Category: hospitality

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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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Connecting with Cameroon Refugees in Idaho

By Jessica Peretti | Instagram: @roonieandlucia

This summer I had the opportunity to return as a counselor at a Bible camp I worked at in college. I was thrilled to head to the mountains to spend the week with some first to third graders. I donned my staff shirt, put on a brave face, and led them in hikes, games, songs and adventure. Over those few days, I saw eight little girls bond over games, songs and giggles.

One of my girls, Sarah, was a refugee from Cameroon. Our counterpart male cabin also had eight boys, and two of those boys, John and Dylan, were Sarah’s cousins. Idaho is not a particularly diverse state. In high school we would joke about the many shades of white in Idaho. But in Boise we have a pocket of refugee families. The churches that supported the camp also helped refugees adjust to American life.


Each morning, I would coo softly to the girls, “It’s time to wake up ladies.” I’d move by each of the bunks and pat the heads of each one until their eyes fluttered open.

Sarah would look at me, smile, grab my arm and say “I’m soooo tired!” with a huge smile plastered on her face. Despite her exhaustion she was the first one dressed and ready to head out. Later in the day, when my eyes would barely stay open, Sarah would run up to me, wrap her arms around me and exclaim “You are my second favorite counselor!” To which I would fall to the floor proclaiming the injustice of it all, as I should be her first favorite counselor. Her smiles and laughter fueled me into the next hours of our day. At the end of the week, I drove Sarah and her cousins back to Boise.


We loaded into my car and headed out on the long drive back to the city. The two boys mostly spoke French, and did not seek any attention from me. “Any of you guys want a coffee stop?” I asked as we pulled into the biggest town we’d hit until we arrived home.

“Yes!” The ruckus from the back almost drove me off the road, but we made it into the shop.

“All right kiddos, you can each pick one treat. What were you thinking, John?” John looked up at me with big eyes and grabbed the largest rice krispy treat from the top of the pile. I bought coffee, and we headed back onto the road. “John what’s your favorite candy?” I glanced back at him in the rearview mirror, and he looked at me.

“Snickers!” He eventually answered and returned to speaking to Dylan in French.

“Dylan,” I asked, “what’s your favorite color?” he paused, looking equally confused and answered, “Green!”

“You know,” Sarah chimed in. “Our teacher can speak French.” My heart melted. She’d called me ‘teacher’ a few times over the week, but every time it caught me off guard.

“Yeah, I know a little,” I said. She beamed at me from the back seat. “I can tell you the story of the Little Red Hen in French.”

“Yes please!” Sarah exclaimed. I recited the story I had memorized in high school.

“Il y a une petite poule rouge.” Giggles erupted from the back seat. “What? Is my accent really that bad?”

“Yes!” John yelled. A light flickered in his eyes– one I hadn’t yet seen the whole week we’d spent together. “I cannot understand what you are saying!”

“I can.” Sarah answered. “She said ‘Once upon a time there was a little red woman.’”

“No!” Dylan joined in the fun. After stumbling through the rest of the story, they clutched their sides with laughter. The next three hours flew by, and I connected with the kids in ways I hadn’t until that point.

We drove to the church to meet their parents, and the kids bolted from the car. They ran around yelling and playing. Their parents arrived, and the two boys didn’t even look back–just rushed into their parent’s car. Sarah hugged me.

“Promise me you’ll come back next summer?” I said.

“Yes! You’ll be there right?” Sarah asked.

“I’ll try my best.” I shook her dad’s hand, and told him Sarah was a fun kid to have in my cabin. (All of this was in broken French/English.)

I climbed back into my car, soaking up the silence, and surveyed the damage from their lunches in the back seat. I had spent the week trying to connect with Dylan and John. I had asked them questions and tried to play with them, but it wasn’t until I attempted to speak French with them that they came alive. I wondered how many positive interactions those kids had with adults who only spoke English.

In a world where everything for these kids was different–the culture, the language, the people and the surroundings (aka camp)–it must have been comforting to have someone try to connect with their culture rather than thrust our culture upon them.

Jesus tells us to welcome the stranger. I wonder how much easier it would be to welcome strangers if we allowed ourselves to be strangers in the cultures of those we are trying to welcome. Instead of inundating foreign visitors, immigrants and refugees with the new, perhaps it would be better to share some of what they know and love. Maybe that way, I’ll eventually become Sarah’s first favorite counselor.

About Jessica:

Jessica Peretti is a software engineer by day and a blogger by night. Her interests include hiking, running, backpacking, coding and weight-lifting. She loves working with kids and singing with her church’s choir every Sunday. Follow her on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, or on her website. 

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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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Revisiting Hospitality After Life Takes a Turn {guest post}

By Heather Legge | Instagram: @heatherand2girls

Hospitality growing up was backyard grilling, a living room full of people eating Christmas cookies after a local community concert, encouraging cards written to friends and family, bowls of popped corn for teenage sleepovers, and a listening ear. It was not unusual for neighborhood kids to be playing in the yard even if we weren’t there, or for a kid to walk in and open the refrigerator for a snack. I truly believed this would be the story of my adult life – partly because I have so many happy memories and partly because it was the example I was given.

