Tag: stranger

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No More Strangers {guest post}

By Jessica Udall | Website: www.lovingthestrangerblog.com

It’s a cloudless, cool morning in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Strapping my nine-month-old on my back in the style of Ethiopian mothers, I leave our fifth floor apartment and descend down into the hustle and bustle of pedestrian traffic: shawled women carrying heavy loads of groceries, groups of uniformed school kids on their way to class, traveling salesmen hawking their brooms, mops, and other wares, and blue and white taxis weaving and blasting syncopated rhythms. I attempt nonchalance as I pass shade-standing onlookers who call out “Ferenj (foreigner), Hello!” and then elbow their friends and chuckle at my accented Amharic greeting.

There is no way to be cool, to fit in. I feel the eyes staring.

I am a stranger.

I duck into a shadowy shop selling aromatic produce along with all manner of convenience items. This shop will become a near-daily stop for my back-riding baby and me— for phone cards, for toilet paper, for powdered milk—but I do not know this yet.

At this point, I have only been in the country for a few weeks, and this is my first solo shopping trip. Such a simple task, yet I am nearly paralyzed with fear.

“Can I help you?” asks a teenage clerk.

He is trying to be professional but looks puzzled that a foreigner has entered his shop. I look at him, Amharic words bobbing in a sea of adrenaline, just out of reach. I take a deep breath. I blink. And finally, a single word comes out as a squeaky plea: an English word that (mercifully) is the same in Ethiopian Amharic.

“Mango?”

Relieved that I am finally speaking, the clerk smiles and starts throwing softball-sized, multicolored fruits into a hanging scale, gesturing towards the numbers and raising his eyebrows in question. I hold up my hand, “Enough.”

A second Amharic word! And he understood! The joy of communication thrills me, and I wipe the anxious sweat from my palms before reaching into my purse for Ethiopian birr.

He says a number as he ties the heavy plastic bag. But what number? I can’t remember. I ask him to repeat, looking at the available birr in my hand like it is an indecipherable puzzle. I feel stupid.

He grabs a notepad and writes the number: 27. Saved! I gasp for air, heart pounding, as I try to remember which color is for which denomination: red for ten, blue for five, white for one. After much too long deliberating, I give him exact change, say thank you, and hurry out of the store, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

I used to be good at this … this living of daily life, I think, wistfully. I wasn’t always this incompetent. But what used to work in my home country won’t work here, and I must start over. From zero. From scratch.

Things looked up from there. From the beginning, I (an awkwardly bumbling cultural baby) was warmly welcomed into Ethiopian society and helped along my way by friends and strangers alike. Even the chuckling, staring onlookers would often step in to give directions or fend off a persistent heckler when I really needed it.

Ethiopian culture as a whole is exquisitely hospitable, and I was the beneficiary of that beautiful openness. I was welcomed to that fruit shop dozens and dozens of times, to all the shops around it, and to homes and churches, weddings and funerals. I was shown love to the point that at least in my neighborhood, I was no longer a stranger, but a known friend.

After years in Ethiopia, my family returned to the United States for a season, and my eye is now magnetically drawn toward confused, newly arrived immigrants. I sense their fear and shame and frustration on a visceral level, since my own memories of those feelings are indelibly imprinted on my memory. The feeling of being a stranger is hard to forget.

But I fear for what immigrants will find when they settle in the US, or other Western countries. Will they ever lose their designation as “stranger”? Will they ever be known as “friend”? Americans are—to put it delicately —not really known for our hospitality. Our focus on minding our own business and taking care of our own can come across as cold indifference. But how can we do otherwise when individualism is the very air we breathe?

Most of what I now know about hospitality has been learned through first unlearning presuppositions that predispose me to “every man is an island” isolation. In its place, I’m following a different path, inspired by the lives of non-Westerners who have welcomed me so graciously, who have shown me that getting to know others and being known by them is one of life’s greatest gifts. I’m learning to swallow the excuses about being “too busy” to unwrap it. How can a person be too busy for loving connection?

