazon affiliate links.

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How We Welcome {guest post}

*By Anonymous

Asian cultures take hospitality very seriously. During our three years in southeast Asia, our local partners took care of us in countless, meaningful ways (tangible and intangible), from helping to find us housing (several times) to helping translate for us to feeding us and being our friends … the list truly is endless.

So when we learned that two of our friends from southeast Asia would be coming to the U.S. this spring as guests of honor at an fundraising event for big donors, we (and our former teammates) both asked the organization if they could come early to spend time with us on the west coast of the U.S.

While my husband and I had both been looking for work since the beginning of the year, neither of us had found jobs by the time our friends arrived from southeast Asia. We subconsciously aside that week to be fully be present with them. We were able to take them to the coast (one friend, 44 years old, had never seen the ocean), and the next day, we drove them halfway to meet up with our former teammates. It was the first time either of our southeast Asian friends had seen snow. We thought through meals and the people they would like to see while with us (contacts they had made from people who had visited southeast Asia on previous short-term teams). We gathered coats and warm gear since no matter how warm of a spring it was on the west coast of the U.S., we knew it would feel cold to them and I know our teammates did similarly during their stint together with them.

I don’t list these examples to pat ourselves on the back, but to reflect with a measure of awe at how far I’ve grown in my hospitality. There were a couple of times that we paid for meals, under the surface aware of our own unemployed status, and yet fully knowing the opportunities we had to bless our friends during that week paled in comparison to all they had carried us through for three years while we were guests in their country.

During that week we discussed hospitality with them off and on. Early on, the 27 year old’s father sent my husband a Facebook message in Burmese that basically said, “Please take good care of my son.” I imagine, like a good Asian would, my husband internalized the weight of that statement. After that, several times during the week, both friends commented on how well taken care of they both felt.

Toward the end of their time with us, one of the friends jokingly said, “Who will take care of us when we go to the fundraiser [that none of our team would be present at]?” I was starting to wonder the same thing…

Even though some of the organization’s staff would be there and had already met our southeast Asian friends, they had very limited overseas experience and I worried that they might not fully understand the ways that our friends would interpret “feeling cared for” over the weekend. I mentioned it to one of the event planners over the phone, and she said, “Oh, we’ll take care of them. We’ve got them covered. We won’t leave them all alone,” not in a dismissive way, but from a posture of genuine concern.

Overall, it sounded like our friends had a good time, but as I was messaging with the younger friend as he waited in the San Francisco airport to board his flight back over the ocean, he admitted, “There are no friends here like you taking care of us.”

Interestingly, one donor gifted this young man $2,000 to put towards his upcoming wedding. Coming from a country and economy such as his, this is an enormous blessing for this friend — it relieves a ton of pressure on him and his family, and helps with a master’s degree that he is working on. And yet his words confirmed my concerns that hospitality was not the strong suit for American Christians, even generous partners to the ministry.

As we continue in our own re-entry and transition back to life in the United States, my husband and I want to be intentional about continuing on with certain values we learned from our overseas living, not least of which is hospitality and the ability to be present with people.

We have so much to learn from one another, and sometimes it is as simple as sharing a meal or opening our home. If you find yourself worrying about the square footage of your space or whether you have what it takes to host someone from another culture, take a moment to consider what those from the majority world are accustomed to. Each one of us, the world over, just wants to know that we are welcome. That we belong. Surely, as Jesus-followers, we can offer that.

Each one of us, the world over, just wants to know that we are welcome. That we belong. Surely, as Jesus-followers, we can offer that.

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* The author of this piece asked to remain anonymous to protect the identity of the friends and organizations mentioned.

***

 

Our theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

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Building Bridges with Chinese Muslims {guest post}

By Jodie Pine | Instagram: @jodiepine

God doubly blessed our family with the opportunity to live, not only in the hospitable land of China, but also among the super hospitable Muslim minority people there.

Whenever we visited someone in the village where my husband did ethnographical research, we were served tea and something to eat.

Sometimes I had to let my best friend there know that I would really rather talk with her than eat, as I would stop by to visit and she would spend most of the time in the kitchen cooking for me! They are extremely generous, servant-hearted people who greatly honored us as their guests.