In my early years growing up, my mom had an open door. Friends came in and out and all the kids of my parents’ friends were friends. If someone needed help, it was given without hesitation; everyone took care of each other. We moved to New England when I was eight and the houses were a bit more spread apart than the close-knit neighborhood I started life in. Regardless, if someone had a new baby, my mom was there.

If someone came over, the door was open.

When my friends wanted a place to hang out, it was our house. Even in the four years that she battled ovarian cancer, my mom opened her heart and home to others.

I moved south after college and quickly got engaged to be married. The easy-going way of hospitality that I knew was exchanged for china dishes, elegantly casual attire, formal wedding and baby showers, closed doors, unspoken rules, and enormous homes kept pristine by cleaning services. I was in culture shock and my mom had died a couple years before, so I couldn’t ask her if this was some kind of new normal and what was expected of me.

When I became a wife and then a mother, I was so overwhelmed that I rarely invited people over. I was ashamed of my house not being perfect. Even when people dropped off meals after my babies were born, I felt silent judgment for not having it all together. I was also confused because the visits seemed to be for the purpose of holding the babies and not for actually helping. This is not the way my mom did it. If she brought a meal to a new mom or someone who had been sick, she was also washing the sink full of dishes or doing a load of laundry.

I began a small rebellion in my late twenties by hosting college students and purposefully leaving dishes in the sink, piles of clutter lying around, and occasionally some laundry that needed to be folded. This was real life and I was determined to show that it was not about having an impeccable home and well-designed plans. I was going counter-culture and it felt good and right. I reclaimed my dream of my kids getting older and eventually having an open door and yard for their friends and my neighbors. We moved into a small neighborhood with cul-de-sacs and even though there were no kids nearby, I knew they would eventually come.

My home would be the one with the swinging door and coffee on the porch, backyard barbecues, and the sounds of kids playing. But, just as we all find ourselves in situations that were not what we dreamed of, so did I.

Divorce, moving from my neighborhood to an apartment complex, and a difficult illness took away my hopes of an open door and yard. I probably spent too many years grieving this and other losses, but that doesn’t mean that new dreams can’t be imagined.

It’s easy with a chronic illness to become isolated and lonely and to feel forgotten. I am exhausted all the time and my income is impossibly small, both of which make it difficult to go out or to provide for guests. I found myself not making plans to go out in my free time in case I didn’t feel good. I didn’t invite people over for the same reasons. I would sit at home, alone, feeling sorry for myself.

There are definitely times where rest has to be my number one priority, but I also need to revisit hospitality and what it means now.

My new-to-me-life equals new-to-me-ideas about hospitality. It’s more about opening my heart and making places wherever I am, whether at home, a coffee shop, at work, a friend’s house, or out in the community. If I am already going to be somewhere, I can find a way to make it a place of welcome; extend myself as a welcoming person. It’s even possible to do hospitality from afar by writing notes. Who doesn’t love finding a card in the mailbox amidst bills?

My heart softened a couple years ago when I had made plans to get together with another mom at my church. We hadn’t met, but had messaged on Facebook a few times, realizing we had some things in common. We made plans to meet for coffee. On the day we were meeting, I woke up feeling unwell. I texted her and let her know that I didn’t think I’d be able to go out and meet but that she was welcome to come to my apartment. She showed up, and I answered the door still in my pjs.

I welcomed her, handed her a blanket to use while sitting on my couch, and climbed back into my comfy chair under a pile of blankets and a heating pad. I felt like the epitome of a bad host, but I also didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to make a friend and to extend welcome no matter the circumstances. As my new friend got ready to leave, she told me she had never felt more cozy and welcomed than she had that morning, simply because there were absolutely no expectations. She could be completely herself because of how low-key it was. I was astonished. I could do this!

I lovingly refer to this now as “blanket hospitality.” If you come over, make yourself comfortable on my couch with blankets and pillows and conversation. We might have coffee or popsicles. All are welcome, and you will see my piles and messes, but maybe that’s just what we need to do to show others that no one is perfect and that the relationship is far more important than appearances.

About Heather:

Heather Legge is originally from New England, but currently lives in Virginia with her two girls. She tries to make places in her heart for those who are hurting. She loves reading, coffee, and is learning to play the violin. You can follow her on Instagram at @heatherand2girls.

Photo by Victoria Bilsborough on Unsplash

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Why Authors Do Book Signings (It’s Not for the Reasons You Might Think)

The bookstore manager, Pam, takes me behind the desk to the backroom of Macdonald Book Shop in Estes Park, Colorado. I plop my bags on a table in a snug break room. One door leads to a bathroom.

“The lock doesn’t work, so be sure to knock first. Then leave the door ajar when you go out so we know it’s available,” Pam tells me.

Another doorway leads to a tiny office with a desk facing a window. The owner, Paula, is an elderly woman with a warm smile and curved upper spine. Later in the afternoon, I’ll see her sitting at this desk and imagine she’s ordering books for customers; or perusing reviews online to determine which books will sell to tourists and her loyal customers.