Ethiopians welcomed me when I was a newly-arrived in Ethiopia, as I said, but I’ve also been amazed by how immigrants to the US have graciously welcomed me (a local) into their lives. Those who ought to be honored as guests are eager to become hosts—inviting me into their apartments, their circles, their confidence. Their bent towards hospitality is infectious, life-giving and paradigm-shifting for me. I shudder to think that I could have missed this: the quiet metamorphosis from stranger into beloved, more beautiful than the journey of the most brilliant butterfly.

“I was a stranger, and you did not welcome me,” says Jesus in Matthew 25. What a tragically missed opportunity. Our God is one who hides behind things that are scary, calling to us: “Come closer. Draw near to what you fear. I’m on the other side!”

In a world plagued by “stranger danger,” Jesus is dancing to a different beat. When I’m dancing in sync with him, I realize I’ve never met a stranger, even if they are from a distant place I’ve never visited.

As I meet immigrants for the first time—whether they’re overwhelmed and swimming in adrenaline like I was on that first solo shopping trip in Addis Ababa, or exhausted by year after year of cultural stress—I see Jesus standing beyond the awkwardness of new beginnings, ready to welcome us into the beauty of knowing and being known.

About Jessica:

Jessica Udall writes on crossing cultures and following Jesus beyond polarized rhetoric and into street-level everyday love for those who are different. She is married to a wonderful Ethiopian man and has two children. Her favorites include having conversations with interesting people and drinking strong Ethiopian coffee, preferably at the same time. You can visit her at her blog, www.lovingthestrangerblog.com.

Photo by HOTCHICKSING on Unsplash

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Run to the Darkness: A Meeting with Michelle Ferrigno Warren, Author of The Power of Proximity

I met Michelle Ferrigno Warren in a crowded empanada restaurant on a hot summer day in downtown Denver. We crossed the street to a pizza joint for a bit more quiet and privacy and Michelle let me ask about her work on immigration reform in Denver and the U.S., her experience writing The Power of Proximity, and her plans for the future.

Michelle and her husband, David, have lived in Denver for over 20 years and are the founders of Open Door Ministries, a ministry serving homeless and low income populations. They raised their three children in an immigrant neighborhood in inner city Denver and Michelle said they have no regrets about this. In fact, she wishes everyone could live the life she has lived. I once heard her share on a podcast about the nuanced lives her children have experienced because of where they live. They grew up speaking Spanish and have a desire to travel and learn about other cultures.

Michelle is the advocacy and policy engagement director for the Christian Community Development Association, an organization that empowers and equips leaders to serve in urban centers around the world. Dr. John Perkins began the CCDA with the vision of the “3 R’s”—relocation, reconciliation, redistribution, which has expanded now to 8 principles. Michelle works towards justice in the public sphere because she believes that “just because something is a law does not mean it serves the cause of justice. We need to enable the courts of law to rule in a manner that brings about justice for all the people” (118-119). She believes that as followers of Jesus, we are called to more than engaging in ministry from a distance.

We talked about what her children are doing now, and she shared about a couple “Michelle-isms” she tells her kids over and over again. “I remind my kids that they are the Light of the World and to not be afraid. When you see darkness run toward it with the Light.”

“I remind my kids that they are the Light of the World and to not be afraid. When you see darkness run toward it with the Light.” @mcfwarren

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She hopes her children bring light to every dark corner of the world. The other thing she always reminds them when they discuss their plans for the future is “Don’t forget the poor. Don’t forget the poor. Don’t forget the poor.”

Michelle said she wrote her book, The Power of Proximity, with Millennials in mind because they are so hungry to impact the world. In her book she writes that “learning of the pain of others can compel us to become proximate, which should move us to engage more deeply. The more we know as a result of our chosen proximity, the more we have the opportunity to put our words—our ‘talk’—into action … This shouldn’t be a big stretch for Christians who follow Jesus” (71). She hopes Millennials will choose to live proximate to the issues and people they talk about helping. She also writes that “privileged people will listen to privileged people. You have a voice,” and goes on to talk about Paul using his privilege as a Roman citizen and Pharisee to spread the gospel (120).

