Tag: community

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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

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links

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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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When Church Feels Like a Masquerade {guest post}

By Nichole Woo |  Blog

It didn’t look like sacred space, just your typical high school auditorium. Three steps in, though, I was spellbound.

Outside, on the swarming streets of Taipei, my 5’10” frame and frizzy auburn hair screamed “foreigner.” Inside, among the concrete walls and rows of upholstered chairs, I blended in. Here, I was just another “other,” joining a pallet of skin tones as diverse as the nationalities represented. I entered the sea of “-an’s” and “o’s,” guiding my “Caucasi-an Americ-an” self through the crowd. As voices lifted to the Most High, we, the collective “other” instead became, “together.” I was seven thousand miles away from my street address, but in this embrace of belonging, I felt home.  Together as a cloud of witnesses from every corner of the earth, we, the Church, breathed heavenly air … in a high school auditorium.

Heaven and high school–these aren’t the spaces I’m used to. (Dare I even mention them in the same sentence?)

I’ve looked for “others” in churches back home, “others” in every sense of the word.  Racial and ethnic minorities are few, reflecting the demographics of where I live.

But the other “others” are veiled, too: The lonely, depressed, hurting, and addicted. Maybe they’re sitting pew-side, but incognito. High schools reflect a remarkably similar scenario. Thriving or even surviving there is all about disguise. Most of us wore our share of masks there. It’s an expected step in the coming-of-age-journey.

But should church feel like a masquerade, too?

Growing up with stellar Sunday school attendance, I’ve become a master at church disguises.  I know just what to wear, what to say, and how to play my role right. (As a child, I faithfully packed jeans for the drive home, because two hours a week in a dress was my limit. We lived three minutes away from the church.) For the most part, it’s allowed me to fit in. But my performances and costumes have never helped me belong. Not once.

There’s a difference.

True belonging begs an authenticity that’s impossible to achieve in costume. It demands a de-masking of sorts, exposing our vulnerability underneath.  It’s the weeping, skinned-kneed child, running for her consoling mother’s embrace. There is no cover up. When received, she will not respond — tear-stained cheeks and trembling lips — with “I’m great! Really busy, but great!” She runs to wide-open arms that see her as she is, but still stay open. She knows she belongs there. She is family, and blood is thicker than water.

Yet many of us sit, pew-side, blood-bought brothers and sisters in a collective cover-up. We shut ourselves out with disguises, instead of finding open arms. We perceive that we aren’t enough, so we hide behind our “Facebook/Instagram bests.” Here, socioeconomic status often determines small group status.  Indeed, wearing our “Sunday best” may even help us penetrate the elite inner circles.  (Yep, let’s be honest, churches have their “in-crowds” too . . .) We dress up to fit in, but we still find ourselves on the outside.

Why is it that church often feels more like high school, than “home”?

It’s clearer to me now, 7,000 miles away. Here, Taipei International Church meets in a high school auditorium. In this place, we are all unmistakably “others.”  No mask we wear will homogenize our DNA. But we share the same heavenly Father, who welcomed us with open arms, and grafted us into His family tree. We recognize that we were all once sinful strangers, and He let us in. Here is the beauty of the Church:  In Christ, the “other” transforms into “together.” We are one in Christ, despite all of our differences.

What if we all just acknowledged our “otherhood” instead of trying to hide it? 

At his life’s end, Martin Luther wrote, “This is true. We are all beggars.” All of us are the “other,” bankrupted outsiders in desperate need of a Savior to pay our debt. And He did. Now we’re family.  Maybe we need to start acting like it, and toss the masks.

I’m working on mine, but it’s tied pretty tight.

 

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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.com.

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This month on Scraping Raisins we are talking about Friendship and Community. Be sure and subscribe to my newsletter or follow on social media so you don’t miss a post!

The theme for October is Practical and Impractical Hospitality, so visit the submissions guidelines if you’re interested in guest posting! New and seasoned writers welcome;-)

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

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What Happens in Neighborhoods {guest post}

By Afton Rorvik | Twitter: @AftonRorvik

When we moved into our new neighborhood, I did not know what to expect. Would we make friends and find connection?

I grew up on two acres of land in what was then rural Colorado, surrounded by German Shepherds, tomato plants, Russian Olive trees, gophers, and a variety of snakes and mice. Our nearest neighbors—mangy sheep and burly riding horses—didn’t bother us and we didn’t bother them. Of course, the barbed-wire fences helped.