Pam steers me out another door to a room in the bookstore with a worn brown leather chair Pam calls “Grandpa’s chair” in front of a fireplace. A table is next to the chair, with a small poster of my book cover announcing the book signing today from 2 to 4 pm. I’ll sit in Grandpa’s chair between the kid’s book section and the Colorado and Native American book section, which is rather large for a bookstore of this size. Later, another worker, Sally, will tell me she works at the Native American museum in Arizona, and I wonder if she’s responsible for this sizable selection.

I scribble a nametag that I brought for myself: “Local Author Leslie Verner” and stick it to my dress, then hide my pen and post-it notes behind the display. I prop my clipboard with a sign-up for my newsletter on the floor next to the table and wonder if I should sit, stand, or chase down customers to talk about my book (as Pam suggested).

This is my first book signing for my first book. I’m giddy. Writer friends had advised me to avoid scheduling book signings because they’re awkward, not profitable, and are time consuming. But independent bookstores have my heart. If my husband and I travel to a new town, the first thing we do is identify the coffee shops and independent bookstores. We wander to our respective genres: him, to the sci-fi, fantasy, and nature writing aisles; me, to the poetry, essay, and writing sections. If we have our kids with us, we take turns waiting with them in the kid section and rotate after some minutes so we can browse kid-less.

It’s a Friday and overcast, a rarity for the end of August in Colorado. The crowds of tourists have thinned since I stopped by just two weeks before to drop off some posters and copies of my book. Kids have returned to school and summer is quickly melding into fall.

Settling into Grandpa’s chair, I wonder if anyone will stop by at all.

I had contacted the local newspaper to alert them of my signing. Later, Pam will send me a clip of the article—a write up from my Goodreads description of my book, a headshot, and my book cover—vibrant even in newsprint. All three book sales today will result from local residents reading this article and stopping by to meet me and have me sign the book they buy.

What I sacrifice in time and actual sales, I make up for in conversation. I talk to Sally, the employee who volunteers at the museum in Arizona. She’s worked here every summer for over twenty years. I ask her if she reads a ton and she answers, “I try to. But at my age, I’ve decided to only read non-fiction.” I nod, thinking of the truth embedded even in the fiction books I read, but choose not to disagree. I ask her if she’s read any Joan Chittister and tell her I’m reading The Gift of Years, a book on aging. She smiles, “I think I understand aging pretty well.” I wonder how old she is. Seventy? Seventy-five? I have no idea, but I wonder if I’ll be more choosy with my books as I age, knowing my time is limited.

I talk to a mother and daughter for a long time about transition, finding friends, and community—they are dropping her off at college in Boulder. They seem excited about my book until the mother reads the back cover. I wonder if the word “Christian” in the description turns her off.

“How long’d it take you to write it?” another man asks, sauntering by as I sit in Grandpa’s chair, reading my library book in the lull.

I laugh, “Twenty years?” I say. “But from the time I started thinking about writing it to actual publication, about two years.”

A few minutes later, I see a man reading the back cover of my book at the front of the store. I hear Pam tell him the author is here if he’d like to meet her. I see him look up, then stride back to meet me. I stand and he leans down to point at my book on the table, flipping it to the back. “You say here this book is about ‘holy hospitality’ and ‘how hospitality is at the heart of Christian community,’ but when I read about Christians in the news …” he drops off.

I know what he’s going to say. He starts again, “I grew up kind of going to church, but it seems to me the church isn’t doing what it should be doing.” I didn’t disagree. I told him my book was less of a commentary on the church at large, and more of a consideration of small pivots of faith to follow Jesus and love people around us.

Later, Paula writes me a check in the backroom for the five books I had sold–three today and two of the ones on display in the previous weeks–and three more to keep in the shop ($12 total profit for eight books after subtracting what I paid my publisher for the copies). Pam helps me gather the remaining books and we talk about my conversation with this man.

“I kind of overheard it, but didn’t hear all of it,” Pam says. I tell them I had forgotten the word “Christian” was even on the back of my book and was taken off guard.

“I wish the publisher hadn’t used that word,” I say. “It’s such a trigger word for people in our society.” The women agree. Sadly, the word “Christian” often carries a negative connotation for people today.

Afterward, I order a vanilla latte (using nearly half my profit) at Inkwell and Brew, a coffeeshop behind Macdonald Bookshop, and settle into a small booth overlooking the river glimmering through downtown Estes.

I’ve already asked whether the book writing was worth it. But was the two-hour signing worth it?

I had about seven long conversations on friendship, community, isolation, and the state of Christianity in the world. I advertised my book in the local newspaper and had my book on display in the window of an indie bookstore I’ve visited many times over the years. The booksellers handed out my bookmarks to local residents stopping by to pick up the books they had ordered and random tourists buying the latest bestsellers. Pam put up posters with my book cover around town. And in the days to come, if a customer is looking for a book on spirituality, hospitality, or community, my guess is that Sally, Pam, Paula, and the other employees will steer them to my book.

As in all aspects of the creative life, it’s best not to gauge success by dollar signs. Creators deal in a mysterious currency. Did our art act as a conduit for connection, depth, and soul? If so, I call this “success.”