Michelle struggled with whether or not she should write this book because she was worried it might not be her story to tell. She feared hijacking the stories of immigrant neighbors and friends she’s lived among over the years. But her good friend, Daniel Hill, the author of White Awake, called her out and said something along the lines of “the most deceptive lies are the ones painted in nobility.”

Before writing the book, she asked a group of friends to gather and do something called a “clearing committee” or “clearness committee,” a Quaker spiritual practice of worship, sharing, and prayer, to help her discern her next step. Through this experience, she realized she was using fear and the fact that she is a white woman as an excuse not to do what she knew deep down God was calling her to do.

Michelle wrote her first draft of The Power of Proximity in just three months. She reserved every Friday to write, but also spent many evenings from 10 pm to midnight completing revisions and editing. She admitted most of the book came from the previous twenty years of teaching, talks and speeches that were so familiar to her that she simply needed to record them all in one place.

Her book had a profound impact on my life personally in that it influenced the neighborhood where we bought a house last summer. Though we are in a decent neighborhood of houses built in the 1970’s, we purposely chose to live here because of the more diversified racial and socioeconomic groups that live all around us compared to other places in our city. Her words moved me as she wrote “we should be willing to leave our communities of comfort to choose a proximate place and humbly and sacrificially follow Christ’s example of love” (71).

I handed her the copy of her book I brought with me so she could thumb through and see the notes and tons of underlines throughout the pages. As a soon-to-be author, I imagined it might feel good to see how your words impact others. She smiled as she looked through, laughing and saying “Oh, that’s good!” She flipped to the chapter on race because she said that was one of her favorites, then opened the cover and signed the book, “What a joy it is to connect with you on your journey! Keep the Faith, Michelle.”

As we finished up our time together, I asked Michelle where she sees herself in ten years. With a gleam in her eye, she said, “Probably in the Senate.” I congratulated myself on my inner prophet because on the way to meet Michelle, I had told my husband, “I feel like I’m going to meet up with a Senator or something.” I told her it was a sign that she should definitely do it.

I don’t think I’ve ever met such a powerful, confident, or connected woman in person and yet I was intrigued by her quirks (all she ate was three sausage links and marinara sauce mixed with parmesan cheese) and softness (she wore a ruffled floral shirt, denim shorts, and sandals). The fact that Michelle was willing to meet with me even though I have a relatively small platform and no political pull or influence was a testament to her humility (or at least to her Christian sense of duty to serve the lowly bloggers, writers and wannabe do-gooders of the world). Our meeting was one of the highlights of my summer.

The Power of Proximity is a buy-and-keep-on-your-shelf sort of book rather than a borrow-from-the-library-or-from-a-friend type of book. You will want to scribble stars, notes and excessive underlines throughout every page. Beware, though, her words may propel you to flee comfort, security, and safety in order to live out your life of love from a place of proximity.

Meeting Michelle Ferrigno Warren with my friend, Annie Rim

More about Michelle (from Amazon):

Michelle Ferrigno Warren is the advocacy and policy engagement director for the Christian Community Development Association. She is an immigration, education, and human service policy specialist and is an adjunct faculty member at Denver Seminary. With over twenty years experience working in Christian community development, Michelle is a part of the national Evangelical Immigration Table and helps consult for the National Immigration Forum. She is a founding staff member of Open Door Ministries, a large community development corporation. Michelle, her husband, David, and their three children live in an immigrant neighborhood in Denver, Colorado.

Follow Michelle on Twitter at @mcfwarren.

You can hear Michelle interviewed on these podcasts:

Brew Theology: Part 1 and Part 2

My Changing Faith Podcast

Seminary Dropout

Open Door Sisterhood

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BOOK GIVEAWAY

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

 

 

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

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

 

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

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Scenes from a Year of Refugee Co-Sponsorship {guest post}

By Katie Nordenson

By any traditional measure, I am a terrible candidate to lead a group dedicated to welcoming a refugee family to their new country—I’m a serious introvert, awkward in groups and new situations, a white Midwesterner with little to no real multicultural experience (I speak only English, just recently left the US for the first time, and was in college before I experienced many common ethnic foods, much less people.)

