Keep Showing Up {guest post}

By Marvia Davidson | Instagram

You will find by doing. Doing brings revelation and clarity. In the discovery of gifts, I have found it to be challenging to own the place of my full purpose as a creative spirit. You see, I don’t simply do one thing in my creative practices. I engage in many creative things, but I’ve learned to give myself grace to play, grow, and discover what art forms I enjoy.

When I think of the discovery of gifts, I think of exploration and permission.

Maybe these aren’t always easy for us to give ourselves, but they are a much needed part of the process of finding our creative voice, and it enhances the gifts we bring. Sometimes those insights lead to deeper revelation of who we are and what we’re here for, and they can be surprising too.

I find more of my creative voice by showing up and doing the work of discovery – the practice of trying out ideas and techniques. I do this most frequently in writing because I’ve enjoyed writing and sharing ideas for many years.

When it came to any kind of art, I didn’t think I could do it. It looked hard, tedious, and nearly impossible. I doubted I would be able to draw, to create, or paint. I’ll tell you a secret to overcoming my self doubt, and it may sound odd, but social media has been an underestimated source of creative, guiding inspiration for me. I don’t mean to sound woo.

I mean that an app like Instagram has become a mini art school for me, a way to see how art is expressed in myriad forms. It has become an abundant place to learn, search, explore, and share my art, Yes! I said my art because I now call myself and artist. It is art I did not know I could do, but finding other creatives on Instagram has been encouraging for me. I have witnessed people growing in their process, and the more they share the more I find possibility beating in my own heart.

I enjoy making mixed media art and hand lettering, specifically brush lettering. These two art forms were daunting to me because I would peruse specialized magazines, books, or websites of perfectly styled and photographed pieces, but Instagram is full of people who share their behind the scenes process and how they do what they do despite their imperfections.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t afraid to experiment with these new gifts. Along the way, I realized these two art forms could serve as a way for me to express my purpose, values, and desire to see people encouraged through the tough circumstances of life. I also learned to accept I am an artist in my own unique way, and it is okay for me to walk out what it means to be one.

Because my art practices require time and patience, they have been a wonderful way for me to fight back against imposter syndrome and self doubt.

The discovery of color, painting, and pens gliding across blank paper encouraged me to develop my skills, and I’ve been having fun ever since. I wanted sustainable practices which could also serve as a soul care practice, and they are. Like quilting, I find the process of painting and hand lettering to be therapeutic and meditative. In a way, they allow me to infuse my work with focused attention to the message I want to convey.

I believe when we accept the nuances of who we truly are, we become more ourselves and we learn to live abundantly. We learn to give ourselves and one another room to be. We find there is room for us at the table, and the only thing that might be holding us back is our own limiting belief.

Engaging fellow artisans reminds me how much community can matter when we’re trying something new. Sharing our struggles, mistakes, and failures gives us room to refine our creative voices and the processes we use. When I see another artist sharing this way, it empowers me to take more bold steps in my own art because I know that discovery comes through the process of doing.

The more I do the artsy things, the more I am settled in who I am and the creative expression of the Divine in me. The challenge no longer keeps me from growing. I choose to show up. Every time I do, I let loose and play, allowing my heart, mind, and body to express with colors and words on canvas or page.

I choose to invest in myself and the materials I need to express my creative soul. This is an act of self love. To give one’s self grace to discover one’s gifts, is to love one’s self well, and I believe this opens a door for us to learn to love others well too.

To give one’s self grace to discover one’s gifts, is to love one’s self well, and I believe this opens a door for us to learn to love others well too. @MarviaDavidson

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I encourage you to pause and reflect on those creative inklings tumbling around your heart, and follow the curiosity of their unfolding beauty.

About Marvia:

Marvia is a Texas writer/creative soul who enjoys writing, making art, laughing loudly, baking, dancing ridiculously because it’s fun, and smashing lies that keep people from living whole. Join her at marviadavidson.com. You can also follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MarviaDavidson and on Facebook at facebook.com/marviawrites.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. The theme for July is “Hospitality Around the World.” And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

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June 19, 2018

Pray for the Queen Esthers in the White House

Immigration is a complicated issue, but Trump’s Zero Tolerance Policy of criminalizing those seeking asylum in our country and separating mothers from their babies plunges beneath the baseline of what constitutes as a basic human right.

Children belong with their families.

Using kids to teach a lesson, or as a “deterrent” to immigrating illegally is inhumane, base and immoral.

