Category: Guest post

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Chronically Ill During a Pandemic: Will You Still Remember Me on the Other Side? {guest post}

By Heather Legge | Instagram: @heatherand2girls

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.

Image by Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

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Last Place in the Human Race {guest post}

By Nichole Woo | Website: www.walkthenarrows.com

I’m too slow for my life.

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)

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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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My new book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness is now available for pre-order! You can read about the book as well as some of the advance praise for the book by visiting this page. Sign up for my newletter above to keep up-to-date on pre-order bonuses, launch team, book recommendations, and more!

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Adopted: The Sacrament of Belonging in a Fractured World {guest post + BOOK GIVEAWAY!}

 

By Annie Rim | Twitter

I was hanging out with a friend the other day, our kids playing in the basement as we snatched bits of conversation. Her almost-one-year-old crawled over to me with the biggest smile. What a smile! I exclaimed before making a huge faux-pas, She looks just like her mom. Without missing a beat, my friend replied, She does look like her birth mom!

My friend is this little girl’s mom. She has been since before this child was born – chosen for her. And yet, through the connection of Facebook and open adoptions, we also know her birth mom and what she looks like. We see biologic resemblances even though all of this sweet girl’s nurturing is through her adoptive parents.

My friends have learned to handle these comments with grace. They are open about this road to adoption and the challenges and sweetness of the journey. They embody a family knit together by the restoration of adoption.

In Adopted: The Sacrament of Belonging in a Fractured World, Kelley Nikondeha speaks about the theology of adoption as an adoptee herself and as an adoptive mother. She weaves together stories of her own adoption, of her journey of adopting her children, and the Bible’s underlying theme of adoptive family. From Moses to Ruth to Jesus, we see adoption stories as the basis of Christian faith. Paul calls us adopted children of God. Without adoption, there is no foundation for the radical inclusiveness and love of the message of Jesus.

Kelley brings this theology of adoption out of the ancient text and into our lives, here and now. How do we reconcile the adopted land of Israel? To some, this state is a restoration of a displaced people; to others it is the oppression of an original people group. How do we reconcile centuries of oppression and slavery in America with acknowledgement that returning to literal African roots isn’t the solution? How do we restore the stolen land of our Indigenous People while recognizing it isn’t about the physical plot of land. Or maybe it is? Kelley brings these questions and their theology to the forefront while recognizing the complexities of living out a Jubilee-faith, a faith that restores the land and forgives debts; a faith that welcomes the refugee home; a faith that reconciles adopted land with homeland.

Kelley’s rich storytelling and smart theology blend perfectly create a book that deals with current issues of social justice with the power and grace of biblical redemption. She reminds us that redemption doesn’t mean a neat bow and easy answer, that this kingdom is slow in coming. But, she says, that doesn’t mean we lose hope. Through her own story of adoption, she says,

Adoptive parents aren’t superheroes or saints. The legitimate words of caution and real complications that are part of adoption give me pause. And yet redemption, whenever it happens, must be named (94).

Extending this metaphor of adoption, she reminds us that the road to redemption is paved with disappointment, failure, and suffering. It is the restorative work of God that brings those heartaches light and brings the slow restoration of this world.

She ends this book with the reminder that all of humanity is adopted into this family of God. And that by claiming the title of family, of brothers and sisters, we are interwoven and bound. We are together on this road to reconciliation and redemption. This faithful hope gives me pause when I get discouraged and reminds me that, though there are so many divisions, there is so much repair that is happening, as well.

Adopted is for sale now, and I’d highly recommend this hopeful book! As part of Kelley’s launch team, I received an advanced copy from the publisher but all views are my own.

How have you experienced the theology of adoption? Where do you long to see restoration through adoption?

*This review was originally published at www.annierim.com and is used with permission.

About Annie:

Annie Rim lives in Colorado where she plays with her two daughters, hikes with her husband, and reflects about life & faith on her blog. She has taught in the classroom, at an art museum, and now in the playroom. You can connect with her at annierim.com.

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GIVEAWAY OF ADOPTED!

For our last week of posts on foster care, adoption and children, I’m giving away a free copy of Kelley’s book, Adopted. It was one of my favorite reads last year and it was awarded the Christianity Today: 2018 Award of Merit Christian Living/Discipleship. Sign up for my newsletter by midnight (MT) on Thursday, May 31st and be entered to win a free copy! And/or tag up to four friends on my Instagram post about this book and I’ll enter you up to four times per friend you tag! Sorry, no bots and only U.S. residents!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

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This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

 

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

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There Has to Be More Than This {guest post}

By Lisa Russell

There has to be more than this.

That’s what was ruminating in our hearts and conversations. In the perspective of our Christian culture, we had “arrived.” We were happily married, had started a family, had a dog and a house just shy of a white picket fence. We had a church community, were in Bible studies and serving in ministry. So why the holy discontentment?

Looking at our week, we were with our Christian friends in our Christian community doing Christian things nearly every night, yet we couldn’t shake the feeling that we were full … too full.

I call it Spiritual Gluttony.

We were filling up so much without an outlet for overflow, which left us lethargic, stagnant and, well … bloated.

