Keep Your Eyes Open & Your Easter Napkins Close at Hand {guest post}

By Kelly Simonsen | Instagram

Keep Your Eyes Open

“Cause if you never leave home, never let go
You’ll never make it to the great unknown till you
Keep your eyes open, my love” – NEEDTOBREATHE

The maxi taxi rolls to a stop at this dilapidated bus station
and I am more than ready to leave its sweltering interior.
After riding for ten hours with the windows firmly shut
my lungs beg for fresh air.

Our first smell in this new place
is the customary Eastern European cigarette smoke,
lingering on clothing,
swirling through the air,
orienting us to this unfamiliar world.

A group of gangly teenage boys stare at us,
the four obviously American girls
with their gigantic bags of luggage
and casual, foreign attire.

Our first order of business is locating a bathroom.
Between paying for our pink square of toilet paper
and experiencing the glory of the squatty potty
our bathroom expedition is a prime example
of full-immersion baptism into the culture.

Our guide leads us inside the ramshackle station
and I notice a massive mural on the wall.
He says it’s a remnant of Soviet propaganda,
and my history-loving brain is intrigued by
the mosaic of geometric shapes
delineating the communist view of society.

The interior of the station makes me feel uneasy
but the warmth of our hosts eases my feelings of trepidation.
They greet us with huge smiles and Moldovan chocolate,
giving us an opportunity to practice saying mulțumesc
and accept their radical hospitality.

And Your Easter Napkins Close At Hand

We transition from the station to the home of Magda,
our feisty Romanian host,
who moved to Moldova in pursuit of her calling
to work with marginalized youth.

The entrance to the house is charming
with a canopy of vines,
a freestanding porch swing,
and some scattered toys belonging to the neighbors’ kid.

On our first night,
and in every moment that follows,
Magda is overwhelmingly welcoming!

But I am so nervous.

It’s my second time overseas,
and my first time experiencing a homestay.
Nineteen-year-old me doesn’t know how to relax and be
in a space so radically unfamiliar.

Magda makes spaghetti for us
(to this day the best I’ve ever tasted)
and as we sit down to eat, she passes out napkins bearing the phrase
“Paște Fericit!”

She looks at us
and slyly,
in a manner we would soon recognize as Magda’s humor peeking through,
remarks, “it means
Welcome Girls!”

Our Romanian-speaking American friend bursts out laughing,
explaining that the napkins were leftovers
from the Easter celebration of six weeks prior
and as such, fittingly say,
“Happy Easter!”

The laughter cuts through my anxiety,
and here I sit, four years later,
remembering.

I spent one week with Magda which,
in the scope of meaningful human interaction,
is a mere blip on the radar.

And yet, her kindness,
and spunk,
and gracious welcome of a scared American college student remains with me
and inspires me to go and do likewise.

Maybe I’ll never again see that Chinese international student
who I picked up from the airport and settled into her dorm room.

But maybe,
someday,
years down the road
she’ll write a poem about my welcome.

Or even better,
she’ll invite the visiting scholar from Rwanda
to sit at her dinner table.

Because hospitality is a give-and-receive dance,
transcending our natural boundary lines
with laughter and food and the recognition
that maybe the best thing we could possibly say
in this age of discord is
“Come on in!”

About Kelly:

Kelly Simonsen is a cross-cultural friendship builder, INFJ/Enneagram 4, lover of people, music connoisseur, creative cook, wordsmith, and world traveler with roots in the Pacific Northwest who is learning to live well with chronic pain and exploring how her passions and visions can become realities in her life. However, at the heart of it all, she’s a woman who is learning that the core of her identity is the beloved of God, and that is enough. She writes at learningtoloveagainblog.wordpress.com, and can be found on social media on Instagram @kellysimonsen and on Twitter @kel_michelle_ .

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

We are giving away a copy of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way, so visit my Instagram or Facebook post and tag up to four friends and you’ll be entered one time per friend that you tag! Giveaway ends Tuesday, July 31st, at midnight (MT). Only U.S. residents, please! (and no bots….)

***

Our 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. The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for that, too, if you have a good idea!

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:

*Photo by Sergiu Vălenaș on Unsplash

July 25, 2018July 26, 2018

Cape Town Hospitality {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

By Patrice Gopo | Twitter: @patricegopo

Hidden beneath the clang of random crockery, the rustle of a few books, and the musty scent of cardboard boxes, I find three canvas paintings of cupcakes, maybe 8-inch square.