Two months ago, on April 19th, border patrol began enforcing a Zero Tolerance policy that criminalized seeking asylum in the United States, meaning that parents were arrested and over 2,000 children were sent to stay without their loved ones in detention facilities.

I’m not writing this to convince anyone that Trump’s policy is a vile aggression on humanity. If you need to be convinced of that, then read this, look at these pictures, or listen to this.

I’m writing because this is all I can do from the safety of my kitchen table as my own three children watch Sesame Street in the room next to me. I feel helpless and paralyzed.

But not hopeless.

Because I believe there are Esthers in the White House. The Bible tells the story of a Jewish woman named Esther who was strategically placed in a position of power in order to speak truth at a time when her people were in danger. Her guardian encouraged her with the famous line that perhaps she was put in power “for such a time as this” (Esther 4:14).

I’m praying for those in the White House with a heart to begin listening to it.

I’m praying compassion would flood the floors of Congress and saturate every Congress member with grief, lament and renewed resolve to fight injustice.

And if not an Esther, perhaps a Daniel or Joseph? Daniel was chosen to serve the king when his people were in exile. He could have been belligerent, but used his power for the good of his people. In another book of the Bible, Joseph gains favor with the king, who takes him out of prison and positions him in leadership so he ends up helping many people (Gen. 50:20).

So along with donating to an organization raising money to reunite families, calling my representatives and writing letters (I used Resistbot for the first time today!), finding out about the protests in my area, and spreading the word as much as I can about this atrocity, I am also praying for the Esthers in the White House.

Join me in praying for these female Republican Senators (most of the Democrats are already on board with the proposed legislation, called the Keep Families Together Act):

Joni Erst (Iowa), Susan Collins (Maine), Cindy Hyde-Smith (Mississippi), Deb Fischer (Nebraska), Shelley Moore Capito (West Virginia), Lisa Murkowski (Alaska)

And for These Female Republican House Reps:

Martha Roby (Alabama), Martha McSally (Arizona), Debbie Lesko (Arizona), Mimi Walters (California), Ileana Ros-Lehtinen (Florida), Karen Handel (Georgia), Jackie Walorski (Indiana), Susan Brooks (Indiana), Lynn Jenkins (Kansas), Ann Wagner (Missouri), Vicky Hartzler (Missouri), Elise Stefanik (New York), Claudia Tenney (New York), Virginia Foxx (North Carolina), Kristi Noem (S. Dakota), Diane Black (Tennessee), Marsha Blackburn (Tennessee), Kay Granger (Texas), Mia Love (Utah), Barbara Comstock (Virginia), Jaime Herrera Beutler (Washington), Kathy McMorris Rodgers (Washington), Liz Cheney (Wyoming)

Jesus, move these women to use their influence for the good of all human beings, not just United States citizens. If they are mothers, I pray they would ache with the ache only a mother can know. I pray that ache would translate to action.

Amen.

More Resources & Action Points:

In addition to calling your representatives in Congress (and especially those who are Republicans) or sending them letters, you can call these numbers:

White House comment line: 202-456-1111

Department of Justice public comment line: 202-353-1555

The Department of Homeland Security which has oversight of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE); their comment line is 202-282-8495

If you need a script, this is what I’ve been using for my letters and phone calls:

Dear _____________,

I appreciate all you are doing for our state and country, but as a citizen I am very concerned about President Trump’s Zero Tolerance Policy concerning immigrants being separated from their own children at the border. This policy is cruel, dehumanizing, and un-American. Would you please do all you can to preserve the humanity and dignity of every person and fight against this policy and support Senator Feinstein’s Keep Families Together Act? I am a mother myself and I cannot fathom the torture of having my children torn from my arms. I used to be proud to be an American, now I simply feel ashamed. Thank you for reading this and I pray you use your influence and power for good.

Sincerely,

Leslie Verner

This article has tons of other organizations that are mobilizing to help these families.

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June 15, 2018July 2, 2018

Why I Paint African Faces {guest post}

By Beth Watkins | Twitter: @iambethwatkins

I’ve always been a maker. I can’t help myself. I’m an extremely tactile person. I love doing things with my hands and if I see something I think I could make myself, I absolutely want to teach myself how to do it.

I sold homemade jewelry on the playground in 4th grade, and again in high school. I carried around no less than 4 notebooks and 50 pens from the 5th to the 10th grade – always on the ready to doodle, draw, and write about my feelings in full color. I got my first set of real paints when I was 11, set up my studio in the basement, and read books about impressionism before bed. I won my first award for a painting when I was 12 and sold my first acrylic painting when I was 16. I was always collecting supplies, making things out of what I could find, and went through a really intense phase of dyeing, appliqueing, and painting on my clothes.