When I moved to a Chicago suburb to attend school, I had no idea I would still be in this suburb decades later. Far away from rural Colorado, I now live next to people, not sheep and horses.

My husband and I and our two kids had only lived in our new house in a Chicago suburb for a few days when several women knocked on our door and invited me to go to a movie with them. I declined, explaining how overwhelmed I felt with the details of moving. My neighbors persisted. A block party. An open house. Coffee at the little shop down the hill.

So very different than living next to sheep and horses.

Nancy lived at the heart of our suburban neighborhood although not exactly at the geographic center. She came early to every neighborhood event and left late. Her mac and cheese had long ago become standard fare at all potlucks. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her. She loved to walk through our streets, usually with her niece’s Jack Russell Terrier in tow. Walking, actually, does not describe what Nancy did. Her meanderings more resembled a halting waltz. She glided slowly, gracefully down the sidewalk until she spotted a neighbor. Then she stopped. Immediately.

The seasons came and went. I started to accumulate phone numbers and began to learn names. I had several conversations with Nancy and other neighbors. Our daughter memorized the names of all the dogs.

Then one winter, in the early hours of dawn, the piercing sound of an ambulance shook our neighborhood. As neighbors woke up that morning, news spread quickly: Nancy, only 49, had had a heart attack. The paramedics had not been able to spare her life.

I did not anticipate my reaction to this news: I sobbed.

I did not know Nancy well, and yet I did. I had come to depend on her mac and cheese, her face-splitting grin, and her probing questions. I loved her stories of talking about Jesus with people in line at the grocery store or Jehovah’s Witnesses who knocked at her door.

And now?

Bev had already planned her annual Christmas open house for the day of Nancy’s funeral. We all discussed canceling it, but then someone voiced our collective thoughts, “No. We need to be together. Nancy would want it that way.”

And so we celebrated Nancy’s life and faith at her funeral. The church oozed with friends and families. We carpooled there and back. We gravitated to Bev’s house where we all listened for Nancy’s heart-felt laugh and distinctive voice. We talked of her mac and cheese as if it had been some rare delicacy. We remembered. We hurt. Together.

I did not know that this happened in neighborhoods.

How thankful I am to live near people—these people—who have taught me the great joy of living connected, living in community.

About Afton:

Afton Rorvik savors words, flavored coffee, time outside, and living connected. Although an introvert, she has come to realize that what really matters in life is people and faith in Jesus, which gives her strength and courage to live connected. She is the author of Storm Sisters: Friends for All Seasons. Follow her at her website, www.aftonrorvik.com, Facebook and Twitter.

 

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This month on Scraping Raisins we are talking about Friendship and Community. Be sure and subscribe to my newsletter or follow on social media so you don’t miss a post!

The theme for October is Practical and Impractical Hospitality, so visit the submissions guidelines if you’re interested in guest posting! New and seasoned writers welcome;-)

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

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links.

Photo by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash

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On Self-Care, Friendship, and Chocolate Cheesecake {guest post}

By April Yamasaki | Twitter: @SacredPauses

One of my friends lives in another town about an hour’s drive away, and at least once a year, she makes the trek out on a Sunday morning to hear me preach. After worship, we usually have a long, leisurely lunch followed by a not-so-leisurely walk in a nearby park so we can burn off some calories before we settle down somewhere else for dessert.

The last time she came for a visit, we talked about her recent trip to Tanzania and my stay-cation, her volunteer work and my church ministry, how we’re both managing to find time for family, friends, and everything else even when the days seem to go by so fast.

I savor our friendship and visits together. I want to hear about her latest project researching her family’s genealogy and about the summer coffee party she planned with a few friends. I want to groan over the bad news of illness in her family and celebrate the successes. That’s what friends are for, to share our lives together and to care for one another

Spending time with friends can also be an important part of self-care.

I once thought of self-care as caring only for myself. Like taking an afternoon nap, or buying myself a new scarf, or snuggling on the sofa to read a novel. And certainly when life gets too busy and filled with multiple people and multiple expectations, withdrawing for some much needed alone time can be a precious form of self-care.

But more and more I’m discovering that definition of self-care is overly narrow. As human beings, we are created for relationship—relationship with God and relationship with one another. So to be fully alive and fully human, we need relationships–and I believe that extends to a healthy understanding of self-care too.