I draw my finger around the shape of one of the cupcakes and touch the rough edges of some unidentifiable art substance resembling upscale puffy paint or inedible frosting. Feeling the trio of canvases in my hands, I envision where I will place these paintings in my new home. In time, I know the cupcakes will find a place of honor on the blank walls because of my admiration for the artwork, but even more for the artist. Gazing at the bright images reminds me of the type of woman I want to be, the type of wife and mother I hope to become, and the type of home I want to have.

I remember the day in Cape Town as I was leaving Daphne’s house, my daughter snapped in her baby carrier on my chest, my feet ready to make the short walk back to my flat. Beside the entrance to Daphne’s catch-all room that doubled as a sewing room and artist’s haven, I saw the paintings of cupcakes.

“Those are cute,” I said knowing the talents of my hostess.

“Thanks. Do you want them?”

“I can have them?” I stooped to the ground, shifting my daughter’s weight to give me more space to kneel. My fingers traced the shape of one of the cupcakes.

“Yes, I’m trying to find a new home for them. Too many paintings in the house.” Her arms motioned to the walls on both sides of the hallway covered with a mixture of artwork and photographs.

“Yes! I want them.”

My imminent return to America sometimes felt as if I were counting down the days until the start of school. At other moments, I felt like a bright-eyed child counting down the minutes until Christmas morning. In the midst of those confusing emotions, I wanted to cling to this home and this woman who had cared for me as an extension of her own family.

Daphne rescued things others would likely discard. White shirts that stained or yellowed with time were dyed black. The desk that was too old, too big, and too much of a nuisance found new life as end tables. A lonely wife was offered genuine friendship.

She and her husband attended the church my husband brought me to right after our wedding and my move to South Africa. Just when my own well of loneliness threatened to submerge my head and leave me gasping for mercy or a return ticket to America, she invited me to be part of her life.

I would drop in for an occasional visit, and her smile made me think she was hoping I’d stop by for a chat. She answered the door dressed in blacks, whites, and shades of grey. Sometimes color burst forth in a shiny beaded necklace or a pair of orange flats. The linens and cottons flowed on her body like a spring breeze or gentle stream matching the ease of her own words.

“Hello! Are you coming for a cup of tea?” she would say.

To me, her cups of tea reminded me of water in her garden. In much the same way that she coaxed her plants to flourish through water, I flourished during conversations that came with Daphne’s tea. She listened to my stories and dispensed encouragement through her own personal experiences. Her eyes were pregnant with the wisdom that comes from years of life, marriage, and motherhood.

As we talked over tea, her hands were constantly creating: salads for lunch, mosaics out of old china, or sketches in her notebook. As I watched her hands in motion, I felt the urge to revisit creative parts of me long neglected. I imagined Daphne’s childhood was filled with birds with broken wings, necklaces that no longer clasped, and friends with painful family secrets.

A few months after my daughter’s birth, Daphne held my baby in the crook of her arm while I sat across the table watching them. The sticky sweet smell of new baby and the spice of fresh cut flowers gave the room the peaceful aroma of God’s creation. Daphne glanced at me as I enjoyed a rare, hands-free moment and sipped my tea.

“Try to remember what you like to do,” she said. “They grow up.” Her eyes glanced down at my daughter, “And one day you’ll want to remember what you liked to do before they were the only thing you did.”

Maybe it was at the end of that particular visit when I found the cupcake paintings. Or maybe it was months later after another visit whose words may have been different, but the comfort existing in the room was still the same. What happened just prior to securing the three paintings, I can’t recall as it blends into one long, pleasant memory.

Now in my new city of just over a year, I stare at the blank walls of my new house while my hands hold colorful paintings of cupcakes.

I am reminded that Daphne’s paintings challenge me to give of myself and the things I create. This may be a meal I prepare for guests, a home I long to decorate in the calming design of coziness, or a poem I write for my daughter. I am also reminded of my desire to let my love for God translate into care for my family, my friends, and the people who divinely link to my life in ways I didn’t plan.

And, finally, as I glance once more at those paintings and write this final sentence, I am reminded to be kind to myself and cherish my own dreams.

***

About Patrice:

Patrice Gopo is a 2017-2018 North Carolina Arts Council Literature Fellow. She is the author of All the Colors We Will See: Reflections on Barriers, Brokenness, and Finding Our Way (August 2018), an essay collection about race, immigration, and belonging. Please visit patricegopo.com/book to pre-order her book. Facebook: @patricegopowrites Instagram/Twitter: @patricegopo

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

***

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

*This post originally appeared at Ungrind and is used with permission.