I thought I would apply to art school, but then decided God wanted me in Africa instead. I took my acrylic paints with me but turns out when you live in a desert the paint dries a lot faster and I couldn’t work with it the same way. So I made jewelry with beads and electric wire. I took bottle caps and wire and sat with street boys and we made cars, snakes, and rickshaw sculptures. When I went home I’d draw pictures of these boys, of my desert home, crosshatching their faces, the mosques, the ladies in their colorful tobes.

A few years later I sat with former street girls at a center in South Sudan and we made bead looms out of cardboard and they learned to weave necklaces and bracelets, attaching them to closures made from inner tube. They loved it.

We’d sit for hours and hours, wondering where the time went – marveling at how quiet the center was now that hands were occupied and fights broke out less. The older girls would teach the younger ones, and we sold their wares. By doing so the girls stopped selling their bodies. They made their own intricate designs, invented their own techniques, and went from students to teachers.

Again, in the evenings, I’d sketch their faces as I wrote their stories in my journal, not sure how so much beauty and so much pain could coincide together.

I’m back in the US now – taking my making with me. I’ve learned to make shoes, how to can tomatoes and pickles (the composing of a delicious meal being as much creation as a painting – just one that nourishes us in different ways) and make standing planters and raised garden beds out of burlap sacks, scrap bricks, and anything else I can find.

I’m still painting portraits – our house is filled with colorful paintings of African faces. Faces of people I’ve known, loved, and had to leave. As I paint them I remember, I pray. They are tributes in a way. Marks of seasons now over. They fade into the background now, more or less, but sometimes I stop and I remember. Faces of people I love, marking dreams lost, grief, the changing of things with time.

My husband and I were apart the last three months of our engagement. He was still in South Sudan and I was in the US getting counseling and planning our wedding. I painted a 3’x3’ portrait of our faces from a picture taken the night we got engaged. I was worried for him, still in a tumultuous place, a country at war. I couldn’t hug him, touch him, see in his eyes if he was ok or not, so I painted him. I got to scrutinize each hair, each freckle, the curve of his smile and render it with my own hand. It was deeply meaningful to paint, forming his face on a canvas when he was so far away.

I make out of practicality sometimes, but mostly joy. And I think it is in this joy we ourselves have been made.

I always did and I still do get a little flutter when I finish a picture or project. Whether it’s shoes for a friend, an ambitious baking project, an illustration for a freelance project, or another portrait on our ever-crowded walls, I get the flutter because while I’m in the process I’m never always sure that finishing will come.

Most of what I make isn’t for day-to-day use. Much of it sits tucked away. It’s the making that fills my soul. An idea that is seen through until the end. Getting surprised again and again that some of the things I make turn out nicely. All the better if it is something that sparks joy for someone I love.

Maybe that’s what the Creator feels about us too. I don’t think God gets surprised about what those Almighty hands are capable of, but God must experience something like pure joy in creation. Joy that begets joy. God creates us and not only do we find great joy in what else and who else has been created alongside, we take what we have and what we can find and we make art, gardens, jewelry and clothing, homes and poems, stews and cakes and we make and we make and we multiply joy as we create as God taught us how.

We are makers of beauty because we’ve been beautifully crafted.

We are makers of beauty because we’ve been beautifully crafted. @iambethwatkins

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We are unique and flawed, becoming masters in our crafts while others master theirs. We make mistakes and we learn and we make as we have been made. We create as we have been created. In love, in pained labor, and the world is better because we keep making, because we’ve been made in the image, and part of that image is that of maker.

(all images by Beth Watkins)

About Beth:

Beth Watkins spent the last 6 years working in North and Sub-Saharan Africa with vulnerable populations. She is currently settling back in the US with her immigrant husband and writes about flailing awkwardly into neighbor-love at http://www.iambethwatkins.com and on Twitter: @iambethwatkins.

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Why I Paint African Faces, by Beth Watkins. (blog post) #art #artists #create #creativity #makers #createdtocreate #painters #inspirationforartists

June 11, 2018June 15, 2018

No “Late” Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity

“Are you dating anyone?” the woman asked me after church over mini muffins and bad coffee.

I shook my head.

“Oh, you have plenty of time,” she said to me. Turning to my mom, she added, “My daughter was a late bloomer.” I was spending the summer at home in Florida after graduation from college. I planned to move to Chicago to start teaching in the fall.