Instead of narrowly defining self-care as caring only for myself, I now realize that sometimes self-care takes place in relationship with other people. Friendship can be a two-way street, where spending time with a friend and caring for her can also contribute powerfully to my own self-care.

Friendship can be a two-way street, where spending time with a friend and caring for her can also contribute powerfully to my own self-care. @SacredPauses

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My friend and I ended our last visit by splitting a piece of chocolate cheesecake and two dollops of whipping cream, with coffee for her and tea for me. I can’t remember the last time I had such a decadent dessert, so it was a real treat. “Ah, self-care,” I thought to myself.  But it wasn’t only the cheesecake. That afternoon, our conversation was just as much a part of my self-care.

So here’s to the deep satisfaction of long-time friendships and the joy of making new ones, to family members that we care for and who care for us, to the constant care of God who is always with us and never fails—all these relationships and more can help to broaden us and broaden our understanding of self-care.

As L.R. Knost writes, “Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean me first, it means me too.” So I was glad to share that afternoon conversation and chocolate cheesecake, to care for my friend and care for myself at the same time.

About April:

April Yamasaki serves as the lead pastor of a mid-size, multi-staff congregation in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada. She writes blogs and books, including the newly released Four Gifts: Seeking Self-Care for Heart, Soul, Mind, and Strength (Herald Press, 2018). Find out more from her websites: Writing and Other Acts of Faith (aprilyamasaki.com) and When You Work for the Church: the good, the bad, and the ugly, and how we can all do better (WhenYouWorkfortheChurch.com). Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.

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Check out April’s New Book!

Four Gifts: Seeking Self-care for Heart, Soul, Mind, and Strength. From Amazon:

“Is self-care different from being selfish or self-indulgent? Is it the same as caring for your soul? And what does self-care look like in light of following Jesus, who called his followers to deny themselves?

In Four Gifts, pastor and author April Yamasaki addresses these and other questions about self-care. Drawing on the ancient scriptural command to love God with our heart, soul, mind, and strength, Yamasaki helps readers think about the spiritual dimensions of attending to your own needs, setting priorities, and finding true rest in a fast-paced world. She weaves together personal stories, biblical and theological insights, questions for reflection, and practical ideas for self-care. Four Gifts helps readers sustain their spirits and balance competing demands. Feeling overwhelmed by the pace and stress of daily life? Find respite from superficial definitions of self-care and move toward deeper engagement with God.”

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This month on Scraping Raisins we are talking about Friendship and Community. Be sure and subscribe to my newsletter or follow on social media so you don’t miss a post!

The theme for October is Practical and Impractical Hospitality, so visit the submissions guidelines if you’re interested in guest posting! New and seasoned writers welcome;-)

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

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links.

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South Africa, Funerals, and My Vegetable Peeler {guest post}

By Debbie Horrocks | Instagram: @hopebreathes

My vegetable peeler was the first thing on my list of ‘Stuff to Take to South Africa’. It was a wedding gift and has always worked miracles on a butternut squash. I had no idea what life in the township of Soshanguve would look like, but I knew I would cook. Perhaps just for my family, but hopefully for others too, I dreamed of nourishing friendships in our new community. In the last minute rush the peeler was left in the kitchen drawer, but it quickly made its way from Scotland by post.

The peeler did indeed tackle many a pumpkin and potato during my three years in South Africa. My fears of people not enjoying my culinary offerings gradually disappeared with each clean plate, and each tupperware filled with leftovers. But I never expected that ‘peeling’ would also be a way to love and support my neighbours.

Funeral practices can be enlightening when learning a new culture. In Soshanguve funerals were almost always on a Saturday morning and there was an expectation that the neighbourhood would gather and be well fed. Following a death in the community, neighbouring families would contribute financially towards the food. There was an almost wordless understanding that local women would gather at the home of the bereaved on Friday night to prepare the food. As the women peeled vast quantities of carrots and squash, and sliced buckets of cabbages, onions and beetroot, we showed solidarity with the bereaved.

The first time I went ‘to peel’, a summer storm hit and the rain dropped through the joints in the temporary shelter. I didn’t know to take my own utensils, so I was left peeling squash (and occasionally my finger) with a dull knife and no chopping board. I panicked about what to chat about with all these ladies, who eventually suggested I do a slightly less dangerous task. Through the awkwardness, I found comfort in the simple, practical task in front of me.