**Includes Amazon affiliate links.

Cape Town Hospitality {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY Cape Town Hospitality {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY #crossculturalhospitality #invited #scrapingraisins #sacredhospitality #expatlife #expat #holyhospitality #choosewelcome #welcomein#crossculturalhospitality #invited #scrapingraisins #sacredhospitality #expatlife #expat #holyhospitality #choosewelcome #welcomein

July 23, 2018July 17, 2018

Egyptian Hospitality: Neighbors, Niqabs, and Too Much Food {guest post}

By Alicia Joy White | Instagram

“Hi! We’re your new neighbors!”

“I know.”

Awkward silence.

We leave the elevator and turn in opposite directions down the hallway.

That was our first meeting with our neighbor, Hakim, from across the hall. It taught us two things about him–he spoke English and he wasn’t interested in us.

Several weeks later, we found ourselves knocking at his door. My introverted husband and my introverted self were on a mission to meet our neighbors despite speaking almost no Arabic. I would like that to sound brave, but in reality we were hiding being cookies and our cute one-year-old.

Knees knocking, we prayed no one would answer. After a few seconds, we looked at each other, shrugging. At least we had tried to be neighborly. But as we turned to flee, a large figure clad entirely in black ripped opened the door and dragged us inside by the arms.

We soon learned that this joy-filled woman was Hakim’s wife, Fatima, and now she was gesturing for us to sit in their comfortable, well-worn living room chairs. She shyly attempted some English with us, discovered we weren’t going to get very far, and left. To our dismay, she emerged with Hakim in pajamas, rubbing his eyes grumpily. We quickly attempted an exit, but Fatima began serving tea, forcing Hakim to interpret the conversation.

Fatima stared curiously out at us from behind her niqab (a garment of clothing that covers the face with only the eyes are visible); I could feel her smiling under the black veil. Hakim, however, had been rudely awakened to translate for the naive foreigners who he had not been interested in meeting. Not exactly what we had been expecting, but you never know what you’ll get when you start knocking on doors.

This awkward encounter was the start of a beautiful friendship with our neighbors. We soon learned to love Hakim’s gruff outward demeanor that belied a warm heart full of adoration for our son. And Fatima would come to define hospitality for us in the way she dumped love and Egyptian food on us. We learned that Fatima had only recently chosen to wear the niqab and how Hakim disagreed with her decision. We learned about Fatima’s fear of foreigners (us, initially), and of many websites teaching Islamic apologetics. They rescued us from locking ourselves out precisely three times, once while I was clad in an above-the-knees nightgown, seven months pregnant (with twins). Funny now; incredibly not funny then.

Yet in the year and a half that we lived next to them, they never came to our home for a meal or sat in our living room and had tea with us. The majority of our memories were in their home, even though I tried to host them. Fatima came to our home many times, sometimes to exchange language practice, many more times to bring us food, but she never stayed and talked for hours as I did in her home. She never seemed comfortable in our home.

Maybe it was her discomfort outside of her own home, but I know that I had something to do with it. There were times she knocked on the door with plates overflowing with food that I just stood in the doorway, thanked her, and darted back inside before my son was awakened by the commotion. Other times I didn’t answer because I wanted to nap or just wanted to be alone. I think she knew I was in there though. There aren’t many secrets when you live across the hall from an Egyptian woman who stays at home all day. She knows everything.

As I reflected on her reluctance to accept an invitation to our home I learned something about myself–I prefer hospitality on my own terms. I like hosting because I control the scene. I like the idea of being dropped in on, but I don’t want it to interrupt my anticipated schedule (as loose of a term as that is these days). Rather than being hospitable at any time, I am building my life around “me time.”

God is teaching me about another level of hospitality that affects all of my relationships.

Click To Tweet

I’m learning that hospitality doesn’t only consist of inviting people over to your home, but at its core consists of intentional presence with whoever you’re with, whenever you happen to be with them. Vietnamese peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh says, “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence.”

How often am I really present?

Whether it’s my three-year-old who woke up from his nap early, a woman selling tissues on the street when I’m in a hurry, or a friend dropping by unannounced, these are moments I sometimes wish away, missing an opportunity to be present with someone special. In chasing moments of alone time, I wish away the people and relationships surrounding those moments.

So I’m asking myself a new question: How is God calling me to open my door to anyone who knocks like Fatima opened hers to me?

About Alicia:

A Coloradan by birth, Alicia currently lives in Cairo, Egypt with her husband, and three boys three and under. Always a nurse at heart, her impossible 24/7 job these days is keeping her boys alive while trying to learn Arabic, engage with her community, and listen to the stories of the refugees, Egyptians, and expats she is surrounded with. Follow her on Instagram @aliciaw8290.