“Yeah, she got married in her late twenties,” she continued, my mom nodding along. I clutched my Styrofoam cup, inwardly marveling that I was no longer a college student, but was now labeled according to my marital status. I was now “a single.”

Even at the time I thought she was being a bit harsh in expecting her daughter to get married right out of college. And over the years, that phrase, “late bloomer,” has always grated on me.

Can God be “late”?

When you try to put your feet in the steps of Jesus as you live your life, can you describe any transition as “late”?

According to that woman, I would have gotten married “late,” at age 32. I would have had babies “late,” at age 33, 35, and 37. And I would have started writing “late” in my mid-30’s. But I don’t believe God is ever late.

Spring dragged her feet in arriving to Colorado this year. Tulips and daffodils, the first signs of spring, eased from the ground a few weeks later than they usually do.

We made it home from vacation last week just in time for the peonies in early June. I nearly didn’t see them because the thin stems couldn’t support the huge, fat blossoms and their faces were flattened against the rocky ground. As a first-time homeowner, this is my first summer here and I’ve watched curiously as each new flower type surges up and out, exploding in the Colorado sun, then shrivels just as a different bloom takes over the show. First daffodils, then red tulips, white apple blossoms, lilacs, irises, and now roses and fluffy peonies.

Not a single bloom has been late—each one a note rightly-timed in the rhythm of spring’s symphony.

Because spring seemed delayed this year, I was more eager—desperate, even–for its arrival. Spring unlocks a suppressed something in me and I want to weep when I spy the first green shoots poking from the dirt or bright flowers decorating the yard. For me, spring is an emotional release from months of cold, dreary, color-less winter, a catapult back into lusty life.

Waiting primes us for greater gratitude when the thing we wait for finally arrives. Though I fully embraced being single and knew that marriage would not bring me ultimate joy or pleasure, I still longed for a life-long companion. And though I knew (or thought I knew) how children would alter the landscape of my life, I still yearned for the interruption. The long years of hopeful winters made me more thankful for spring when it finally came.

I’m not a young mom, but I do have young kids. I don’t fit the “young mom” category that many church ladies cluster women into. In fact, many moms with kids the ages of my kids are at least ten years younger than me. But I still don’t believe I got married or had kids “late.”

I published my first piece of writing at age 36, not because I was a “late bloomer,” but because my talent bloomed exactly when it was supposed to.

“My soil is like silk,” my 78 year old neighbor—my gardening mentor–boasted when I lamented that mine is like a rock. “You need to really work on your soil before you try planting in it,” she advised.

Art, too, often requires years of silent cultivation before the first flower can break through the ground.

Art, too, often requires years of silent cultivation before the first flower can break through the ground.

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Browsing through a bookstore recently, I picked up a book from the shelf about Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was surprised to learn that she didn’t start writing until she was in her 40’s, and didn’t publish Little House in the Big Woods until she was in her 60’s. Perhaps her childhood experiences needed years of marinating before they were ready to share with the world.

“Late” implies something didn’t go as planned. Perhaps the Master Gardener needs a bit more time with his hands in the soil, kneading, folding in nutrients, transforming rot and death into healthy soil for new growth to form. We may long for change, but waiting doesn’t mean Jesus isn’t there, that God isn’t working, or that plans have gone awry. Because in God’s kingdom, nothing blooms “late,” but always right on time.

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What are you waiting for? In what ways are you a “late bloomer”? How would your life have been different if everything had followed your own timeline?

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No "Late Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity #marriage #motherhood #creativity #transitions #timing #Godsdelays #oldmoms #metaphors

June 8, 2018June 7, 2018

When You Know You’re Not an Artist {guest post}

By Heather Caliri | Instagram: @heathercaliri

If I knew anything for certain when I was a child, it was that I was not the artist of the family—my older sister Katie was.

Looking at her work, I knew I’d never be as good as her. I wouldn’t even be in the same universe as her. Anyway, I had my own ‘talents’: school, and the performing arts, and generally being the favorite child. I didn’t need to do art.

That was her thing.

I felt nervous when I learned that for my ceramics class in high school, we had to keep a sketchbook. To my great surprise, I liked drawing.

I liked that with nothing but pencils, pens and my own imagination, I could transform a blank notebook into something indelibly, creatively, mine.

I took a few more art classes in high school, and then one more in college. In those classes, making art felt like caring for a mean-spirited cat. Sometimes, it would curl in my lap and keep me company, and sometimes it would turn around and try to claw my eyes out.