My book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness is now available where all books are sold online, but also in some brick and mortar bookstores–check your local Barnes and Noble, or support your local independent bookstore by ordering it from there! You can also order it from your local library.

SO many ways to get your hands on it! 🙂 Sign up for my newsletter and I’ll send you chapter 1 for free!

Why Authors Do Book Signings (It’s Not for the Reasons You Might Think)

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How Can We Show Hospitality to Different Enneagram Types?

I met Lisa Russell, an Enneagram coach and spiritual counselor, for drinks a few weeks ago. Before meeting, I had thought we would discuss how each Enneagram type practices hospitality.

“Why don’t we talk about how we can show hospitality to each Enneagram type instead?” she suggested, taking a sip of her drink. “That seems less self-focused and more empathetic to me.”

Lisa described the Enneagram types as differing shades on a color palatte—there can be many shades of blue, green, and grey.

We often know about ourselves, but what happens when we become students of others?

How does this transform our communication, community, and hospitality to each Enneagram type? Here are some ideas for understanding and loving individuals as we show hospitality to each Enneagram type in our life (along with a collection of quotes from some of my social media friends.)

Type 1: The Reformer (rational, idealistic, perfectionistic, principled)

According to Lisa, this type is caught up in “holy goodness.” They believe God is good and they want to be right. They have a strong inner influence and the mantra “am I good enough?” often goes through their minds. Type Ones often hold themselves to a higher standard. To welcome a One to your home, have things structured and lined up for them.

M.W. : “Invite me into your fun. Help me play!”

Jacob Robinson: “Showing “hospitality” to a One is a tough ask because of the perfectionist standards. Thus, as a One, I don’t really need “hospitality’ but friendship.”

Annie Rim: “Having a really sweet/personal detail is the best. At dinner, a bottle of wine with a story behind it. As a house guest, a bar of soap or something thoughtful. Anytime someone has done that, I’ve felt especially seen and welcomed.”

Type 2: The Helper (caring, generous, interpersonal, possessive)

As a Type Two herself, Lisa had many thoughts about how to show hospitality to helpers. When you host, Twos are usually the first ones to offer to wash your lettuce or set the table. But sometimes what the Two needs is permission to receive instead of give. They sometimes need to be given “space and time to recharge and rejuvenate and have solitude.” They want to be able to serve out of overflow, not obligation. They want to feel loved for being, not doing.

Andi Cumbo-Floyd: “Hospitality to me is often making it known that I’m wanted just for me, not for the help I can bring.”

Abby Norman: “Either give me a task or tell me everything is taken care of.”

Tanya Marlow: “I like it when people give me quality time and we have a chat about emotions and Real Stuff. I also like it when people ask me for wisdom that will help them out, especially if they’re in crisis. “

Type 3: The Achiever (success-oriented, driven, image-conscious)

To show hospitality to a Three, Lisa advised being punctual and sticking to the set time. Threes get antsy with inefficiencies in gatherings. They appreciate being praised and affirmed for what they can bring to the table. Lisa mentioned a dinner she attended where the host prepared name cards in advance. On the back of each card, the host had written encouragement in the form of “I see this in you” for each specific person. Lisa thought the Type Three would feel especially loved by this gesture.

Sue Fulmore: “The times I have felt most seen and loved is when someone asks questions which help me get more in tune with my emotions. Those people that listen with their whole heart and seek to understand me – this is where I feel most welcome.”

Marci Yoseph: “I want you to sit with me and give me the space/time to sit and relax. If you are up doing stuff I feel obligated to be up and productive too. I need permission to just sit.”

Type 4: The Individualist (sensitive, expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed)

Type Fours “feel all the feels.” Lisa recommended allowing Fours the space and freedom to experience their feelings without shame. They often long for the space to express themselves and have perhaps experienced rejection for their sensitivity. To show hospitality to a Type Four might look like inviting them to share their unique gifts.

F.J. : “Take time to understand me. Be happy to see me. Pursue me. No small talk—only meaningful talk.”

A.M. : “Ask me questions and listen well. Put pretty flowers in my room.”

Type 5: The Investigator (cerebral, perceptive, innovative, isolated)

Lisa said the best way to show hospitality to a Five is to give them space. They tend to be more introverted and sometimes need to isolate and cave up. They appreciate knowing what to expect in advance. They often need to get to a meeting early and observe. But just because they linger on the margins doesn’t mean they don’t want to be invited.

Adam Verner (my husband): “Hand me a good book and tell me to go into another room by myself for three hours before joining the crowd.”

M.D. : “It’s not always easy to articulate deep feelings when you live in your head 99.99% of the time. Having someone who makes it calm, safe, and ok for you to unravel yourself is critical … I need room and empathy to unravel and rewind and figure it out. I need demonstrated empathy which often can mean a strong hug and quality time or asking me specifically about how I am regarding an issue you know I’m struggling with or working through. Presence. I simply need presence.”