There has to be more than this.

We started praying and the Lord quickly responded with a question: “If you had the perspective of being a missionary in your own town, how would your life look different?”

At the time, I was an event planner doing an event for a local non-profit raising funds for abused and neglected children in our community. When they put statistics up about children in our very own community, I broke. Our community? Our city in beautiful Colorado that has been on the top places in the country to live? We have the resources, and yet there are children who don’t have a safe haven.

I was shocked to see that there are children even suffering from malnourishment. These kids are in our own backyard–would we be willing to invite them in and care for them for a while? We were already the neighborhood hub for kids–most of whom didn’t have involved parents, who were starving for attention and a fruit snack from our pantry. What if we took it to another level and became foster parents?

Every step of the journey to become certified foster parents involved excitement, hope, fear, anxiousness and self-doubt. And yet every step felt like removing a brick from a dam, unleashing the flowing water built up over time.

The foster care training felt like church–learning how perfect love casts out all fear, actually being the hands and feet of Jesus, loving on the orphan, the “great commission.” Then, one day walking out of a grocery store, I got a call from our case worker. I thought she was calling to let us know our certification went through as we just finished our home study, but she called to ask if we would be willing to take a newborn baby boy just 16 days old. Two hours later, our first foster son entered into our home and immediately into our hearts.

You would have thought he came from my very own womb. I fell in love with this little bundle like he was my own. What I didn’t expect was to fall in love with his family.

There was even more than this.

Even more than taking in a foster child, was taking in a larger family: his aunt, who was emergency care after he was removed from the home, the grandma who was desperate to see her newborn grandson, the extended family that was concerned, and even the biological mom who was entangled with addiction.

Our eyes were opening to see the need in our community that was hidden by masks of prosperity. Driving into our city from the interstate, there was a new strip of trendy restaurants and shops systematically placed in front of a trailer park. We can’t have people seeing a trailer park when they enter into the #1 city to live.

Our eyes were also being opened to the unseen– the evil that claws its way through families by speaking lies of despair and hopelessness. Our hearts were being broken for these families that have had a name spoken over them that they believe to be true.

Unwanted.

Unloved.

Our foster son’s grandma told me she is a pariah–an outcast in this society with little hope a door would be cracked open enough to get back in.

We tend to dehumanize these families. By no means am I giving a free pass or condoning their actions as perpetrators, but we gain no ground to healing and restoration if we don’t start seeing them and hearing their own stories. More often, these bio-parents are suffering from their own trauma, abuse, neglect, mental illness, poverty and injustice. I had a bio-mom tell me once that her mom was the one who taught her to shoot heroin. When that is your model and your norm, it’s more than difficult to cut the generational root of sin and addiction.

It’s a broken system because we are broken people living out generations of brokenness.

The longer we got into fostering, the more I heard and felt that the system is broken. I don’t know how we can have a healthy system with broken people on this side of heaven. The truth is, there are a lot of people who are just doing the best they can- from the caseworkers, to the bio families, to the foster parents and the children that suffer the consequences the most. I do know a good place to start is having eyes to see the humans in front of you, being willing to listen to their stories and have hope for them when they aren’t able to access it themselves.

I do know a good place to start is having eyes to see the humans in front of you, being willing to listen to their stories and have hope for them when they aren’t able to access it themselves.–Lisa Russell

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There is more than this.

There is more than this life–this futile effort to piece together the broken parts of people and our larger communities. It results in a painful glory, through the painful process of diving into the messy, stagnant waters, removing the bricks of the dam, the water will flow once again and produce life and fruit to the land. We have to hold tight to the “more than this” hope.

There is more than this.

About Lisa:

Lisa Russell and her family fostered for 5 years for Larimer County Child Protective Services. She is now focusing on Lisa Russell Ministries as a Counselor, Spiritual Mentor and Speaker.

 

GIVEAWAY OF FINDING HOME!

We’re doing a giveaway of the e-version of this book of essays by various writers about what it’s like to raise or be a Third Culture Kid (TCK). To enter, simply sign up for my newsletter AND Rachel’s newsletter before this Friday, May 26th, midnight (MT) and we’ll draw a name after that and email the winner!

 

 

 

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This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

There Has to Be More Than This: On Foster Care {guest post}: "Our eyes were opening to see the need in our community that was hidden by masks of prosperity." #fostercare #nationalfostercaremonth #fostercareawareness #fosterparenting #fostermom #fostermother #fostersystem

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A Confession: I Am a Tiger Mother {guest post}

By Nichole Woo | Blog

There’s this thing in the air. You’ve likely been exposed — especially if your kids’ activities (too) have incapacitated your social life.

Symptoms.
This “thing” is both infectious and highly contagious. It incubates in competitive environments, attacking parents’ vulnerable nervous systems. Symptoms range from elevated heart rates and involuntary clenched fists to sweaty palms and irritability.

These symptoms exacerbate during children’s performance “events” — school art shows, music recitals, spelling bees, the monkey bars . . . any place where parents are sizing up their offspring’s abilities to those of their peers. It is common for symptoms to worsen at sporting events, most notably during soccer games. (Scientists hypothesize that this correlates to a high incident of player distraction, from factors like butterflies, dandelions, and somersault-worthy grass.)