Once, I used some new watercolor pencils to craft swirls of color on a page, thrilled with the freedom of abstraction. When I showed my tender risk-taking to my high school art teacher, he told me I should look at another student’s abstractions, because they were much better. I felt like he’d sucker-punched me.

Later that year, I started making faux album covers for a made-up band I called The Cheshire Cats. At first I felt proud of my work, but laterI felt dumb that I was playing around with words and fonts when my classmates were making real art.

And in a college drawing class, we were supposed to do gesture drawings of a bell pepper. When I glanced over at another student’s work, I saw a pepper. When I looked down at mine, I saw weird squiggles. My eyes filling with tears, I took my HB pencil and made a long gash down the middle of my newsprint.

Years later, thinking of that class, I made this.

All this to say: most of my formal art training served to make me feel terrible about myself, my work, my skill. It mostly taught me to compare what I did to all the other people around me.

It kept me from making things.

The other day, one of my friends saw my sketchbook and said you’re such a good artist. She also said that she was not.

This is the drawing she liked. Note: I copied the pattern from wallpaper, which is totally acceptable but always feels like cheating to me.

I wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her that all these words we use to judge our art—good, real, artist—they are MADE UP WORDS. They do not mean what they think we mean. They do not say anything useful.

I started making art more when my children were little. By then, I had been writing for a long time, and I’d learned that “talent” was a shell game. I bought my kids nice art supplies, and when they made things, I did too. I realized if “writers” are people who write, then “artists” are people who make art. I didn’t need permission to claim those names.

It’s amazing what reading a few craft books does for your skill level.

Making art still feels tender to me. Unlike with writing, which has felt mine for nearly twenty years, art feels a bit like using my left hand to cut a piece of paper. It’s awkward. I feel my lack of practice, especially when I draw.

I don’t care. Art making is not about skill, but about desire. The only question I want to ask about art is: do I want to make some? Do I have a picture in my mind I want to make real? Do I want to take a piece of discarded paper, or a recycled cereal box, and resurrect it into something beautiful?

Basket made of old sheets with papier mâché citrus. Note: the basket was supposed to be a rug. Oh, well.

I think many of us hold back from making things because we feel incompetent and think lack of skill is a problem. It makes me tremendously sad to think of all the joy that fear steals from us. It makes me angry to think of how we teach art, pitting one person’s joy against another.

Still: there’s a simple question for each of us to ask. Do we want to make something? If the answer is yes, it is brave and bold and beautiful to set aside our fear and try.

About Heather:

Heather Caliri is a writer and shy artist from San Diego who uses tiny, joyful yeses to free herself from anxiety. Tired of anxiety controlling your life? Try her mini-course, “Five Tiny Ideas for Managing Anxiety,” for free here.

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Our theme this month is “Create.” If you are a maker, artist, or creator and you would like to guest post, I still have a few spots left! Otherwise, check out the themes for the coming months here. And if you’re not interested in guest posting, follow me on social media (buttons on the top right) to be sure you don’t miss a post this month!

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

May 30, 2018May 24, 2018

Unicorns and Rainbows: On Adoption {guest post by Sheli Massie}

By Sheli Massie | Facebook

“Being adopted is like having blank chapters in the story of your life.” – Adult Adoptee

I remember vividly the night after we had been matched with our son from Uganda. I lay awake in bed just sobbing, what I thought was a release of emotions carried these past two years of waiting. My husband kept saying over and over, but this is what we have been waiting for. This moment. As I began to process the floodgate of emotions I realized that my heart was immediately connected to his birth mother. I was imagining what her life was like or wasn’t. I was wondering what her name was, where she was, if she was alive, what a horrific and courageous decision she made to find someone to raise her child. That night imprinted a connection on my soul where answers may never come.

It’s been over six years since our youngest son joined our family and I still have so many questions of his beginning. When he came to the US he was only three, or so we think. Having a birth certificate and hospital records is a privileged expectation, not a norm. So we went by what the dentist could tell us here in the states. Home six years and just beginning to unpack his story. His beginning.

His story is his story. I can only tell you my perspective, what I have observed. I have never known what it is like to not have a family. A mother. A home. Food. Clean water. I have never been without. So I can not imagine the way he processes the abundance that is here and what was before. What I do know that when he is able to tell his story, his grief, his loss all I can do is to create a safe and healing place for it to happen. I will get it wrong. I already do. I miss cues and opportunities to enter in. Instead I rush past them and don’t recognize behaviors as something bigger. As part of his story. His undoing.