And yet, what I did have was determination and the fierce need to make something (anything) good happen in a world where good things felt increasingly scarce, and in particular the newly politicized plight of refugees spoke to me. By definition, refugees are innocents who have suffered and been forced from their homelands, and that’s before they face the agonizing wait to be admitted to a new country for resettlement (which may never come), at which point they must build a completely new life from scratch. To me, this is exactly who Jesus was talking about when he commanded us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

And so began a year (and counting) of leading the small group at our church committed to befriending and helping a Karen family of 10 (two parents and eight children ranging from ages 2-17) resettled from Burma in the spring of 2017. Through highs, lows, and general awkwardness, here are just a few of the memorable moments:

Finding the Minnesota Council of Church refugee co-sponsorship program while googling furiously for possible ways to help, emailing it to my pastor, and receiving an immediate, unequivocal “Go for it.”

Leaning heavily on the advice from our MCC liaison that “we can do hard things” and to “lean into the awkwardness.” Those words became a lifeline many, many times.

Showing up to introduce myself to a family full of strangers from an unknown culture (only one of whom spoke any English) and trying to find the strength to go inside, much less to lead a bunch of other people inside with me.

Visiting the family’s new apartment to see how they were settling in and being treated to a delicious multi-course Karen meal. Beginning to understand that the hospitality in this arrangement would flow both ways, and feeling moved that this family, who had been through so much, could open their hearts to some strange (and potentially meddlesome) Americans just trying to help however they could.

Seeing people from church step up in amazing ways to support this work, despite its strangeness and our lack of a roadmap; showing up to visit, donating items, and taking up a special offering that covered almost half of the family’s significant travel loan.

Watching the youngest children play on a hiking trail near a beautiful waterfall, and hearing how the foliage reminded them of their home.

Being regularly told by the father that, since he had so many children and we had none, he would happily give my husband and I one or two to take home to care for us in our old age (Note: we are currently in our thirties.)

Celebrating their first 4th of July with picnic food and water balloons (a big hit, as you can imagine, with the little kids.)

Explaining to the teenage son that you can’t fish, shoot squirrels with pellet guns, and start fires in the park here without drawing the attention of the police, even if that otherwise makes perfect sense to you based on life in your village and the refugee camp.

Listening to the parents talk about their hopes of someday returning to visit Burma, and being surprised to be invited to come along as their friends—this time they would show us the ropes.

Crying in the car about how very, very hard life in America can be—so confusing and full of paperwork and rules and resumes and schedules. Feeling helpless to do more to make the transition easier, yet inspired by their resiliency and the way they took care of their family under such difficult circumstances.

Watching the children (and the parents) discover the magic of the internet, especially Facebook and YouTube videos. WWE wrestler Goldberg is a big favorite of the mother—the father once told us “When she has no friends, Goldberg is her friend.”

Eating together at a Chinese buffet the father was so excited to share with us—so very American, and his treat!

Realizing that our role was never really to make day-to-day life in America easier, but rather to make them feel welcome and connected and hopeful for their new lives. (And maybe sometimes to help make phone calls to Comcast.)

I’m not sure I have any real wisdom to impart—it’s been messy and complicated and unexpected and wonderful, and I’m still learning as I go. But I do have a plea to remember the refugees still waiting all over the world; pray for them and advocate for them in conversations when others don’t understand who they are or what they’ve been through. Most of all, remember they too are your neighbors, and don’t be afraid to step outside of your comfort zone to invite them in.

About Katie:

Katie Nordenson is a web editor and content manager living in the Twin Cities with her husband and rescue dog. She spends her time reading, exploring her adopted city, and slowly learning to love and serve her neighbor. You can find her at her website or on Facebook or Linkedin.

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The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for if you have an idea. Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. You can find submission guidelines here. Be sure to include a headshot and bio.

Be sure to follow on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest posts or sign up for the 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:

Photo credit: Photo by Fancycrave on Unsplash

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Dreamers, DACA and the Art of Godly Mourning {guest post}

By Dr. Michelle Reyes | Twitter: @dr_reyes2

I could see the frustration and heartache all over her face.