***

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

July 20, 2018July 17, 2018

How We Welcome {guest post}

*By Anonymous

Asian cultures take hospitality very seriously. During our three years in southeast Asia, our local partners took care of us in countless, meaningful ways (tangible and intangible), from helping to find us housing (several times) to helping translate for us to feeding us and being our friends … the list truly is endless.

So when we learned that two of our friends from southeast Asia would be coming to the U.S. this spring as guests of honor at an fundraising event for big donors, we (and our former teammates) both asked the organization if they could come early to spend time with us on the west coast of the U.S.

While my husband and I had both been looking for work since the beginning of the year, neither of us had found jobs by the time our friends arrived from southeast Asia. We subconsciously aside that week to be fully be present with them. We were able to take them to the coast (one friend, 44 years old, had never seen the ocean), and the next day, we drove them halfway to meet up with our former teammates. It was the first time either of our southeast Asian friends had seen snow. We thought through meals and the people they would like to see while with us (contacts they had made from people who had visited southeast Asia on previous short-term teams). We gathered coats and warm gear since no matter how warm of a spring it was on the west coast of the U.S., we knew it would feel cold to them and I know our teammates did similarly during their stint together with them.

I don’t list these examples to pat ourselves on the back, but to reflect with a measure of awe at how far I’ve grown in my hospitality. There were a couple of times that we paid for meals, under the surface aware of our own unemployed status, and yet fully knowing the opportunities we had to bless our friends during that week paled in comparison to all they had carried us through for three years while we were guests in their country.

During that week we discussed hospitality with them off and on. Early on, the 27 year old’s father sent my husband a Facebook message in Burmese that basically said, “Please take good care of my son.” I imagine, like a good Asian would, my husband internalized the weight of that statement. After that, several times during the week, both friends commented on how well taken care of they both felt.

Toward the end of their time with us, one of the friends jokingly said, “Who will take care of us when we go to the fundraiser [that none of our team would be present at]?” I was starting to wonder the same thing…

Even though some of the organization’s staff would be there and had already met our southeast Asian friends, they had very limited overseas experience and I worried that they might not fully understand the ways that our friends would interpret “feeling cared for” over the weekend. I mentioned it to one of the event planners over the phone, and she said, “Oh, we’ll take care of them. We’ve got them covered. We won’t leave them all alone,” not in a dismissive way, but from a posture of genuine concern.

Overall, it sounded like our friends had a good time, but as I was messaging with the younger friend as he waited in the San Francisco airport to board his flight back over the ocean, he admitted, “There are no friends here like you taking care of us.”

Interestingly, one donor gifted this young man $2,000 to put towards his upcoming wedding. Coming from a country and economy such as his, this is an enormous blessing for this friend — it relieves a ton of pressure on him and his family, and helps with a master’s degree that he is working on. And yet his words confirmed my concerns that hospitality was not the strong suit for American Christians, even generous partners to the ministry.

As we continue in our own re-entry and transition back to life in the United States, my husband and I want to be intentional about continuing on with certain values we learned from our overseas living, not least of which is hospitality and the ability to be present with people.

We have so much to learn from one another, and sometimes it is as simple as sharing a meal or opening our home. If you find yourself worrying about the square footage of your space or whether you have what it takes to host someone from another culture, take a moment to consider what those from the majority world are accustomed to. Each one of us, the world over, just wants to know that we are welcome. That we belong. Surely, as Jesus-followers, we can offer that.

Each one of us, the world over, just wants to know that we are welcome. That we belong. Surely, as Jesus-followers, we can offer that.

Click To Tweet

* The author of this piece asked to remain anonymous to protect the identity of the friends and organizations mentioned.

***

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

July 18, 2018July 17, 2018

Building Bridges with Chinese Muslims {guest post}

By Jodie Pine | Instagram: @jodiepine

God doubly blessed our family with the opportunity to live, not only in the hospitable land of China, but also among the super hospitable Muslim minority people there.

Whenever we visited someone in the village where my husband did ethnographical research, we were served tea and something to eat.

Sometimes I had to let my best friend there know that I would really rather talk with her than eat, as I would stop by to visit and she would spend most of the time in the kitchen cooking for me! They are extremely generous, servant-hearted people who greatly honored us as their guests.

Initially, after being on the receiving end of Chinese Muslim hospitality, I felt intimidated to try to extend it myself. I thought I needed to fill the table with a huge variety of dishes like they do. Eventually though, I came to realize that being present and interested in them, with a learner’s heart, was more important to our guests than an impressive meal.

During the 4 ½ years that our family lived in central western China, we probably learned more through our mistakes than our “successes” about extending hospitality to our Muslim friends.