Type 6: The Loyalist (committed, security-oriented, responsible, anxious)

Sixes often have a million plans in order to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Lisa mentioned they have the “Mary Poppins bag” of resources “just in case.” They need reassurance that things will be okay. To show hospitality to a Type Six, offer them security, stability, and consistency by following through with promises you make.

A.S. : “Be consistent with invites to hang out. Not with an agenda, but just to chill.”

A.K. : “Consider my children’s needs too. It makes me feel like all of the bases are covered so we can relax and talk.”

Juliana Gordon: “If there is a party, make sure there is plenty of seating so I can make the crowd smaller.”

Cara Strickland: “I love it when people let me know what to expect in advance/anticipate concerns I might have.”

Type 7: The Enthusiast (busy, fun-loving, spontaneous, scattered)

Lisa described this type as the “Joyful Epicurean.”  She said they love to go all out and indulge. They are always worried they’ll be deprived and often suffer from FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). What Type Sevens need from their hosts is permission to be spontaneous and fun-loving. They want friends to join them in their joyful spontaneity.

Jamie Bagley: “Let me know it’s okay to curl up on the sofa with a blanket or prop my feet up. Also, offering me tea and talking about all things quirky or deeply philosophical is the way to my worn out heart. Cookies help, too.”

Roxanne Engstrom: “I love when families from other cultures invite me to go places with them or do things that they are doing to celebrate religious or cultural moment. And my love language is also food, lots of ethnic food.”

Type 8: The Challenger (self-confident, confrontational, decisive, willful)

Type Eights are strong and powerful. They appreciate honesty and “have a nose to sniff out BS,” Lisa said. They don’t like empty flattery or appreciate people gushing over them. To show hospitality to a Type Eight might look like giving them an opportunity to lead and make decisions. They enjoy people bringing confrontation into the group and feel it’s live-giving.  

Courtney Skiera-Vaugn: “If someone were to just take charge and allow me not to have to lead – start the convo, have coffee ready, show up and serve without me asking or even agreeing to (a dear friend did this the other day knowing I was super busy, she showed up, took my kids, loaded my dishwasher and made me coffee IN MY HOME.)”

E.D.: “Invite me into a trusting environment. A few friends goes a lot further than a ton of people.”

Type 9: The Peacemaker (easygoing, agreeable, complacent, people-pleaser)

Lisa said Nines are similar to Sixes in that they need to know that they will be okay. They often camouflage themselves and blend in to please others, so they may need to be drawn out with questions like, “What do you really think?” They may need prodding to do something that engages their body like hiking or going for a walk.

Mallary Covington: “People can show hospitality to me by engaging in good conversations. I love asking good questions and listening, and also love it when people ask me good questions and listen to me in return. Something that makes me feel super disconnected from others is when people ask questions but don’t actually want a real answer. Also, keeping an environment low key and low stress really makes me feel welcome and comfortable.“

A.U.: “Make me know I’m really wanted there and that you are ok with me being there. I crave deep conversations, however I always worry that if I talk about something deeper than the weather that I’m rocking the peace.”

***

Although we are each unique, most of the responses I heard sang a similar tune. Most people feel loved when they are welcomed to be themselves. To do this, we put aside our phones and encourage our guests to relax. We arrange smaller groups, ask good questions, and listen for the answers. We affirm our belief that the person we are talking to right then is the most engaging and important person in the room.

About Lisa Russell:

Lisa is a spiritual counselor and Enneagram coach at Restoration Counseling in Fort Collins, Colorado. She teaches large group workshops and team and individual counseling on the Enneagram. Visit the Restoration Counseling website for more details or to sign up for an Enneagram coaching session.

More on the Enneagram:

Enneagram Institute Website (has a test and descriptions of the different types)

Typology Podcast

That Sounds Fun Podcast with Annie Downs series on the Enneagram

The Sacred Enneagram: Finding Your Unique Path to Spiritual Growth, by Christopther L. Heuertz

The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery, by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile

Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness releases August 13. Pre-order now and you will be eligible for some outstanding pre-order bonuses.

Sign up for my newsletter and I’ll send you Chapter 1 of Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness:

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Reimagining Neighborhoods with Tim Soerens and Paul Sparks

Many of us are disconnected, lonely, and isolated even though we’re surrounded by neighbors, strangers, and living, breathing human beings all around us. My husband and I recently attended a meeting in Denver called “Reimagining Neighborhoods” where Tim Soerens and Paul Sparks, in partnership with the Navigators, discussed this issue. As the writers of the book The New Parish and founders of The Parish Collective , they challenged us to seek community right where we live.

The evening opened with a short film about neighboring well; then several individuals shared tales of intentionally pursuing relationships with people outside their immediate comfort zones. One man told of seeking out his “third place” (besides work and home) where he has developed relationships over time by frequenting a Thai restaurant.

Another woman mentioned that her dogs help her make connections, but also shared how their neighbors enjoy a fantasy football league, a fire pit-in-the-driveway tradition on Halloween, and use Facebook to promote neighborhood gatherings. Another described their neighborhood as “a place where I belong” and someone else said “cultivating a life in common” was of utmost value to them. The speakers shared about other friend’s involvement in farmers markets, coffeehouses, garage sales, community gardens, and giving away popsicles, dessert, or meals in the local park.