Symptoms are accompanied by overwhelming angst, culminating in feelings of frustration and inadequacy. Often, parents channel this emotional intensity to their own children through sideline “cheers”, the “look”, or the barely audible swear word. They believe that, applied effectively, this pressure will prompt superiority: The win, the score, the MVP, the not-just-a-participation-ribbon, the top performance. Progeny victories appear to usher in brief periods of remission. Ineffectively treated, however, symptoms will reoccur and worsen, often resulting in long-term damage to the heart.

Detection.
I began noticing infected parents – especially moms – right out of the parenting gates. There were many on my beat: The boasters of super-latching babies in lactation group, and the exuberant church moms swopping milestone stats on sleeping, sitting, rolling over, and speaking. (Either that or they were referring to their dogs . . .)

As my children grew and my circle widened, I feared an epidemic. The infected surfaced at toddler music classes (best shaky egg form), after school language programs, swimming lessons and tumble-bees gymnastics (“Tuck your head on that somersault, dang it!”). I playfully christened these women “Tiger Moms”, from Amy Chua’s controversial work, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.

I scoffed at the pressure parents placed on their kids to perform. It seemed every move since birth was calculated to usher their offspring out of mediocrity and on to the Ivy League, Julliard, the NBA – or at least one of these. I pitied each overly-ambitious disease carrier and their poor, defenseless children.

Until the day I glanced into the mirror, and saw orange and black stripes.

Diagnosis & Denial.
It was my husband who painfully and lovingly held up that mirror. I was vexing about some recent “Tiger Mom” encounter, when he interjected “You know you’re one, too, right?” There is nothing like realizing you are the thing you ridicule. It’s even better when your spouse exposes the hypocrisy. (The “for worse” part of my marriage vows are never lost on me.) I jokingly shrugged him off, knowing he was right.

Acceptance.
It wasn’t the title that gnawed at me so much as grasping why I deserved it. There was no denying I exhibited the symptoms. Simply put, if my kid landed on top, I was gratified — at least for a while. Anything less opened the ugly flood gates of discontent, until their next chance to shine. It’s why I felt a competitive tension whenever my kids performed, and why I constantly sized up their “opponents” in the classroom and on the playground. My radar constantly detected others like me. We prowled in the same territory, always cramming that one extra thing into our kids’ packed schedules. (Because someday, it just might matter to MIT if they can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in 12 different languages. . .)

Honest dialogue with a close friend exposed the truth: This wasn’t about my children, or their greater good. It had nothing to do with them realizing their full potential, learning the value of hard work, or becoming the best version of themselves.

It was all about me.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” My parenting abilities were enough. Their upbringing was enough. Even my genes were “enough.” My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” -Nicole Woo

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Treatment.
Earning my stripes was effortless. Losing them meant painstakingly shedding my pride. It required me to expose the darker underbelly of a value system I’d thought was godly. As it turned out, mine just pretended to be. Finally, I recognized a comparison worth making — His values next to mine:

Threaded through Scripture’s pages, I found God in relentless pursuit of His beloved. Us, valued not for what we did (He had that covered), but for who we were. Imperfect, fallen, flawed — but masterpieces nonetheless; His workmanship, His image bearers. And just in case there was any doubt about our worth, He bought us back at the highest price possible, the price of His only Son’s blood.

No plastic trophies or gold medals required. Not from me or my kids. Not from humanity. My futile quest to net value through the likes of these now seemed absurd. Here was the antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

Recovery, and a Science Fair.
I wish I could tell you that I’m completely cured, and that I’ve lost my “Tiger Mom” credentials. But that “thing” still lingers in the air, and my tiger sometimes still rears its ugly head.

Recently, I strolled the poster board labyrinth of our school’s science fair. I’d like to say I spent that time celebrating the amazing learning on display. Instead, I secretly scrutinized each one, assuring myself of my kid’s place on the podium.

The symptoms came roaring back. But this time, I prayerfully applied His antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

And that was enough.

About Nichole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole 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.wordpress.com.

***

This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

 

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Afraid of Poetry? Start Here. {guest post}

By Charlotte Donlon | Twitter: @charlottedonlon

I have always loved poetry, but I have also always been afraid of poetry. When I started graduate school three years ago, one of my assigned readings was T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. I was terrified of not understanding Eliot so I read Tania Runyan’s How to Read a Poem, too.

I managed to make it through that first residency and those first class discussions without embarrassing myself too much. I was also able to let go of my insecurity enough to learn a few things about Eliot and his work.

The MFA in creative writing program at Seattle Pacific University gave me many gifts. One of those gifts is poetry, even though my primary genre is creative nonfiction. After reading Eliot, I kept reading poetry. I wrote papers about poetry. I discussed poetry. I even became friends with poets.

I can now say I’m no longer afraid of poetry. I need it. I need to swim in words and language and ideas, and reading poetry is the easiest way for me to sink into those seas.