The woman standing before me had just heard that the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) Program was ending, and she was now terrified for her future in the only country she had known as home since being a young girl.

Tears flowed down both of our faces as I could only stand there and weep with her.

What was this woman to do?

Her story is a tragic one and, sadly, not so uncommon. Born in Guatemala, she had been kidnapped from her own home at age seven by human traffickers, and the stories she recounts from that time in her life are truly horrific. It was only by God’s grace that she was able to escape. During a chaotic moment, while her kidnappers were stationed near the Mexican-American border, she made a run for it. This woman ran so hard for so long that she eventually passed out, and when she awoke she found herself on the side of a Texas highway. She didn’t even realize she had crossed into the U.S. She had just been trying to run back home! A kind, old woman took her in, brought her back to health and raised her as an adopted daughter.

As the pastor’s wife of an urban, multicultural church in Austin, TX, this was not the first story of its kind that I had heard. Our church is a minority church, and it is comprised of immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers among others. These are the people that my husband and I have a desire to serve, to care for and to live life with. This includes everything from sharing meals together on a weekly basis to helping them become documented, find jobs and making sure they can pay rent each month. In fact, the more we live life with men and women like the gal from Guatemala, the more we understand their plight and the more we want to do to help them!

Our church prioritizes a variety of social justice initiatives in our community to care for the vulnerable, the poor and the needy. Just recently, we hosted an event in Austin to raise awareness to the current plight of Dreamers in our city, and we talked about ways to support them, both on an individual and federal level. For example, Dreamers are not just from Mexico and Latin American countries. They come from countries all around the world, including Cambodia. One of our own church members is a Dreamer from Cambodia, and his status in the U.S. is now in jeopardy by the current DACA situation.

Perhaps we were naïve to think our community would immediately rally around our cause. But sadly, we found that not everyone was as sympathetic as we were to these men and women.

While my husband and I hear the stories of Dreamers and our hearts break with their plight, others can only see them as nothing more than lawbreakers, who have entered our country illegally and need to be deported immediately.

I know that the complexity of certain issues like immigration cause many people to first turn to a political stance for guidance. But I’m not here to make one statement or another, regarding party ideals.

I simply believe that we, as Christians, forget to care for the individual, to see the humanity of the immigrant, the Imago Dei in them, and to mourn for their pains, regardless of what the laws and systems in our country dictate.

If anyone is a model for how we should view the hurting minority it is God himself.

If anyone is a model for how we should view the hurting minority it is God himself. @dr_reyes2

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Consider Psalm 146:9, which states, “The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.” The psalmist here paints a picture of a protective, loving God, who watches over the foreigner in the midst of His own people, caring for them and “upholding” them.

Should we not do the same? Should we not also mourn the evils that our fellow, hurting minority brothers and sisters are experiencing?

Immigration laws aside, no matter who you are or what your circumstance is, there is always pain when a family is torn apart. Being judged because of your skin color causes pain. Being thought less of because you are poor causes pain. Being ostracized because you can’t speak the majority language well causes pain. Being told that your only usefulness in a foreign country is as a manual laborer, despite the familial and professional dreams you have, causes pain.

I am happy to say that people from our community did attend our Standing For Dreamers event, and the discussions and ideas for activism were positively received. Among some of the main things that we shared that night was this: When we stand before God on the Day of Judgment, do you think He will praise us for being stingy and judgmental toward those less powerful than ourselves? It’s easy to form strong opinions against someone. It’s not as easy to sympathize for the other.

I am passionate about our commitment, as Christians, to doing mourning well. My prayer for all of us is to always strive to better emulate God Himself in his love for the sojourner, to be better at mourning with those who mourn, and to care for those who are hurting, no matter what their ethnicity, nationality or skin color is.

About Michelle:

Michelle Reyes, PhD. is pastor’s wife, literary scholar, and momma of two littles. She is a regular contributor for Think Christian, (in)courage and Austin Moms Blog, where she writes on faith, family, and diversity. Michelle helped plant Church of the Violet Crown in Austin, Texas in 2014—an urban, multicultural church where her husband, Aaron Reyes serves as lead pastor. Follow Michelle on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

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The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for if you have an idea. Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. You can find submission guidelines here. Be sure to include a headshot and bio.