After these individuals shared about their experiences with opening their homes and intentionally seeking community among their neighbors, Tim Soerens began his talk with a quote from William Blake: “We become what we behold.” He described our small, faithful actions of simply showing up in our relationships with the people around us. He talked about healing democracy not by starting from the top, but from the bottom—in our homes, workplaces, neighborhoods and cities. Soerens said, “all the systems that shape us—we’re also called to shape them as well.”

Paul Sparks said we know the gospel has broken through and shalom has prevailed when the world can look at Christians and be struck by our love for one another. He quoted Manuel Castells, who talks about the “space of flows,” where people often miss one another in a life of busyness and movement. Sparks has visited many communities where people are experimenting with good news, and when he visits, he often looks for ways the community is solving conflicts and diving deeper into humility and grace for one another. He concluded by saying that this commitment to learning how we belong to one another isn’t rocket science, but it does take commitment, presence, and a miracle, because “turning to face one another takes divine grace.”

During our short discussion time at the end, one woman pointed out that this all seems so obvious, and yet in our culture of disconnection, individualism, and independence, we almost need to re-learn how to be humans with one another.

Finding connection right where we are is both the easiest and most difficult way to cultivate community. It requires intentionality, availability, and humility. And yet I believe there’s a movement of God to stop leaving “ministry” and movements to clergy and missionaries, and remind us we are already standing on holy ground—even if that ground is our rock-covered lawns (like in Colorado where I live), our third floor apartment buildings, or our ranch in the country. God wants us to notice the people right around us—look them in the eye, speak to them, and remember that we—and they–are not alone after all. When we begin to reimagine our neighborhoods, we begin to reimagine God’s vision for a connected kingdom.

Resources:

Parish Collective: You can learn more about Parish Collective here. Parish Collective identifies, connects, and resources followers of Jesus that desire to grow the fabric of love and care in, with, and for the neighborhood.

Book List: Their website also links to a fabulous list of books relating to developing community, relationships, and neighboring well.

The New Parish Book: Check out the book The New Parish: How Neighborhood Churches are Transforming Mission, Discipleship, and Community, by Paul Sparks, Tim Soerens, and Dwight J. Friesen (IVP). About the book: “Paul Sparks, Tim Soerens and Dwight J. Friesen have seen in cities, suburbs and small towns all over North America how powerful the gospel can be when it takes root in the context of a place, at the intersection of geography, demography, economy and culture.” (Amazon)

Prayer Walk Guide: The Navigators offered a brochure to do a prayer walk in your neighborhood. I couldn’t find that one online, but I did find this neighborhood prayer walk guide that also incorporates observation and accommodations for different seasons of the church calendar.

Sign up for the monthly-ish newsletter and I’ll send you a free list of hospitality resources!

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 newsletter above to keep up-to-date on pre-order bonuses, launch team, book recommendations, and more! The LAUNCH TEAM is open until Thursday, June 13th. You can sign up here.

Photo by Clayton Cardinalli on Unsplash

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Rethinking Dinner, Worship, and the Community of God~Review of We Will Feast by Kendall Vanderslice

“How do we bond despite our differences? We do so when we grasp and share the most basic need of all humanity: the need to eat and drink,” Kendall Vanderslice writes in her book that released last week (p. 157). I first heard Vanderslice share a lecture on a L’Abri podcast called A Sacred Story of Meals. So when I heard she was writing a book, I was eager to read it because I knew it would be smart, relatable, and inspiring. I was right.

We Will Feast: Rethinking Dinner, Worship, and the Community of God summarizes itself in the title. It’s about food, gathering as followers of God, and how a bit of creativity can reorient us toward one another. The book is organized around Vanderslice’s experiences at several different dinner churches around the United States—from New York City to California, Michigan to Texas, among others—that she visited over the course of one year. Far from a simple summary of those experiences, she draws us into meals together around tables, in gardens, pubs, or at potlucks, allowing us to imagine a different kind of life together.

She weaves her expertise as a baker into each tale, expanding on communion, feasting, and the theology that connects us to one another. She writes that “worship around the table is a communal search for every glimmer of goodness in an aching world” (p. 167). This book offers that glimmer of goodness, granting a glimpse into other peoples’ windows of experience that may differ from our own.

If you’re looking for a hopeful book about church, this book for you. If you’re looking for a book that breaks open the boxes we squeeze God, the church, and worship into, this book is for you. And if you need refreshment, encouragement, or affirmation that community can still be found within the church, then this book is definitely for you. This book will make you hungry for steaming bread and savory soup, but especially for deep connection and intentional community. It will remind you that when we gather, we experience just a bit more of God’s presence in our midst.

Sign up for my monthly(ish) newsletter and I’ll send you a list of hospitality resources for uncertain hosts (as well as book/article/podcast recommendations).

My book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness is available for pre-order!

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links. I received a copy of We Will Feast from Eerdmans for review. All opinions are my own.