Once when my husband and sons were out of town, I invited a group of female Muslim college students to our home, and my daughter prepared a Halal lunch. We were both very surprised when they refused to eat our food. They didn’t even drink the tea we offered them, because they said we were not clean. After engaging in a somewhat heated spiritual discussion with us for about an hour, they said they needed to leave.

I had thought “being clean” meant the food we were offering them was clean (meaning that we did not cook pork in our kitchen). However, a friend I consulted afterward helped me to understand that when we had all entered the apartment together they had not seen me wash my hands, and I hadn’t offer them a place to wash either. Clearly, there was more to being clean than I had realized.

Another one of our cross-cultural lessons was that our Chinese Muslim friends had a wide range of devoutness. Some were simply non-pork eating Muslims, and that was the only thing that made them different from the Han Chinese. Others took their faith practices and traditions very seriously.

Once, my husband asked my Muslim friend who came over during Ramadan about the fast he assumed she was doing. She politely informed him that actually she doesn’t practice Ramadan, and would like a glass of water! That was an awkward situation, but we were all able to laugh about it. We learned that making wrong assumptions had the potential of making our Muslim friends feel guilty, like they were not “good” Muslims.

On the other end of the spectrum, one of our more devout Muslim neighbors had our family over for meals several times, but consistently refused our invitations to have them over. Instead of taking it personally, we concluded that maybe eating food that came from our non-Muslim kitchen would have violated their conscience.

Over time, we discovered that some of our Muslim friends had no problem eating the chicken that we served when we told them that it came from the grocery store with a Halal sticker on it. Others told us that they would only eat chicken that was bought from a Muslim butcher at the market, to give them confidence that the proper prayers had been said when the animal was killed.

When our family noticed that it was the youngest son in the family who had the responsibility of filling the tea cups of the guests, our youngest son (before we adopted two more) took over this task and did very well. We also observed that younger people treated their elders with a lot of respect, and so we tried our best to incorporate this value into the way we treated our guests as well.

We learned that in group settings, men and women often ate in different rooms. So we were prepared, when groups came to our home, to set up a separate women’s table in my daughter’s bedroom if that would make our guests feel more comfortable.

Sometimes guests wanted to recite their prayers during the prayer time that occurs around dinnertime. We offered our daughter’s bedroom for them to pray in, as it was in the best location facing Mecca. We made blankets available for the them to put on the floor, or sometimes they used their own jackets. We also removed all pictures that would be between them and the window while they prayed, as that is forbidden.

Looking back now, I would say that my biggest lesson from our time of living among Chinese Muslims was: If we enter a new culture and are easily offended or quick to judge what we encounter as “wrong” instead of “different,” we’ll end up building walls instead of bridges.

Humility in cross-cultural hospitality enables us to realize that we are always capable of making mistakes or being misunderstood, but we can refuse to let either of those concerns stop us from seeking and building relationships with those who are different from us.

There is a strong message in our world right now that Muslims are our enemies. Our family’s experience with Chinese Muslims proved the opposite to be true. We are grateful for God’s gift of life-changing friendships with some of the most beautiful people in the world.

*Parts of the this post originally appeared during two interviews at The Serviette.

About Jodie:

As a mom, I juggle two different kinds of parenting — long-distance to our 3 adult kids (who are white on the outside but very Chinese on the inside) and our two adopted Chinese boys at home who have special needs. Since being back in the US, my husband has taken up cooking Chinese food, with a specialty of Lanzhou beef noodles (where we used to live and where our boys are from), giving us a taste of “home.” You can follow our story on my blog. I am also on Instagram and Facebook.

***

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

July 16, 2018July 14, 2018

A Shared Burden in Germany {guest post}

By Elizabeth Hinnant | Twitter: @LizHinnant

I’ve always prided myself on being able to take care of things on my own – not so much because I value self-sufficiency, but mostly because I don’t like being a burden on others. That’s just good sense, right? Ironically, it took a house full of extremely sensible German young people to show me that needing help doesn’t make me a burden, and even when it does, burdens are always better when they are shared.

After graduating from college in England, I moved to Germany to start a PhD and work in a Chemistry lab. The country was beautiful, but my experience wasn’t great. My boss was emotionally abusive, and it turned out that I liked learning about Chemistry more than actually doing it. A year into my project, as I was slowly figuring all this out, I left for a conference and returned to my basement apartment to find almost every surface covered in fuzzy, white mold. The heavy wooden furniture. The cork backs of pictures on the walls. My boots. My faux-leather jacket. Most of my clothes and coats. Completely covered in mold.