One of the greatest misconceptions that we have had to confront with his adoption is the reaction of those around us. Saying things to us, in his presence, that “he is better off here in the states. His life will be better. He is so lucky. Everything will be good for him. At least you saved one.” Yes, ALL of those things and more have been said to us.

Let me just say this, adoption is not unicorns and rainbows. It is not the happily ever after. Adoption comes with great loss and suffering. It comes with layers of unknowns and complications. And it comes with years of figuring it out together.

I was so naive when we adopted our sweet boy. I assumed that love would heal it all.

I was so naive when we adopted our sweet boy. I assumed that love would heal it all. -@sheligeoghanmas

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A real Barbie Savior complex. And then I put myself in his shoes. He has no beginning that I can remind him of. He has chapters that I am not a part of. A story that started way before this Mzungu (white person) showed up and took him from all he had ever known. He is left with a grief that is painfully deep I can not fathom.

We have this tradition in our family that we had been doing for years. The four older children knew that on their birthday I would share their birth story with them again at the dinner table. Each year I would tell their unique beginning. Their prologue. Until the year he asked what was his story. He asked me to tell him when he was “in my belly” in Africa. He would look across the table and yearn to hear how I had loved him every moment I carried him. He wanted to be more alike than different. For a while I admit I just played along. Not giving details but saying how I loved him from before I saw his face. I thought I was doing the right thing. Trying to build connection. But what I was really doing was making it easier on myself. What he needed was the truth. He needed to hear his story.

He will ask randomly about his mother. Who she is. Where she is. What her name is. If she ever calls. I give him all I know from just knowing him. “She is a strong and courageous woman. She is beautiful and brave because you are sweet boy. She loved you more than she loved herself because she chose to give to you life no matter the consequence. You are Ugandan, one of the most amazing countries I have ever seen and you will always be connected to a power greater than any of us can even imagine. “

Part of adoption is dying to self. Dying to false expectations and belief systems.

Part of adoption is dying to self. Dying to false expectations and belief systems. –@sheligeoghanmas

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You are bringing a child into your home that has undergone significant trauma, yes even as an infant. Loss and trauma are two of the biggest factors of the process that I feel gets passed over too quickly. Unless we are willing to knowingly enter into the lifetime of unpacking and hard work of healing we really should rethink adoption not as a calling but a commitment to holding space for painful trauma work.

Sweet boy is triggered by things every day and he will be for the rest of his life. It is something that we have come to accept. Behaviors that others may see as acting out or abnormal we just see as a breakthrough. That he feels safe enough to let that emotion surface or be explored. His world is not better because he was adopted and is not with his birth mom. His life is complicated and hard. He carries grief and unwritten chapters around as a daily reminder. As his second parents all we can do is create space for him to feel it all.

About Sheli:

Sheli Massie is a story keeper, seeker of justice, healing and hope in a broken world. She believes in longer tables, unlocked doors and living a barefoot life. She and her husband live outside of Chicago with their five children and one grandlove. You can find her over on Instagram @shelimassie_, Redbud Writers, Twitter, and her website.

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GIVEAWAY OF ADOPTED!

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

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

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May 28, 2018May 30, 2018

A Full House {guest post}

By Amanda Tingle Taylor | Twitter

I always thought my home would be full of children. I knew that I wanted children from an early age. I was always the “mom” in my friend groups, making sure that everyone was taken care of. I had my daughter at an early age and I was excited for what the future would hold. Circumstances changed for me and I found myself divorced with a baby. I knew my plan had changed, yet I still held out hope that I would have a large family full of children.

Many years later I fell in love again, got married and started making plans to grow our family. Better late than never seemed to be a fitting plan! Yet, time was no friend to me; as the years flowed past us our family didn’t grow. Abandoning my dream of having many children wasn’t an option. That lead to testing and fertility doctors. There were kits and creams, a surgery, and a tremendous amount of praying. Nothing changed, nothing happened; our family did not grow.

When reality set in that our family would not be growing the way that I thought it would, we started looking at other options. We agreed that we were not willing to spend a small fortune on something that might never happen with doing IVF. We moved next to adoption as an option. My heart wasn’t there. I again looked at the costs; financially, emotionally, and relationally and found that I couldn’t find a way to reconcile my brain and my heart. I started to worry that our family was done.

Secretly I had been looking on websites that provided photos of children waiting in foster care for adoption. Every time I clicked on a photo or opened the website I felt that little pull in my heart. I felt a hand gently pressing into my back urging me to keep moving in that direction. The more I looked the more I realized that there was such a huge need that I had been blind to. It wasn’t adoption that was most needed. It was loving and caring foster homes. The number of foster children in need was staggering.