The next time, I possibly offended the family by leaving before the end when we would drink rooibos tea and eat simple cakes together. I soon learned to take my own peeler, which was much admired for its ‘strength’. I also learned that it didn’t matter that I wasn’t fluent in the language, or that I had no idea what to talk about. I was welcomed and accepted, standing shoulder to shoulder over colossal metal bowls. It simply mattered that we were there, utensils in hand, showing the family that we hadn’t forgotten, that we were together.

We went to a lot of funerals in our neighbourhood, it seemed there was too much sickness, tragedy and death in that place. Towards the end of my time in Sosh a dear friend passed away. She had been a colleague, cultural guide, teacher and mother to me, and she always looked out for me on those Friday evenings. The night before Mama Jane’s funeral I went to her home to help prepare the funeral food. The absence of her reassuring smile across the tables of vegetables made this funeral more personal. I realised that I needed this gathering too.

Yes, it was important to comfort and support the family, but this custom also created a community to share my grief with. Standing alongside those women and sharing our task meant that we were each less alone.

Back in my home culture and in my mother tongue, I often still don’t know what to say. But I have learned the importance of conveying solidarity; I can reach for my peeler and prepare a dish to show that I see and care and grieve too.

Peeling. Chopping. Nourishing. Grieving. Being. Together.

About Debbie:

Debbie loves, learns and lives in the East End of Glasgow, Scotland with her husband and two wee boys. People, food and stories are her favourites, preferably combined. She writes at Hope Breathes about nurturing our souls and engaging with our communities. Follow her on Instagram!

 

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Our next theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. And if you’re not a writer, be sure to follow me on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! xo

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

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By Most Country’s Standards, I’m a Terrible Host

I always forget the coats. Growing up in Florida, we left on our flip flops, threw our bags on the hallway floor, and made a B-line for the cooler full of ice-cold soda. I haven’t lived in the south for 20 years, but I still forget to take people’s winter coats at the door. They stand there with them awkwardly draped over their arm, or else pile them in a heap on the living room floor.

I’m a better summer host. That way I can lock the doors and usher guests directly to the backyard through the side gate, then pray no one has to use the bathroom. Yards are forgiving of drips and spills and don’t require hours of cleaning before the guests arrive.

But what I’m learning (and what I’m writing a book about) is about how really, no one cares how good of a host you are at all. Mostly, they care to be invited. People want to be seen, heard, and included. They just want to be asked.

We recently had an Indian family live with us for a month. The parents of our grad student renter, they had never been on an airplane or left India before. We were gone for two weeks, but while we were home, I constantly felt like a failure as a host. We slept and ate at different times; they tinkered around in the kitchen as we brushed our teeth to go to bed. I worried about my raucous children being too loud, and they worried they were in my way in the kitchen.

After they had been with us for about a week, I decided to ask them along on one of our outings. “I’m taking the kids to a nature area to go on a walk–do you want to come along?”

And the next day, “We’re heading downtown so the kids can play in the fountain–do you want to join us?”

They said yes.

As a survival-mode mom with three kids at home, age five and under, I couldn’t make them the elaborate meals I knew they would be making for me were I a visitor in their home, but I could do one thing: I could invite them along in what we were already doing.

I once read a book called Family on Mission. The gist was that we do not need to have a million separate ministries or service projects to live out our calling to love God and love our neighbor in the world. Instead of burning ourselves out, we are better off inviting people along on the adventures we are already having, asking them to join us in our right-now lives instead of waiting until we have a surplus of time.

Instead of feeling like we need to divide ourselves to hand a fragment to every person we know, we do our thing, and invite others along for the ride.

This applies so well to hospitality. People are not waiting for us to get our act together and wow them with our kitchen wizardry. Instead, they just want to be asked.

People want to be invited.

Do you cook dinner? Why not invite a neighbor to join you? Are you going to the park? Ask another family to come along. Do you enjoy playing board games? Find another family that likes them, too.

I’m certainly not an expert, but I am learning the art of simple hospitality. What matters most is not the stuff, the plans or even the food, what matters is the people.

What matters most is not the stuff, the plans or even the food, what matters is the people.