When I read poetry, I slow down and pay more attention to words and their sounds and their places in the world. I also pay more attention to my places in the world.

Poets invite me to enter their waters and discover more about them, more about myself, and more about the spaces between us. They invite me to make new connections and think about things from different perspectives.

They invite me to consider what happens if we don’t worry about rules, get rid of punctuation, and sit with the silence that exists between stanzas.

Over the past couple of months, my relationship with poetry has deepened. I began writing poetry and I taught a poetry workshop at my local library. I had no idea these sorts of things would ever happen. I guess sometimes we end up doing things we never could have asked or imagined. I guess our actions have consequences.

If you have been interested in exploring poetry, but have been afraid to dive in, please don’t hesitate any longer.

Here are links to some of my favorite poets and some of their poems:

NATASHA OLADOKUN

ASHLEY M. JONES

KAVEH AKBAR

ROBERT CORDING

ADA LIMÓN

MARY SZYBIST

Come on in. The water feels great.

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What about you? Who are your favorite poets?

Charlotte lives in Birmingham, Alabama with her husband and their two children. She recently earned an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University, and she does freelance writing and copywriting. You can find her online at www.charlottedonlon.com, on Twitter at @charlottedonlon, and on Instagram at @charlottedonlon. You can sign up for her weekly email newsletter about reading, writing, and creativity via her website at charlottedonlon.com.

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If you want to win a copy of Mystics and Misfits, sign up for my newsletter by Monday, August 30th at midnight (MT)! Already a subscriber? Tag up to four friends on my Instagram post about this book and I’ll enter you once per time!

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

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Our theme for April is “Books and Writing,” and I hope to share my favorite books, podcasts and resources for new writers.  Click here if you’re new to the series and want to catch up on old posts. Be sure to follow me on social media and sign up for my newsletter below so you can be alerted of new posts. Please get in touch at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting on this topic!

**This post includes Amazon affiliate links

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I Am 200 Percent. I Am Chinese-American. {Guest Post}

The Chinese-American Weight of Being 200%

By Kaitlin Ho Givens | Blog

After lunch we played hand games. It was just what we did in kindergarten in the suburbs of New York and so after eating, we’d turn towards each other in pairs on the lunch benches, sing songs and clap our hands together to the beat.

There was one hand game that ended with “Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” with corresponding hand motions – pulling your eyes to slant upwards for “Chinese,” downwards slanted eyes for “Japanese,” and crossing your arms against your chest for “Indian chief!” You were supposed to freeze on “Indian Chief,” and the first person who moved, lost.

I hated this game. I tried to avoid it at all costs and so I was a big proponent of “Miss Mary Mac,” whose silver buttons all down her back, back, back were much more pleasant. One of my earliest memories is playing with a girl who refused to play anything besides the one I dreaded most.

What’s wrong with Miss Mary Mac? I thought, irritated.

I reluctantly agreed. I found myself going faster and faster as we played – clap clap clap – so fast we could barely fit the words over the beat. Clap clap clap.

“Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” I did the motions in a flurry of movement and purposely “unfroze” myself so I lost and we could move on to another game.

But the girl stopped. She looked at me with a mean grin, and said, “You kind of look like that.”

I feigned confusion. She pulled at her eyes to slant them, and laughed. It was what I dreaded most. Someone had noticed I was different, and it was clearly not a good thing.

I remember lying on the floor eating grapes and asking my mom, “Mom? I’m 100% Chinese, right?”

And she said, “Yes, Daddy and I are both Chinese so you’re 100% Chinese.”

I continued, “And I’m 100% American, right? Because I was born here.”

“Yes, you’re 100% American.”

I paused. “So I’m 200%?”

My mom laughed, “Yes, you’re 200%.”

Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough. I had the vacillating experience of attending a predominantly white suburban school and going to Chinatown on Sundays for my Chinese church.

In school, I was seen as fairly quiet. At church, I was one of the more outspoken. At school, I was the smallest person on all of my sports teams. At church, I was bigger than most with an athletic build that was unwonted, and I often felt like I had to lose weight.

At school, I would get the “slanty eye” jab from people who were feeling particularly mean-spirited, while at church my eyes were admired for being “so big” because I have double eyelids (a feature that most have, but many Asians do not, and one of the most popular plastic surgeries in Asia).

My white school friends didn’t take their shoes off when they came to my house, and I was horrified. When I asked them to take them off, they laughed and said that was weird. “Nevermind,” I muttered. I vacuumed with vigor after they left.

In Chinatown, Chinese shops involve no lines, actively pushing yourself forward and shouting in Chinese; they are not for the faint of heart. The Chinese bakery women would say things to each other about me in Chinese after my feeble attempts at ordering baos; I didn’t know what they were saying but I knew they were talking about me because “lo fan” means white person, and they used that term to refer to me, the white one.

I couldn’t hide the fact that I wasn’t white at school, especially with a last name “Ho” that would always get snickers, while at church I was called a twinkie: “yellow on the outside, white on the inside.”