That was twenty months ago. Since then we have had seven beautiful children in our home. I have been mom to them all. The ones who could talk have called me mommy. Each time a scared little face looks up at me for the first time I remember that I always wanted a home full of children. I have that now. Six of them have gone on to other families or back home to their parents. I still pray for each and every one of them at night. Sitting on my coffee table I have a photo album with photos, birthdates, and notes about each child.

The other child; the one that hasn’t left our home since she came to us twenty months ago – she is my daughter through and through. At this point we have been asked if we would adopt her if that became an option. YES! A thousand times over we said yes. She is graduating from Pre-k soon and planning to celebrate another birthday with us. We’ve been able to share two Christmas’s with her and have established new traditions with her. We are her parents. And as I tuck her in at night I know that will never change. No matter if she is with us for twenty more days or twenty more years. She IS my daughter.

When it’s quiet and I am up all alone, I look around my house and smile contently. I finally have a home full of children. It doesn’t look the way that I always imagined that it would. People often don’t understand why we would put ourselves through the pain of saying goodbye over and over to the little faces that call us mommy and daddy. The need is so great but they only see the hard parts.

They can’t understand that even when a child has to leave my home it doesn’t make them any less my children. I have loved them, sheltered them, cared for them, cleaned them up and fixed their ‘boo boo’s’. I may never be able to explain it fully to others, but as I pick up toys and put away clothes at night, I know why. I still see a home full of children even though they may have moved on. Each child has taken a piece of me with them. More importantly, I have a heart full of children; my children and I will always have them there.

About Amanda:

Amanda is an art teacher by day and by night a writer, foster care advocate and avid DIYer. Her passion for helping others and her desire to reach the lost and hurting come through in her artwork, writing and relationships. She shares her home in Georgia with her husband, daughters, foster children and a menagerie of animals. You can find her sharing real life and real struggles on her website A Joyous Mess. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Instagram!

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May 26, 2018May 24, 2018

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

By Annie Rim | Twitter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Annie:

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

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May 22, 2018May 20, 2018

Third Culture Kids and Adoption {guest post + BOOK GIVEAWAY}

By Rachel Pieh Jones | Twitter

On the eve of my twin’s fourth birthday, they asked when they would turn black.

“Why do you think you will turn black?” I asked.

“Because everyone else is black,” they said.

We lived in Somaliland, a pasty-pink white-ish family, surrounded by Somalis.

“Karissa isn’t black,” I said. She was the daughter of another white family.

“She isn’t four yet,” my kids said.

“Well, your mom and dad are white, so you are white.”

“That’s not how it works,” the twins protested. “What about Jack and Negasti?”

They were a brother and sister, black, older than four, with white parents. They were adopted.

“You came out of my body and daddy’s body,” I said, “so you are white. They came out of a different mom and dad’s bodies and then joined that family.”

My kids were not convinced and went to bed certain they would wake up in the morning, four-years old, and with new skin.

My kids are Third Culture Kids, meaning they have spent a significant portion of their childhood years outside their passport country. Our global life has given them a unique perspective on things from skin color to what it means to belong to a family or a country.

We often refer to Djibouti, a small country in the Horn of Africa where we now live, as our ‘adoptive’ country, the place that has taken us in. But this is a misnomer because we are not Djiboutian.

Adopted kids are fully, 100% part of the family that adopts them. I have adopted nieces and nephews and they are all in. That’s just one of the beautiful things about adoption: it is a grafting in, becoming one family across various borders.

Expats are not all in. We are not all in, in Djibouti. We aren’t Djiboutian. In just a few weeks, those twins who thought they might turn black will graduate from high school and go to their passport country for university, a place they have spent less than three years living in.

In Finding Home: Third Culture Kids in the World, Galia Rautenberg writes about raising an adopted child in China.

“Our daughter is five now and often asked by peers and adults whether she is Chinese or a “foreigner.” Well, it is the right question to ask as she is ethnically Chinese, but her parents are not, and she speaks some languages which they can’t understand. So, does the fact she was born in China make her Chinese? Is she Israeli/German, born Chinese? She is living with Western culture at home and with another one while outside … Being an adopted TCK can complicate things but can also make it easier. We feel our daughter’s unique TCK situation will teach her so much for the future and help her cope with some of the hardships she might face along the way, adoption related issues and others.”