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Our next theme this month is “Hospitality Around the World.” Follow along on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest blog post or sign up for my newsletter below for links to thought-provoking articles, a digest of blog posts, and a few things I’m into these days! Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. Guest posts should be between 500 and 900 words. Be sure to include a headshot and bio. Personal stories work best!

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

By Most Country’s Standards, I’m a Terrible Host

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A Review of Mystics & Misfits by Christiana Peterson (+a giveaway of the book!)

Growing up on the fundamentalist-side of evangelicalism, my covert love of the mystics like Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross felt scandalous. My adult spiritual life opens into a much larger pasture to graze on spiritual writings, so I’ll be candid about my love for this new book, Mystics and Misfits, by a new friend, Christiana Peterson.

I wasn’t sure what to expect–expository writings on the mystics of old? A memoir of her experience spending eight years in an intentional community in the Midwest?

With gorgeous writing and in-depth research, Christiana achieves the magic of inviting the reader into the lives of the mystics and into her family’s story.

Mystics and Misfits is divided into five parts–simplicity, hospitality, contemplation, church and death. Within these sections, Christiana shares personal letters to Saints Francis, Margery Kempe, Clare of Assisi, Simone Weil, and even Dorothy Day, asking questions and weaving her narrative with theirs.

She also chronicles her famiiy’s experience joining together to manage berry fields, raise chickens, can food, welcome strangers and worship in community with the other families living at Plow Creek Farm. Death, mistakes, missteps and doubts are handled without excessive idealism or burdensome negativity. Christiania relates both the beauty and the challenges of living in intentional community and the ways her study of the saints impacted her ordinary life.

In Mystics and Misfits, Christiana digs deep within herself to draw gems to the surface for the reader to appreciate. She offers her authentic self and successfully welcomes us to join her as fellow pilgrims in the journey towards experiencing authentic community and pursuing a rich inner life with God.

I had the unique opportunity to meet Christiana at the Festival of Faith and Writing the day after I read Mystics and Misfits and had the odd feeling of knowing someone before I had actually met them. I feel like this is the best kind of memoir.

If you are curious about the mystics, about what life at a commune is like, or just enjoy losing yourself in a well-written story, then you should read Mystics and Misfits.

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:

Sorry, no bots and only U.S. residents (so sad, I know). But you can buy a copy here for just $15.00;-)

Have you read the book? What did you think?

I got to meet the author!

 

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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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When We Make (Awkward) Small Talk

I used to talk to strangers a lot more than I do now. Of course that was when I lived in China, was single, and took every opportunity imaginable to practice my Chinese. Conversing with my neighbor was a win-win. I got language practice and my neighbors could satisfy their curiosity and ask me ALL the questions:

“How much money do you make?”

“Are you married?”

“Do you want me to find you a Chinese boyfriend?”

And because of that, I got to ask them everything I wanted to know as well.

One day in China I was waiting for the bus at rush hour. There were no lines, no “But I was here first’s” and no personal space. This was every man and woman for themselves. So I decided to sit on the bench with my packages and just wait for the sea to subside. I watched with amusement as elbows and knees were thrown. The mob moved as one to try and ooze into the small opening of the bus.

But as I watched, I began to notice something.

Someone.

One man in particular ran up to the crowd, pressing in against them, then retreated right before the bus drove away. I watched as this happened at least five times. Eventually, I noticed something else. As this man pressed in, I saw his hands search pockets and purses. This man was a thief.

I continued to sit and watch. Eventually, the man noticed the waiguoren (outside person/foreigner) sitting on the bench, lap piled high with packages, watching him. I finally got up my nerve.

“So how much money do you make in a day?” I asked.

Without missing a beat, he answered, “About 1000 yuan a day.” This was easily a month’s wages for a lower middle class Chinese person in my city.

Another bus approached. He glanced past me, “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to work.” I watched him run up against the crowd again, then retreat at the last moment. We chatted between each of his “work trips” and I asked about his home, his family and if he felt bad about what he was doing. “Mei ban fa,” he said. No other way.

When the crowds began to subside, I kept a hand on my bag and bid my new acquaintance goodbye. “Man zou,” Go slowly, he said. “Man zou,” I replied.

***

Since moving back to the states seven years ago, I have gotten rusty in my social skills. I no longer talk to strangers, am awkward when the grocery store cashier asks me how my day is going, and prefer texting to talking on the phone. But since moving to a new home two months ago, I am hoping for a fresh start. I want to do the things I once did in China to get to know my neighbors. Surely those methods translate to my home culture?