In subtle and overt ways, I was continuously told by white Americans that being Chinese was weird, and I was abnormal. And yet I couldn’t change the shape of my eyes or the food we ate and the way my culture shaped me, so I was stuck in shame. And it seemed I could never be Chinese enough to fit into the Chinese community, leaving me exasperated. I was confused, weighed down by the 200% of my Chinese-American self, continually feeling like I was not enough of either.

The cacophony of my hyphenated Chinese-American identity sent me running every which way to find a place where I belonged. By the time I got to college, I was jaded by both the white American community and the Chinese community and found myself seeking acceptance in the black community on the gospel choir and the step team, with the Latino community in their cultural association.

It is good to discover other cultures, but it was at the expense of my own identity. I was ashamed of my Chinese-American identity, trying to deny my own culture, and desperate to hear that I was enough. I was weighed down by the load of trying to carry an identity I didn’t understand. I was running from my own skin, my own self, and ultimately, I was running from the One who made me.

I heard the voice of my Creator through a bumper sticker in the Dominican Republic: “Soy especial, Dios no hace basura.” I am special, God doesn’t make garbage.

Something broke inside me when I saw that bumper sticker. I heard the voice of God say, “Kata, you are enough.”

I heard, “The ignorance and inhospitality of white Americans and even your own race have bent you in shame. That was never my intention; I want to heal you so you can stand tall.” I heard God say that his creation of me as a Chinese-American woman was not a mistake, but profoundly purposeful.

There was beauty to be discovered, brokenness to be exposed and healed, and joy and redemption to come if I would just stop running and heed his call. A call to stop cowering under the weight of my own confusion and shame, receive his words of life, and stand tall. A call to intimacy with the Father and a call to a greater understanding of how he made me; a call to see what it looks like to worship him in the fullness of who I am and invite others to do the same.

From that catalytic bumper sticker moment, I have been on this wonder-filled journey with Jesus where I’m still figuring out what it means to be a third-generation Chinese-American. The journey is long but marked with freedom and curiosity, not avoidance and shame. It has been an exhilarating ride of discovering depths of the Father’s heart in ways I never would have known if I had kept running.

If we deny, dismiss, or push aside our ethnicity and race, we are robbed of opportunities to experience deep healing, to enter into the stories of those who are different from us, and we mistakenly assume that our way is the right way and everything else is weird, which hurts our neighbors and our witness.

The Father declares that he has created us purposely, and well. He invites us to explore our ethnic identity with him. Whether we come from a majority or minority culture, we have an ethnicity worth discovering. May we have courage to trust our Creator and be open to his beckoning. Surely it will bring light and life to us and our communities in ways we might never have expected.

About Kaitlin:

I am Kaitlin Sara Ho Givens, also known as “Kata.” I am a Chinese-American campus minister focusing in planting new movements, empowering leaders, and raising up purposefully multiethnic, reconciling communities that reflect the heart of God. I am pursuing a Masters of Divinity at Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in English from Boston University. I speak Spanish and French and Minion proficiently, with Greek and Hebrew up next.

***

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Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough.

 

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Why Black Panther Matters {by Yabome Gilpin-Jackson}

Black Panther

By Yabome Gilpin-Jackson | Instagram

At age 7 in Grade 2, my son came home from chapel day at his private Christian school and said, “Mummy, I don’t want to be African anymore!”

I stopped and turned to face him.

I felt panic lodge itself in my chest and my heart respond by pumping and flooding blood to my ears.

I blinked – hoping that resetting my vision would rewind and reset the moment.

“Africans are poor,” he continued, and went on to say some more things I will not reprint.

The backstory when I found it out? There had been a presentation and video for a fundraiser to help “poor kids in Africa” in chapel.

In kindergarten at age 5, my daughter came home from school fussing about needing to choose and bring a picture of her favorite princess for a project. She ran through her choices.

“Cinderella, because she worked hard and overcame hard stuff.”

“Ariel … well, because I just like her”

“Pocahontas … because she’s brown and I don’t really like Tiana … well I liked her for my birthday cake, but I don’t really like the story … or I could choose the new British princess because she’s pretty.

I piped up … “Well, if you are going with a real princess instead of a fairy tale one, how about a modern-day African princess? Here, let’s look up Princess of Lesotho, or Princess of Swaziland.”

“What?!!! There are really black princesses? African Princesses???”

These stories are not about my children’s preferences. They are not about difference or diversity or even fundamentally about my daughter choosing a brown-skinned or dark-skinned princess over a lighter-skinned one. These stories are about representations of identity and why I wrote my short story collection – Identities. To me, that’s what Black Panther is about and that’s why it’s a milestone movie. Let me explain.

We, humanity, are storytelling beings. We live in and through the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, which are informed by the stories around us that send us identity signals. Subsequently, we make identity conclusions and live by them.

The majority of the identity signals in the stories about what it means to be a Black African in the world are simplistic, narrow and negative. Just pay attention to the stories about “Africa” and “Africans” that you can recall now and see what’s there…Right – that’s what I mean. Those identity signals you are recalling are the same ones that my daughter and sons receive when they see images of themselves reflected only as poor, dirty, helpless, orphaned, children.

They get these images and the message it sends to them often out of context, with little dignity or compassion and with the same, singular, simplistic storyline – African children and Africans in general are poor and helpless on that “dark continent.”