No matter a child’s skin color or international location, their adopted or biological birth status, there is a natural longing to understand identity (American? Djiboutian? Chinese? Israeli? German?), a desire for home, and the search for a place to belong. Third Culture Kids learn to be creative in finding that identity, home, and belonging.

What does it mean to live in a country in which we have no ancestry, no legal claim, most likely no generational future? What does it feel like to have that country imprinted on the heart but left behind when career, school, health, or family choices compel a transition?

What does it mean to ‘return’ to a country we may not feel attached to in any way other than by nature of the color of a passport or a label on a birth certificate?

The imagery of adoption and Third Culture Kids is helpful, but limited. I would love to hear your thoughts on the interplay between these two topics, so rich with questions of identity.

Do you find connections between the two? What might be some unique questions faced by adopted TCKs? How might their adoption help them navigate life between worlds?

You can read the rest of Galia’s essay on adoption and TCKs, as well as many others, in Finding Home: Third Culture Kids in the World, a book of essays on loving, raising, and being a TCK. The book is based on the Painting Pictures blog series hosted on Djibouti Jones in 2012 and is available on Amazon.

About Rachel:

Rachel Pieh Jones lives in Djibouti with her husband and three children. She has written for the New York Times, Runners World, the Christian Science Monitor, Brain Child, and the Big Roundtable. Her next book will be published by Plough in 2019. Visit her at: Djibouti Jones, her Facebook page, Twitter @rachelpiehjones, and Instagram: @rachelpiehjones. Check out her award winning cookbook, Djiboutilicious.

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

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May 14, 2018

A Lament to God for Christ the Foster Child {guest post}

By Gena Thomas | Twitter: @genaLthomas

A few months ago, lament was heavy on my mind as I was hearing the news about DACA recipients. I didn’t know how to express my lament, so I opened up an amazing book by Soong-Chan Rah about lament and found the tool I didn’t know I needed: the acrostic. Then, stretching in a way I didn’t realize I needed to, I began to pen A Lament to God for Christ the Immigrant, with help and direction from the brilliant Juliet Liu.

Today marks a culmination of decisions that have me, once again, feeling the heaviness of lament. So once again, I have turned to the acrostic. And once again, I must thank Prof. Rah for this tool in the midst of weighted pain.

I lament:

for the Adulting you had to do at such a young age.
for the Bonds that must get prematurely cut.
for the Control you should have over your life but you don’t.
for the Decisions made without your input.
for the Environment you had to grow up in.
for the ‘Foster’ put before your name, and the prejudice that will come from it.
for the Grotesque scenes you’ve witnessed.
for the Heaviness you carry with you.
for the Isolation you constantly feel.
for the Juxtaposing you do daily between your life and everyone else’s.
for the Knowledge that has come to you out of its proper order.
for the Lying you’ve learned to mimic.
for the Mountains others will call mole hills.
for the Notes home from teachers that wouldn’t be there if …
for the Opportunities that never were.
for the Pains of growing up that will be deeper than most kids your age.
for the Questions that may never be answered.
for the Rights that may terminate or may not terminate.
for the Songs of childhood you never learned to sing.
for the Tension you may always hold between your past and your future.
for the Unwillingness for most people to understand you.
for the Visions of horror and the visions of home you hold in your minds eye.
for the Ways the people of God have not been intentional about loving you.
for the X-rays that show & don’t show the abuse.
for the Youth that was stolen and will never fully return.
for the Zeniths of times with blood family that may all be in the past.

For this I pray. For this I lament.

For the ways in which I have been selfish in my love for you, I lament, I repent.

Christ have mercy.

About Gena:

Gena Thomas served as a missionary in northern Mexico for over four years with her husband, Andrew. While there, the couple founded and managed El Buho, a coffee shop ministry that still serves the town of Hidalgo. Gena holds a masters in International Development. Purchase her book, A Smoldering Wick here and/or visit her at her blog or on Twitter.

This post originally appeared at www.genathomas.com and is used with permission by the author.

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Tag: Leslie Verner

Keep Showing Up {guest post}

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Pray for the Queen Esthers in the White House

More Resources & Action Points:

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Why I Paint African Faces {guest post}

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No “Late” Bloomers: Late Weddings, Old Moms & Delayed Creativity

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When You Know You’re Not an Artist {guest post}

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Unicorns and Rainbows: On Adoption {guest post by Sheli Massie}

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A Full House {guest post}

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

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Third Culture Kids and Adoption {guest post + BOOK GIVEAWAY}

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