So two nights ago when I ran out to buy beer (yes), I hesitated when two men stood smoking in front of the entrance to the liquor store. But my old brave self took over, pushing aside my minivan-driving, latte-drinking mom self. Just do it. Go in, she said.

The men parted quickly as I approached them, the one in the hood scurried around the corner, the skinny one entered the store, apologizing. “Can I help you find anything?” he said.

“Do you have any seasonal beers?” I asked. He pointed out a few.

Bottles lined the entire back wall behind the cashier, from floor to ceiling. I was the only one in the store. “So it sounded like that guy was speaking another language,” I mentioned.

“Yeah, I think it was Hebrew,” he said. “He comes around here a lot, but he usually comes back drunk within an hour.”

“So what do you do in a case like that?” I asked. “When someone comes in drunk, do you serve them?”

We chatted a bit more and I left, my pony tail swinging as I put my Blue Moon in the passenger seat. I felt like my old self again. The self who was curious, asked questions and was interested in people. (Okay, perhaps I’m mainly interested in those who are different from me, but still.) It felt good to be inquisitive again.

***

I recently listened to a TED talk about a community on an Italian island where there are ten times the amount of centenarians than in North America. Research shows that their longevity is not due to their diet, exercise or even positive thinking. The main reason for their extended life expectancy seems to be that they live in a tight-knit community where they have daily social interactions. They make eye contact, greet one another and exchange small talk.

Though suburban living has the potential to isolate me from my neighbor, I can still seek out community. I want to greet my neighbors, make eye contact, and ask probing questions. I want to use the tools for language learning I developed in China to get to know my neighbors right here in America. What’s the main ingredient in noticing my neighbor?

Intentionality.

If we are not intentional about getting to know our neighbors, it will not happen.

So how am I going to do this? I’m taking my children trick-or-treating for Halloween. We’re going on walks around the block and stopping to chat with neighbors along the way. I’m forcing myself to talk to random teenagers or moms at the park. And I’m asking cashiers how their day is going before they have a chance to ask me.

I’m embracing my awkward for the sake of community because Jesus tells me to love my neighbor. And sometimes loving is awkward, isn’t it? Jesus doesn’t say loving our neighbor is comfortable or convenient. In fact, the story right after he commands this unreasonable love for our neighbor is about two men who side-stepped someone in need and another man who stopped to help even though it required time, money and effort he may not have wanted to give.

I’m praying for a holy curiosity in all the people around me.

I’m praying for a holy curiosity in all the people around me.

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I want to start loving with my ears. Every encounter with every person in my day is pre-ordained by God and full of potential. I don’t want to assume I know people’s stories, because even the most ordinary-seeming person can astound us.

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Why I’m Not Apologizing for My Kids and Doing Hospitality Anyway

Lately I’ve been asking myself if I still enjoy hosting people in my home. Gathering around the table, feasting, having deep talks over plates piled high with food in the glow of candlelight is the goal, right? The adults belly laugh, dabbing tears from the corner of their eyes, then grab another steaming roll to dip in their homemade soup while the children run off to laugh together in the backyard. This is my expectation. No, this is my illusion.

Instead, hospitality looks more like this:

I wait until the absolute last minute to tell my three children we are having guests, because they turn into crazed creatures pulsating with energy the second they know more attention-giving bodies will be in our home. Instead, as soon as my pre-arrival stress is about to erupt, I plug them into a movie to do the last minute meal prep, sweep the floor, pick up the toys and issue marching orders to my husband-turned-servant. Seconds before our first guest arrives, we scan the house, noting that it is worth having guests over just to have a decluttered home even if for just a second. But then the reality check arrives.

The doorbell rings and one of my children hides, while the other rushes to the door, suddenly all disheveled hair and stained clothing and immediately drags any newly arrived kids to their messy bedroom. The guests make their way to the kitchen and plant themselves at the kitchen island. My husband delivers drinks while I try not to screw up the whole meal in minutes because I am now not only stressed and hungry, but distracted. The kids race through the house, dumping the toys from every basket, crashing trucks over our feet and racing them on the hardwood floors. They reach grimy hands over the counter to blindly grab at olives, cheese or chips at the edge of the counter.