Of course, I am not saying socio-economic issues faced in countries on the continent are not real or that help isn’t necessary. However, the stories that are told about why and how ‘those people’ come to need help can become complicit reinforcements of the complex systems that created the poverty and adversities in the first place, and can hurt rather than help the changes needed.

In our subsequent exchange, my son told me the identity conclusion the presentation left him with – it is better to be white than black/African, so that you won’t be poor and he doesn’t think he ever wants to go to Africa. Of course, my husband and I did our parental bit to dislodge his narrative from his brain – we reminded him we were from Sierra Leone in West Africa, had lived and grew up there and will for sure take him back. We described and showed him ways in which “Africans” are in fact not helpless but amazingly resourceful, generous and innovative in the face of the challenges we face. We showed him maps and pinpointed the exact country and community his school had fundraised for and how small it was in the vastness of Africa.

Wakanda in Black Panther may be a fictional country in Africa, but the parallel of the beauty and richness of the African continent is real. Wakanda’s vibranium may as well be the tantalum that powers our information tech hardware found in abundance in the Democratic Republic of Congo and its environs; or the Blood Diamonds of Sierra Leone; or Oil in Nigeria or any of the other vast natural resources that continue to quietly and often illegally leave the richest continent in natural resources.

Africa’s resources fuel the world’s economies while “Africa” remains depicted as “uncivilized, at war, and poor and helpless.” This, of course was the exact plight the fictional Wakandans were concerned would occur – it is in fact the reality of what Africa and Africans have faced since her “discovery.”

Superheroines and superheroes have a place in the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, because they stretch our imagination and inspire us to reach for more than what we are now. This – reaching beyond our current comfort zones – has always been the way humanity grows and thrives. Our Supers are simply projections of ourselves – the best parts of us – and for the villain Supers – representations of the worst parts of us. Supers are in effect simply role models – or our role icons that we place on pedestals to reach for. When a culture only projects one people group as Supers, it also says this is the ultimate image we must all aspire to.

When a culture only projects one people group as Supers, it also says this is the ultimate image we must all aspire to.

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Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for. My daughter had the opposite issue to her princess selection challenges after watching Black Panther on preview day. She liked and could relate to so many of the black women in it, she kept changing her choice of favorite.

Perhaps the moments in the movie that depict most clearly what I am saying here are the closing scenes. At the end of the movie when T’Challa unveils his plan for the Wakandan Outreach Centre to Shuri, a Wakandan ship lands in the basketball court behind them to underscore the point. After marvelling at it, one of the boys walks over to T’Challa and says: “Hey … this yours? Who are you?”

Black children of African descent living off the continent need this. They need these moments of relatable role models, real and iconic, that they can look up to and hear stories from, so that they too can believe in their ability to reach higher. I am not just saying this theoretically. I lived my formative years in Sierra Leone and understand that the core identity I subconsciously developed by seeing and living among a myriad role models there–in spite of a legacy of colonial education that had me read about lots of non-Black role models–is not as easily accessible to my children as it was for me.

Coincidentally, I attended “A Conversation with Michelle Obama” on her visit to Vancouver, BC the same day as watching Black Panther [what icing on my global African identity cake!]. Michelle Obama’s description of the work her family had done to mentor children on the margins in ways that they can touch, feel and connect to while in the White House made these same points.

In the outtake, T’Challa shares his plan at the UN General Assembly to share Wakanda’s technology with the world and he aptly uses an African proverb often attributed to Nigeria: “In the moment of crisis, the wise build bridges and the foolish build dams.”

So, I say, in a racially divided world, building bridges is our only option. The hour for self-preservation is over. It is time for meaningful reparations, forgiveness, healing, and progress. Let us widen our lenses to truly build open space for the original peoples of these Americas and all us immigrant communities and forced arrivals–Black and White–all made in God’s image – to thrive. Ensuring equal representations of all our peoples is the least of the ways we can do that. Thank you, Marvel.

About Yabome:

Dr. Yabome Gilpin-Jackson considers herself to be a dreamer, doer and storyteller, committed to imagining and leading the futures we want. She is an award-winning scholar, consultant, writer and curator of African identity and leadership stories. She was born in Germany, grew up in Sierra Leone, and completed her studies in Canada and the USA. Yabome was named International African Woman of the Year by UK-based Women4Africa and also won the Emerging Organization Development Practitioner by the US-based Organization Development Network. Yabome, who is married and the mother of 3 children, has also published several journal articles and book chapters and continues to research, write and speak – most recently at Princeton University – on the importance of holding global mindsets and honouring diversity and social inclusion in our locally global world.

Follow Yabome on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, or at her website, www.sldconsulting.org

Buy her book, Identities: A Short Story Collection here.

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How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for.

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

*image from ETonline

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Before You See Black Panther, Read This (Spoiler-free Review by Jake VanKersen)

I asked my friend, Jake, movie buff and comic book and Star Wars expert, to share his intitial thoughts after seeing the much-anticipated Black Panther film. This article is helpful pre-viewing preparation for people like me who know very little about comic books or superheroes, but still enjoy a good superhero film (though I’d argue this is more than “just a superhero film”).