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Eight Nativity Myths: How the West Gets It Wrong

My children tore into the Christmas boxes yesterday, leaving books, toys, ornaments, lights and wrapping paper strewn about the living room. They arranged the Fischer Price toy manger in bizarre configurations and started in on their own versions of the Christmas story. A week ago for movie night, we watched the kids’ movie, The Star (complete with Oprah, Tyler Perry and Kelly Clarkson as voice actors) on Netflix and I wondered how much of the plot to critique with my children, age six and under.

Should I tell them there wasn’t a man in armor sent to kill Mary and Joseph—or a talking donkey? Or that Jesus wasn’t born in a barn? Should I point out that while the characters in the film looked more Middle Eastern than most adaptations of the nativity (apart from the blue-eyed Mary), their speech and mannerisms were decidedly “Western”? Was it even worth pushing against a story that has morphed into a romanticized version unlike what actually happened two thousand years ago …?

Living overseas and studying culture in graduate school taught me that I often view the world through Western lenses, forming incorrect assumptions as I read the Bible. Yes, the Reformation brought the freedom to study the Bible on our own, but with that comes the mighty weight of responsibility to research the culture behind the text. We can’t just take the Bible at face value and expect to get it right.

As I researched for my book about hospitality from a cross-cultural perspective this past year, I racked up late fines for a book I checked out of the library three times (and finally bought this week). Kenneth E. Bailey spent forty years living and teaching New Testament in Egypt, Lebanon, Jerusalem and Cyprus. The book, called Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes peels away the lenses we’ve used to read the nativity story, confronting our assumptions with truths about Eastern culture.

He says the misinterpretations of the nativity began when an anonymous Christian wrote a “novel” two hundred years after the birth of Jesus. It’s the first fictional account suggesting that Jesus’ birth occurred the very night Mary and Joseph entered Bethlehem. Bailey describes it as “full of imaginative details.” Along with this fictional account, we’ve managed to invent plenty of myths on our own. Here are some I hope to eventually debunk for my children (and myself) as we lug out our Christmas paraphernalia year after year:

Myth 1: No Room at the Inn

Our nativity stories usually involve a dejected Joseph and Mary finally bedding down in the straw of a barn because there was no room for them in the inn. But Bailey writes that “if Luke expected his readers to think Joseph was turned away from an ‘inn’ he would have used the word pandocheion, which clearly meant a commercial inn. But in Luke 2:7 it is katalyma that is crowded …literally, a katalyma is simply ‘a place to stay’… if at the end of Luke’s Gospel, the word katalyma means a guest room attached to a private home (22:11), why would it not have the same meaning near the beginning of this Gospel?”(32, 33)

Bailey points out that most Middle Eastern homes for the past 3,000 years were made of two rooms—one a guest room, and one for the family and their animals. Joseph had likely already arranged to stay at the home of a friend (he knew Mary would be giving birth around then, so of course he would plan ahead–perhaps he’s not as inept as we imagine …). Rather than a story of rejection, the birth of Jesus was, in fact, one of grand  hospitality—a family gave up their own room to make space for the holy family.

As proof that Jesus wasn’t born in squalor, Bailey points out that in the spirit of Middle Eastern hospitality, the shepherds would have whisked Mary away to their homes had their accommodations been unacceptable for a baby. As it was, they left them there, deeming the lodging fit for royalty, and raced off to spread the incredible news.

Myth 2:  Feminine Angels

 

For whatever reason, this misinterpretation of the Christmas story really irks me. In the Bible, angels were feared. They were warriors who inspired trepidation and trembling, not cuddling and cooling. Perpetuating the myth of an anemic angel lowers the bar on God’s unnerving power. Every single angel in the Bible is described as male, and most immediately say, “Fear not”—because they were terrifying.

Myth 3: White Jesus

 

Last year, I rounded up all the toys and pictures of baby Jesus I could find in my home. Most of them revealed a Caucasian, white-looking Jesus. While every culture has depictions of a Jesus who looks like they do, it’s still important to acknowledge that Jesus was born in the Middle East, therefore he most likely had brown skin, brown eyes and dark hair.

Why does this matter? In an article for Christianity Today, author and speaker Christena Cleveland writes, “Not only is white Jesus inaccurate, he also can inhibit our ability to honor the image of God in people who aren’t white.” (While you’re at it, you should follow her on Instagram because her posts lately have been amazing.) Deifying whiteness deadens the broad brush of a God who pigmented all skin and called it “good.”

Deifying whiteness deadens the broad brush of a God who pigmented all skin and called it “good.”

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Images matter. The more we surround ourselves with images of a white Jesus, the more we begin to believe that he was white. (That said, it is very difficult to find nativity sets with a brown Jesus–the Fischer price one we have has only one brown-skinned figure–the shepherd. But I have a few options at the end of this post.)

Myth 4: The Timeline

In our carved wooden nativity set, shepherds, donkeys, wise men and sheep crowd around baby Jesus. Most people know about this myth, but Richards and O’Brien in Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes note that, “When the wise men arrived, they went to a house where the toddler Jesus and his parents were living (Mt. 2:11)” (144). The visitation of the wise men occurred years after the birth of Christ, not on the night of his birth. While it’s not wrong to compress the Christmas story for the sake of a play or pageant, it still bears acknowledging that events have been tampered with in our retelling.