It turns out that without air conditioning, it’s important to leave the windows open for a few minutes every night in the summer in order to keep the humidity levels down. I had noticed the apartment was a bit muggy and even bought a dehumidifier, but nobody had clued me in to this crucial bit of German housekeeping. I spent the next two weeks staying with friends and spending an hour or two each night scrubbing every inch of the apartment and dry cleaning most of my belongings. I even had friends from my church come help me finish cleaning off everything that had been affected.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough. Eventually, as I prepared to move back in, the elderly owners of the house told me in broken English that my boxes of belongings in the basement hall were making it difficult for them to sleep because of the mess. They got increasingly agitated until I started calling every number in my phone to find someone who could translate.

One of the first people I managed to get in contact with was an acquaintance from church, a girl I had hung out with a few times but didn’t know super well. Once she heard what was happening, she didn’t hesitate. She told me to hang on and that she would be right over.

Twenty minutes later, she listened patiently as the couple – with whom I thought I had established a good relationship – listed all of my faults in humiliating detail. My German wasn’t great, but I caught the gist of the conversation: I didn’t sit out in the garden enough. I let my recycling stack up. They could see through the windows that I sometimes left clothes on the floor. I was a terrible housekeeper. They had been renting out that room for decades and never had a problem until I moved in. As much as I’d tried to be a good tenant, I had become my worst fear: a burden. My heart fell into my shoes.

As soon as they were out of earshot, my friend asked if I understood what they had said. I nodded. She looked me in the eye and said, “You’re coming to stay with me. Tonight. You don’t need to stay in a place like this.” I didn’t know what to say, but she insisted. I’m pretty sure I started to cry. She said she was certain that if they knew I could understand, they wouldn’t have been so harsh, but she was going to help me get out anyway. She helped me gather my things, and we biked across town to her apartment.

I ended up staying with her and her roommates for a month as I searched for another place to live. We had amazing group breakfasts, and she made me watch Friends with her when she found out I’d never seen it. At one point, she told me she was going out of town for a week, and to make myself at home while she was gone. I later learned she had exams and went to stay with her parents in the next town so that we would both have the space we needed.

Towards the end of the month, I realized I needed to leave the lab I was working in, and I eventually decided to move back to the U.S. altogether. Another friend later told me that the mold problem was likely due to the super-thick windows that my landlords had installed shortly before I moved in, and even if it was my fault, I was clearly doing everything I could to make things right, even if I wasn’t living up to their standards for domestic bliss (which were apparently exceptionally high in that area of Germany).

That month is still something of a blur in my memory, but I’ve never forgotten my friend’s hospitality and generosity. She taught me that even when you have nothing left to give, true friends value you for who you are. Where other people treated me poorly and found all kinds of ways justify their actions despite my best efforts, she treated me well – even to the point of inconvenience – for no reason at all. She saw the situation I was in and gladly picked up the burden so that it could be shared. She didn’t want me to struggle alone in a place where I didn’t know the language and didn’t have family nearby to assist when things got tough. She made space for me just because I needed it, and because she had resources I did not.

She made space for me just because I needed it, and because she had resources I did not. @LizHinnant

Click To Tweet

I’ve spent the last seven years trying to learn to see myself (and, by extension, others) the way she saw me – as a friend in a tough situation, not as a problem to be solved or criticized or ignored. I don’t know that I’ve quite succeeded, but if I ever do, it will be because of the unparalleled hospitality I experienced.

About Elizabeth:

Elizabeth Hinnant lives in Atlanta with her husband Neal and a corgi/shepherd diva pup named Heidi. She (Elizabeth, not the dog) writes about science, tech and chronic illness and sometimes tweets @LizHinnant.

***

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

July 12, 2018July 12, 2018

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!

***

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:

July 3, 2018July 2, 2018

The Creator’s Psalm {guest post}

By Carlene Byron | Blog

The Lord is my favorite artist;
I shall never cease to be amazed.

He surrounds me with beauty and splendor,
With treasures of intricate mystery and ineffable intent.

He leads me into opportunities beyond imagining.
He guides my hands as I create.

He gives wisdom to know the false from the true,
To discern the Spirit from the muse,

To shape what is pure and good and right and holy.
He has filled His world with riches beyond knowledge,

Created in every form to serve every being,
And like ripe fruit, I pluck what I need.

His creativity knows no end,
And I will rejoice in Him and His works forever.

About Carlene:

The former editor of New England Church Life and The New England Christian, Carlene Hill Byron is enjoying being home in Maine after 20 years in North Carolina. She is a professional fundraiser supporting adults with disabilities and is a member of the Redbud Writers Guild. Find her at Pocket Purpose Blog , The Church and Mental Illness, and on Facebook.

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail Carroll’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). You can read her post here.