A review of Black Panther

By Jake VanKersen

On every level Black Panther is completely unapologetic about what it is and what it is trying to do. Yes, it is a Marvel movie and it unapologetically embraces every bit of that successful brand (it is the 18th film in the series). Yes, it is a superhero movie so it unapologetically gives us well-crafted action scenes. At the same time given that Black Panther, aka T’Challa, is the king of a fictional African country called Wakanda, it fully embraces African imagery and customs. In the hands of director Ryan Coogler, Black Panther also unapologetically touches upon race relations in the United States.

Black Panther opens with T’Challa preparing to take the role of King of Wakanda following the death of his father T’Chaka in Captain America: Civil War. Wakanda was never colonized by the Europeans. They built their country on a precious resource called verbranium which has allowed them to become an advanced technological state. While Wakanda has never been touched by the European Slave Trade, the effects of it are felt all around them. Wakanda’s decision to remain isolated from the rest of the world and ignore the problems around them are now starting to reach their borders.

It is under these circumstances that T’Challa begins his reign as king. While heavy is the head that wears the crown, he is anything but alone. He has the help of his sister Shuri, a technological genius that equips her brother with all his gadgets and upgrades his Black Panther armor. He is protected by warrior women known as the Dora Milaje that serve as royal bodyguards. The chief of the Dora Milaje, Okoye, is one of his closest confidants. He also recruits Wakandan spy and former girlfriend, Nakia, to help him.

The egalitarian role of men and women in Black Panther is another profound and effortless statement made by the film.

The cast is an obvious strength. As T’Challa/Black Panther, Chadwick Boseman is a strong and empathetic king. Boseman plays the character as a man who simultaneously feels the weight of his country on his shoulders, but has the resolve to hold it. Michael B. Jordan is the villain, Erik Killmonger, and plays him as a man consumed by rage but with a discipline to focus it on achieving his objective. I simultaneously empathized with why he was so angry and yet was shocked by his wickedness. As T’Challa’s sister, Shuri, Letitia Wright tells us everything we need to know about both her character and the great relationship she has with her brother from her very first scene.

Look, the bench is deep with this cast. You have Lupito Nyong’o, Forest Whitaker, Angela Bassett, Andy Serkis, Sterling K. Brown, Martin Freeman, and current Oscar nominee Daniel Kaluuya (the lead from Get Out). Frankly, I could spend time going through the entire cast and pointing out the strengths of each performance, so let me just say that the charisma and talent of this cast is stunning.

Of course, it is impossible to miss the statement this film is making with its cast and director. This is a major Hollywood Disney movie written and directed by an African American filmmaker, starring an African American actor, and featuring a cast of African descent.

Director of Black Panther, Ryan Coogler
Director of Black Panther, Ryan Coogler

Making a statement is nothing new for comic books. The early comic book creators had strong social justice points of view. Comic books came of age as Hitler unleashed fascism and anti-semitism on the world and comic book creators responded by having their characters take him on. The very first issue of Captain America featured the character punching Hitler in the face on the cover.

It is from this tradition of social justice that Black Panther was created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in 1966. The legendary comic book duo intentionally wanted to make a statement by not only creating the first mainstream black superhero, but by also making him, strong, smart, wealthy, and the king of a country.

A day after watching Black Panther I was still unpacking the layers of social and political commentary. The film does not hit you over the head with these themes, but it also doesn’t flinch from them either. In Ryan Coogler’s hands all these threads are effortlessly woven together for a deeply entertaining and exceptional film.

About Jake:

Jake VanKersenJake VanKersen is a Chicago-based Video Producer and graduate of Columbia College Chicago. He also has an encyclopedic knowledge of movie, Star Wars, and comic book trivia. Visit him at www.jakevankersen.com.

 

Sign up for my newsletter by February 28th and be entered to win a copy of Beyond Colorblind! (U.S. residents only)

Sign up for the Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

Posted on

Weak is the “New” Strong {Guest Post}

By Nicole Woo

My best friend’s daughter hates her middle name. As a parent, how do you not take that one personally? After all, most of us spend about nine months contemplating, debating, and often agonizing over the matter. We sift through the millions of options, scrutinizing name meanings with a fine-toothed comb. We do the nickname test with first, middle, and last names to ensure survival through middle school, and then veto all options that remind us of mean people from childhood.

Some of us are so weighted down by this heavy responsibility that we are still deliberating on our drive to the hospital. (This happened to my grandparents, who succumbed to the stress by drawing names out of a hat. Thankfully, my uncle was named “George” instead of “Machine Washable.”) Somehow, we all arrive at the “perfect” name. Nailed it!

At least my friend thought so.

10 years later …

Daughter: “Ewe!!!! You named me after a ewe, as in ‘a female sheep’?” she recently lamented in tween dialect. So now she uses just her middle initial on official forms. Although it feels a bit to her parents like a slap in the face, I’m starting to see her point.