I calmly and slowly remind my children of “what we talked about before our guests arrived”—they should play outside or in designated rooms. Go there right now. Please. They ignore me. I stand there, hands covered in garlic, knife in hand and keep smiling at my newly-arrived guests.

Welcome to our happy home.

We had a family over last weekend with three children the ages of our children and one man who came solo. We spent the entire afternoon preparing. The food was overcooked and too salty, and I learned the downsides of the popular “open floor plan”—namely that the child chaos ricochets around the room and is impossible to escape. The four older children (all five and under) sat alone at the kitchen island, dueling with the plastic knives they had snuck out of the drawer and turned their food into ships and guns. The other mom and I tried to feed our babies finger food and unsuccessfully police our other children all while trying to talk about plans for a new small group. The older kids finished and the three-year-old girl caught her finger in the sliding glass door and wailed the remainder of the time. We all stood up, leaving our one male friend eating his apple pie alone at the table.

When the baby, too, began to cry, the parents abruptly announced their decision to abort mission. What was meant to last 2 ½ hours lasted 1 ½ hours. They were all out the door in minutes, leaving my husband and I standing in the kitchen, counters piled high with dirty dishes and over-stimulated kids running through the toy and food-littered floor. “Let’s go for a walk,” I said.

And so in the quiet after the chaos, I did what any halfway sensible adult would do and reflected on the wisdom of continuing the stress, anxiety and humiliation of having people to my home during this season with little ones. Maybe this isn’t the time of life. Perhaps I just said I liked hospitality because it seemed like the Good Christian Thing to do. “God, is this really…” And before I could even formulate the thought into a prayer, God interrupted.

“You do it anyway.”

Wait, what?

Do hospitality anyway. You do it in the stress and the mess and the raisins smashed into the carpet. You do it even though you are hollering over three preschoolers telling knock knock jokes with no punchline and talking about poop and pee at the table. You do it when your children throw tantrums and blatantly disobey you in front of your friends and family. You do it because doing life together means not hiding behind closed doors, but inviting people into your actual life. And real life is not pretty. It is not organized, perfect or pristine. Hospitality is not comfortable, clean or controlled.

Hospitality is not comfortable, clean or controlled.

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Three of the four books in the Bible about Jesus’ life and ministry tell a story about his friends trying to keep the kids away from Jesus. I’m sure the children then were not so different from kids today. They had dirt under their fingernails, food on their faces, didn’t know how to use inside voices or walk—not run–inside. They didn’t know they shouldn’t ask people why they are fat or handicapped or black. They probably announced that food was “yucky” and peed on the floor when they forgot to go to the bathroom. They probably fought to hold on to their favorite toys and didn’t like going to sleep in the dark. Those Jewish children probably acted just like my kids.

And yet instead of being embarrassed, Jesus invited those messy, noisy, belligerent children to come to him. He didn’t tell them to clean up or straighten up first. Instead, he reprimanded his well-meaning friends who were eager for a constant atmosphere of contemplation and miracles. “Don’t stop them,” he scolded them. “For the Kingdom of God belongs to people like these.” The Kingdom does not belong to the perfect adults (ha), but the imperfect, loud, obnoxious kids.

Somehow, the Kingdom of God belongs to those with the greatest impropriety.

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Somehow, the Kingdom of God belongs to those with the greatest impropriety. The ones we are embarrassed of are the very ones to whom the kingdom belongs. Instead of working for our children to be seen and not heard, perhaps we should be doing more inviting, listening and learning from them.

I’m not advocating for a child-centered existence, but I am wondering if there is something to Jesus’ command that I’m missing when I expect my children to be anything more or less than what they are–children. Perhaps I need to hang a sign by my table as a reminder: “She is three years old. He is four years old.” Because I forget and expect them to act like adults.

My children are peeling away my masks, forcing me into true, messy relationship without the pretense of perfection. And Jesus says that if I don’t learn to receive the Kingdom of God like one of these kids we apologize for and try to hide, then we will never receive it.

So I’m doing hospitality anyway. In the noise, fuss, mess and chaos. Don’t wipe your feet at the door. Just come on in.

 

How are you doing hospitality anyway?

Somehow, the Kingdom of God belongs to those with the greatest impropriety. The ones we are embarrassed of are the very ones to whom the kingdom belongs. Instead of working for our children to be seen and not heard, perhaps we should be doing more inviting, listening and learning from them.

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