Be sure to follow on social media (links in upper right) to keep up with the latest posts or sign up for the 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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Barn Dancing, the Inauguration and the International Women’s Club

I usually try not to use the internet to glamorize my life. The internet can be the high school yearbook view of life: perfect pictures, inspiring quotes and exciting events that include the highlights without the low-lights of life. The truth is that life is more often lived in the shadows. But yesterday was full of shadows for some in our country, so today I’d like to cast some light.

My son howled after I popped the balloon he had been beating his sister on the head with yesterday morning while I was trying to get us out the door. I eventually cajoled him and the other two into their car seats, checked directions on my phone, turned on public radio and eased our minivan out of the driveway. Thank God we have a date night planned tonight, I thought.

On the radio, a woman prayed for our country. A man spoke. A chorale sang sweet subversive words.

“Once we were strangers, we were welcomed, now we belong and believe in this land,” seemed a passive-aggressive jab at the new administration. With the final line, I exhaled, feeling tension fall away:

“Keep faith, guard mind, take heart, guard spirit, take courage, keep watch, feed longing, feed love.”

Take courage. Feed love.

My children stared quietly out the window as we drove from our small town to the larger college town, passing golden fields that stretched to low hills, with snowy mountains lurking behind.

“Why are those people clapping?” my two-year-old asked.

“Because we have a new president,” I answered dully. He had begun his first speech as the President of the United States.

Driving in circles, I switched off the radio mid-speech to focus on finding my destination. An Asian woman pointed to an empty parking space as I passed the resale shop we were meeting at. Strapping on the baby and reminding the other two to hold my hand, we found the rest of the group inside. Two Korean women browsed the women’s clothing, a Costa Rican high schooler smiled shyly at us and the leader—a Romanian woman—introduced herself and said we’d go next door for brunch in a few minutes.

At the restaurant, I settled my two kids with French toast and pushed back all the plates so my four-month-old couldn’t grab them. I looked up at the friendly new faces and we introduced ourselves. I told them I had lived in China and miss interacting with people from other countries and they each told me a small part of their story.

We didn’t talk about what was happening at that moment in Washington as we sat in the basement of an old home-turned café. We didn’t talk about marches, protests, inequality or misogyny. Instead, we communicated with the smiles that transcend language barriers, sharing simple facts about ourselves that help others build a picture of who we are in the shortest amount of time.

Afterwards, I beamed as my husband asked me how it was. This sort of thing feeds my soul. Goodbye Friday morning MOPS with your crafts and small talk, hello Friday morning International Women’s Club.

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We got a babysitter in the evening and skipped like freed foals back to the college town. Looking for parking, cheery light burst through the windows of the music building as people mingled around and shifted into lines. Holding hands, we rushed inside and found a hundred people or more listening to instructions from the caller. Part hipster, part outdoorsman, young and fit with a beard, ironed plaid shirt and camouflage ball cap, the man leading the barn dance seemed to epitomize Colorado. A blue-grass band sat with instruments poised, ready to accompany the room of expectant men, women, and even some children of every age and class.

Soon, people were shedding outer layers and downing tiny plastic cups of water. We do-se-doed, allamanded left and right and promenaded with our partner after weaving hands with three new couples in our square. By the end of the night, my feet ached and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. We laughed at the missteps, bumbles and wrong turns and clapped like children when we all got it right.

It made me wish church were more like this—like strangers from every walk of life forced to dance together–stepping on toes, turning the wrong direction and not taking life so seriously.

Yesterday was a heavy day for some and this day after the inauguration is full of history-making events like women’s marches, speeches and protests. I, too, have big feelings. But at the micro-level, life is still being lived.

Whether government dictates it or not, we continue the work of taking courage, keeping watch, feeding longing and feeding love. We intentionally enter uncomfortable situations as we experiment and escape our hum-drum life for a couple hours to make fools of ourselves and bounce around a room with strangers.  We learn how to belong by welcoming–and being–the stranger.

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