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

2. Tag up to four friends on either my Instagram or Facebook posts about this blog post and I’ll enter YOU (not your friend) once per friend you tag! Contest ends Wednesday, July 4th, at midnight (MT)*Only U.S. residents, please! And no bots;-)

***

This is the final post in our series on the theme “Create.” Our next theme 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! 🙂

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

*All images are the property of Carlene Byron and are used with permission.

July 2, 2018July 2, 2018

How We Wait: A Poet’s Spiritual Practice {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

By Abigail Carroll | Website

This year, my church celebrated Lent in an unconventional way: we created art together. Specifically, we snapped black-and-white photographs designed to capture the theme of waiting.

Everyone was invited to submit their best six photos, and a skilled artist in the congregation assembled them into what we called a photography quilt, which we displayed during the Palm Sunday service.

As a member of the Arts Team, I had helped come up with the idea, but I harbored concerns that we would find a sufficient variety of examples when it came to visually depicting waiting—would we all end up photographing the same six things? I also wondered about the spiritual value of the project: would it merely offer a feel-good community experience, or would the church grow spiritually? Would I grow spiritually?

To my astonishment, I hardly had to search for waiting: it found me.

Shortly after we launched this arts initiative, I found myself in that iconic space of involuntary tarrying: a hospital waiting room. A woman at my church with no family in the area had asked me to pick her up following minor surgery. I arrived at the hour she was scheduled for release, but the surgery had been delayed, took longer than expected, and required more recovery time than usual.

Because I had anticipated a simple pick-up, I had neglected to pack reading material or my laptop, so I spent what amounted to about eight hours flipping through magazines, wandering hospital lobbies, and listening to the conversations of others who were also waiting. I found myself moved to pray for many.

As I snapped a photo of the sign, Bernice and Milton Stern Surgical Waiting Area, I realized that what I was waiting for was more than my friend to emerge from the surgical ward in a wheelchair escorted by a nurse: I was waiting—with a deep sense of yearning—for the time when surgery will be obsolete, when, as John the Revelator puts it, “there will be no more death or mourning and crying or pain” (Revelations 21:4). I was waiting for the old order of things to pass away and the new order of things to be ushered in.

The second photograph I snapped was not in a hospital, but in my home.

My spirit had been feeling lifeless for some time, and I had been struggling to experience refreshment in prayer. One day when I was simply out of words to pray, I decided to take ten minutes with God in quiet with no attempt to use (or even think) words.

I installed myself in the rocker at my bedroom window overlooking a neighboring farm, and I gazed out over the white, snowy pastures. Something happened during those ten minutes that I can’t quite name. When I rose from my chair, I sensed that God’s presence had been with me, and my soul felt as though it had taken a deep, long breath. Once again, the theme of waiting had found me, so I photographed the chair next to the window, bathed in winter light.

A third image of waiting presented itself while I was on a walk, but not just any walk.

I had learned that dear friends whom I considered practically family would be moving away. I was devastated. All morning, the sky had been spitting snow, and my heart was feeling as bleak as the damp day, which, though it was April in Vermont, yielded no sign of spring. That is, until I stumbled on a pile of brush on the side of the road sporting small velvety buds. It was pussy willow branches that had been clipped, but were blossoming just the same. I gathered some of the clippings and snapped a photo, and as I did, I realized the picture was less about the willow clippings, than of my clipped soul, which felt utterly dormant and cut off, but which I knew would bud again, even if I couldn’t yet see the life.

We are all waiting for something—a call, news about a job, a broken bone to heal, vacation, the coffee to percolate, spring. Waiting is inherent to the human condition. What I realized, as I participated in our Lenten arts project, however, is that just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting.

Just as the poetry of everyday life resonates with eternal truths, every instance of our day-to-day waiting bears the imprint of a larger waiting. @ACarrollPoet

Click To Tweet

In his letter to the Romans, Paul says, “[We] groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8:23). This is the ultimate waiting to which all our other waiting points.

On Palm Sunday, when the photography quilt hung before the congregation, we beheld a portrait of our individual waiting, but also of our collective hope—a hope in the gospel’s promise that one day all which is broken will be restored.

I like to think that the act of snapping each photograph helped pique our hunger for a world gloriously renewed. At the very least, it piqued mine. I have come to recognize the experience of longing in my daily life as an opportunity to remember the One for whom I long, who has pledged to renew all things. As for pussy willows and waiting rooms, I don’t think I’ll ever look at them in quite the same way again.

***

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

We are giving away two of Abigail’s books of poetry: Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017).