Myth 5: The Omission of Infanticide

Image from The Advent Book.

This isn’t so much of a misconception as an omission in the story we tell our wee ones. I’m not suggesting we go into this as we light our Advent wreathes and eat cookies as a family, but like so many of our Bible stories, I think we’re in danger of desensitizing ourselves and our little ones to violence when we gloss over murder, rape, genocide, torture, and abuse in our common Sunday School Bible stories. Amazon offers a startling disclaimer for the children’s Adventure Bible: “As with any full Bible, in the context of Scripture there is frank mention of drunkenness, nudity, and sex that parents may not expect to see in a children’s edition.”

As adults, we grow so used to the familiar tales that we forget to be shocked, horrified or to even to acknowledge the sickening violence. The story of the birth of Jesus is no different, as Herod slaughtered innocent children in his rage at the coming king. Bailey says “there appears to be a conspiracy of silence which refuses to notice the massacre. Why then does Matthew include it?” (58) He suggests that “if the Gospel can flourish in a world that produces the slaughter of the innocents and the cross, the Gospel can flourish anywhere” (59). Perhaps as adults we need to meditate on the violence and allow ourselves to absorb the horror as a way of recognizing God’s presence in suffering.

Myth 6: Mary Was an Unwed Mother

Most Americans read “betrothed” and incorrectly assume it means the same thing as “engaged.” In reality, under Jewish law, Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem as fully married couple who had not yet consummated their marriage. The Middle Eastern view of betrothal bears little resemblance to our conception of engagement in the West.

Myth 7: Mary and Joseph Were All Alone

My Chinese students could never understand why I wanted to be alone–because they never were. In fact, most non-Western cultures are collectivist and can’t understand the individualism of those of us in the United States and parts of Europe. Our Saudi international student said even her 12 year old sister still slept in her parents’ room, an example that holds true in many Middle Eastern cultures. Why would Mary and Joseph have been any different?

As they were traveling back to Bethlehem to register, Bailey points out that most homes would have been available to Joseph, who was of the royal lineage of David. To reject someone of that heritage would bring shame and humiliation to the community. Mary, too, had relatives in the area and had just been visiting her cousin Elizabeth not far away in the “hill country of Judea.” Bethlehem was in the center of Judea. They were not friendless in Bethlehem.

The birth in the family room of a friend’s home would have been attended by other women and midwives as tradition dictated. Far from alone, Mary and Joseph would have been surrounded by more help than they needed. (My friend, Sarah Quezada, is sharing more about what she’s calling “the Advent caravan” the next three Sundays, you can sign up for that here.)

Myth 8: The Boot-Strapping Holy Family

In America at least, many of us love the Cinderella stories of the underdog rising to power. The United States lauds those who pull themselves up by their bootstraps, forge ahead without the blessing or need of others and make something of themselves. I wonder if this love of independence and individualism has seeped into our telling and retelling of our beloved nativity story. We love the idea that an unwed family left home and made something of themselves in spite of rejection. Not needing anyone else, they gave birth alone in a barn to the audience of only animals.

But what if we changed the narrative to reflect the culture in which it was written? A culture that valued hospitality, relationship, togetherness and family? How would this alter our tale?

***

Why does all this matter? The more I learn about other cultures, the more I realize how much of my own culture I project onto my personal reading of the Bible. Understanding the nuances of stories in the Bible from the perspective of the culture in which it was written fills in the gaps of our shallow, faulty understanding.

I know there are resources out there that offer a more accurate nativity story. In our family, we use the Advent book and the Jesus Storybook Bible to share the Christmas story with our little ones, though these also fall short.

The Jesus Storybook Bible has a brown-skinned Jesus.

The Jesus Storybook Bible also has a more accurate timeline.

The Advent Book is straight from the Bible, and we open a door each night leading up to Christmas.

I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. Mostly, I want my kids to know the many dazzling facets of God they’re missing when they settle for a Western god made in their own image.

I want my kids to know the many dazzling facets of God they’re missing when they settle for a Western god made in their own image.

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***

Resources:

The Story of Christmas (recommended by a friend of a friend)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Olive Wood Miniature Nativity Set (we have this one–it’s small and not for play, but nice!)

 

 

Nativity Sets from Peru (this site looks awesome–they have sets from all around the world!) This mini one from Peru is $16.99.

African American Nativity for $54.99

 

Bark Cloth Nativity Set for $29.99

 

 

 

Painted Peg Doll Nativity Set for $40 (Looks more Middle Eastern, but still has a female angel…)

 

 

Diverse Peg Doll Nativity Set for $142 (more money if you order the Dr. Who character!!!…???)

 

 

***

For December, the theme on the blog is “The Other Side of Advent.” Let me know if you’re still interested in guest posting (I’m usually willing to extend deadlines)! Check submission guidelines here.

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

Follow me on Instagram @scrapingraisins–I frequently give away books and products I love! 

I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. #whitejesus #nativitymyth #nativitystory #advent #adventmyth #westernculture #easternculture

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