After all, the tide has turned in American culture. Who wants to be named after a female sheep when “strong” and “woman” may now proudly exist, side-by-side? This dynamic message is in plain view, everywhere: “Strong is the New Pretty” has replaced “Daddy’s Little Princess” on t-shirts, while Wonder Woman is smashing box office records. (Yeah, you get it.)

This “Strong Girl” movement is fascinating to observe. I sprouted up in the 80’s when playing football at recess and collecting GI Joe’s often earned me “weird girl” status. But now being strong, aggressive and independent is celebrated, embraced and even expected. Pop culture is riding this wave, so shouldn’t we too? It’s easy for me to get swept up in the excitement of it all, and what it might mean for this generation of girls. Lately, though, a few questions are nudging me to proceed with caution:

Is this celebrated version of “strong” the one that’s best for us to hear?

Is weakness really such a bad thing?

Are they mutually exclusive?

Last night I made a mental list of the strongest women I know personally. Honestly, I was pretty surprised at the names claiming the top spots.

My Strong “Girl” List:

• A mentor, in the throes of cancer, thanking God for the captive audience of clinicians who regularly drained fluid from her lungs: she boasted of His faithfulness and goodness at each appointment.

• A loved one, who rises each day resolved to forgive the man who blind-sided her, abruptly ending their long marriage.

• A friend, who recently endured the most complicated and high-risk pregnancy I’ve ever seen. Despite her pain, she selflessly and sleeplessly drags herself out of bed when her needy newborn cries.

Not the top three I imagined.

I thought it would include women like Jessie Graff, acclaimed Ninja Warrior and celebrated stunt double for Super Girl. (Disclaimer: I don’t really know her, but I did get my picture taken with her, so I’m counting it.) I recently saw Jessie complete a Ninja course on one leg, due to a knee injury. That was after she climbed a 40 foot rope, using mostly arm strength. No sweat.

But physical strength was not the defining trait I linked to “strong.” Nor were a slew of other qualities we often associate with the “Strong Girl” movement, like “confident,” “independent,” “leader,” “bold,” and “outspoken.” I am not editorializing these traits; in fact the women on my list have many of them. Rather, it was their entanglement with weakness – their faceoff with uninvited adversity – that spelled STRONG to me. It was their weakness that gave birth to strength.

I’m imagining it now: A rack of sparkling t-shirts at Target proudly proclaiming, “Weak is the NEW Strong.” I know. It’s not like we would just veer our carts over and grab one for those special girls in our lives, right?
(It’s funny how the truth is so often counterintuitive.)

These portraits of weakness, strength, and adversity reminded me of someone else’s. Maybe this “New Strong” is not so new.

The Apostle Paul’s first century resume included blindness, shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonments, and a slew of other undesirable hardships. I’m not an expert in ancient rhetorical criticism, but I think Plato would agree with me that you’d want to hide these red flags for credibility’s sake. But this man, in his relentless pursuit of Christ, did just the opposite. In one letter, we find him celebrating debilitation:

“… I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” –2 Corinthians 12:10

Forget personal image and self-promotion. Strength yielded from weakness was Paul’s M.O. throughout his tumultuous life. (We see this repeatedly in his other letters.) The result: A flame, igniting a radical message – a new way of living – that still burns today.

This ancient antithesis didn’t just start with Paul. It’s a marvelous and mysterious undercurrent throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. We find it running through the stories of people like Ruth, David, Joseph, Rahab, Ester, and Daniel.

This theme flows through the New Testament, too, with no one embodying it more than Christ Himself. Here we find the power Source, and it’s not from ourselves. Paul unabashedly names it in the midst of his own oppressing frailties:

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” –2 Corinthians 12:8-9

Christ’s power. This is the catalyst that sweeps us beyond “the triumph of the human spirit” as we lock horns with adversity. I’ll freely admit: this is a mystery I’ve experienced, but still can’t understand. This is the same power I see carrying the strongest women in my life. It’s the power I want my friend’s daughter to see and embrace as she witness Christ’s strength in others, and discovers it in the inevitable hardships she will face herself. Because someday her own strength will not be enough, and she’ll be stuck on a 40 foot rope that she cannot possibly climb.

Do I want to see a generation of strong daughters?

Absolutely.

But the Source of strength we can point them to eclipses anything a t-shirt or even a movement can offer: When it begins with weakness, it can end extraordinarily with Christ’s power. It’s then that we, and our beloved daughters, are truly strong.

When it begins with weakness, it can end extraordinarily with Christ’s power. It’s then that we, and our beloved daughters, are truly strong.

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Maybe even strong enough to embrace a middle name.

As Christ followers,

How can we underscore this message of “strength in weakness” to the girls and women in our lives?

Can we inject this truth into conversations within the “Strong Girl/Strong Woman” movement? What would that look like?

About Nicole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole 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.

GIVEAWAY:

A Book Review of A VOICE BECOMING {plus, A GIVEAWAY!} If you share my last post and tag me in it on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter, I’ll enter you to win either a copy of A Voice Becoming (see my review here) or the first edition of a fantastic new magazine for girls called Bravery. The giveaway will end on January 31, 2018. Sorry, I can only mail to U.S. residents!

 

 

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