Initially, after being on the receiving end of Chinese Muslim hospitality, I felt intimidated to try to extend it myself. I thought I needed to fill the table with a huge variety of dishes like they do. Eventually though, I came to realize that being present and interested in them, with a learner’s heart, was more important to our guests than an impressive meal.

During the 4 ½ years that our family lived in central western China, we probably learned more through our mistakes than our “successes” about extending hospitality to our Muslim friends.

Once when my husband and sons were out of town, I invited a group of female Muslim college students to our home, and my daughter prepared a Halal lunch. We were both very surprised when they refused to eat our food. They didn’t even drink the tea we offered them, because they said we were not clean. After engaging in a somewhat heated spiritual discussion with us for about an hour, they said they needed to leave.

I had thought “being clean” meant the food we were offering them was clean (meaning that we did not cook pork in our kitchen). However, a friend I consulted afterward helped me to understand that when we had all entered the apartment together they had not seen me wash my hands, and I hadn’t offer them a place to wash either. Clearly, there was more to being clean than I had realized.

Another one of our cross-cultural lessons was that our Chinese Muslim friends had a wide range of devoutness. Some were simply non-pork eating Muslims, and that was the only thing that made them different from the Han Chinese. Others took their faith practices and traditions very seriously.

Once, my husband asked my Muslim friend who came over during Ramadan about the fast he assumed she was doing. She politely informed him that actually she doesn’t practice Ramadan, and would like a glass of water! That was an awkward situation, but we were all able to laugh about it. We learned that making wrong assumptions had the potential of making our Muslim friends feel guilty, like they were not “good” Muslims.

On the other end of the spectrum, one of our more devout Muslim neighbors had our family over for meals several times, but consistently refused our invitations to have them over. Instead of taking it personally, we concluded that maybe eating food that came from our non-Muslim kitchen would have violated their conscience.

Over time, we discovered that some of our Muslim friends had no problem eating the chicken that we served when we told them that it came from the grocery store with a Halal sticker on it. Others told us that they would only eat chicken that was bought from a Muslim butcher at the market, to give them confidence that the proper prayers had been said when the animal was killed.

When our family noticed that it was the youngest son in the family who had the responsibility of filling the tea cups of the guests, our youngest son (before we adopted two more) took over this task and did very well. We also observed that younger people treated their elders with a lot of respect, and so we tried our best to incorporate this value into the way we treated our guests as well.

We learned that in group settings, men and women often ate in different rooms. So we were prepared, when groups came to our home, to set up a separate women’s table in my daughter’s bedroom if that would make our guests feel more comfortable.

Sometimes guests wanted to recite their prayers during the prayer time that occurs around dinnertime. We offered our daughter’s bedroom for them to pray in, as it was in the best location facing Mecca. We made blankets available for the them to put on the floor, or sometimes they used their own jackets. We also removed all pictures that would be between them and the window while they prayed, as that is forbidden.

Looking back now, I would say that my biggest lesson from our time of living among Chinese Muslims was: If we enter a new culture and are easily offended or quick to judge what we encounter as “wrong” instead of “different,” we’ll end up building walls instead of bridges.

Humility in cross-cultural hospitality enables us to realize that we are always capable of making mistakes or being misunderstood, but we can refuse to let either of those concerns stop us from seeking and building relationships with those who are different from us.

There is a strong message in our world right now that Muslims are our enemies. Our family’s experience with Chinese Muslims proved the opposite to be true. We are grateful for God’s gift of life-changing friendships with some of the most beautiful people in the world.

*Parts of the this post originally appeared during two interviews at The Serviette.

About Jodie:

As a mom, I juggle two different kinds of parenting — long-distance to our 3 adult kids (who are white on the outside but very Chinese on the inside) and our two adopted Chinese boys at home who have special needs. Since being back in the US, my husband has taken up cooking Chinese food, with a specialty of Lanzhou beef noodles (where we used to live and where our boys are from), giving us a taste of “home.” You can follow our story on my blog. I am also on Instagram and Facebook.

***

Our theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

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