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

1. Sign up for my newsletter below AND/OR

About Abigail:

Abigail Carroll is author of two books of poetry, Habitation of Wonder (Wipf & Stock 2018) and A Gathering of Larks: Letters to Saint Francis from a Modern-Day Pilgrim (Eerdmans 2017). Her first book, Three Squares: The Invention of the American Meal (Basic Books 2013), was a finalist for the Zocalo Book Award. She serves as pastor of arts and spiritual formation at Church at the Well in Burlington, Vermont. You can find her online at www.abigail-carroll.com and follow her on Twitter at @ACarrollPoet.

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

**All images except the first one are the property of Abigail Carroll and are used with permission.

June 29, 2018July 2, 2018

I Am a Maker {guest post}

By Debby Hudson | Twitter: @debby_hudson

I don’t like fitting rooms. Some places try to look a little fancier than the slate-gray-institutional-look cubicles at Target. At White House Black Market, heavy curtains hang between you and the salesperson. Victoria’s Secret has solid black doors helping you feel more private trying on things you know weren’t made for your body.

What I really don’t like is arming myself with various sizes, because who knows how the new cut of jeans will fit this time. (That’s code for how much weight have I really gained.) The whole experience leaves me feeling like I’m the one who doesn’t fit.

But, we have to wear clothes (thank you Adam and Eve … I mean, really, thank you!) and the perfect fit jeans you bought at the Gap last year have been discontinued. And it’s back to the fitting room.

I’ve been trying some different things on the past few years. I saw a few things I thought would fit. I tried writing. I joined a few groups, took a course or two and started learning the language. I worked up the courage to submit to a few sites and got rejections and acceptances, both of which made me feel like a “writer.” But the fit wasn’t one I was going to wear long term.

Next I tried on photography. Again, I took a few classes, joined a group or two and shot, deleted, shot, deleted. I grew my following on Instagram and sold a handful of photos through Shutterstock. This fit is closer to being true. Perhaps because it’s coming more natural to me. It’s helping me discover more about the creative part of me. Casual and fancy are both good fits with this lens.

I have always been a maker. You might even say it’s in my DNA coming from a line of makers.

My paternal granny made tiny Barbie dresses with crocheted purses for them. I was the delighted recipient of her skills.

Mama tried her hand at ceramics, tole painting, sewing, knitting and a few more things along the way. She was my biggest encourager nudging me to go further with my art.

In her family the women are particularly creative with sewing, decorating, painting and even upholstery. Yes, we are makers. Our hands need to be busy with needle and thread or brushes and paint. It’s an ingrained part of who we are.

When our children started school I took some of the things I made to local shops to sell. Some were sold on consignment and others bought outright at a margin allowing them to make their profit.

I learned what did and didn’t fit for me:

Making = a good fit

Selling = never the right size

Times have changed. Craft shows that were plentiful at the time have shrunk in size and variety. Places like Hobby Lobby sell items that can be sold at low cost.

The opposite is true of sewing. Why spend the money on fabric and the time involved when you can buy the dress cheaper at Target?

For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making.

I’ve dipped my toes in selling again. The internet makes it easier. It’s like a fancy changing room where you can hide behind the sleek black door while someone you’ll never see scrutinizes your work.

While friends have been encouraging me to sell, it’s still not easy. Increased quality of phone cameras has made everyone a photographer. Who needs to buy someone else’s work?

Even though the internet seems to have made it simple for an artist to sell their work the result is a saturated market. How does anyone get their work seen? Now we have to be makers, salespeople and marketers.

Seduced by the ease of uploading photographs, I submitted a few to Shutterstock. They were accepted and after a few weeks I had my first sale. Twenty-five cents! Reality and humility often go hand in hand.

We are facing a big change in our life next year. We are retiring and I already have visions for the Florida room in our retirement home. My mind’s eye pictures shelves in one corner holding a variety of props for my still life photography. Windows on three sides will bathe the room in light for painting and shooting stills. Perhaps an area in front of the white-painted brick fireplace to set up a revolving vignette. I envision the serenity that comes with creating, even in creating the space itself.

Maybe this new place and new chapter will lead toward more risks. Maybe I’ll try on new things in the fitting room that’s called retirement. Maybe I’ll become friends with that fitting room.

Today there are a lot of maybes. What is certain is that I’m a maker as much as I’m a wife, mama, MeMe, sister and friend. While I’m creating images on the screen and paintings in my tablets, I most want to make a place for peace in grace.

*All but title image are by Debby and are used by permission!

About Debby:

My husband and I partner in ministry as ordained ministers in The Salvation Army. We’ve been involved with the recovery community for 14 years and are Administrators of a six-month residential program for men. Through our work in this area, we see hope shared on a daily basis. We are witnesses to God’s amazing grace. When I’m not being a surrogate mom to these men, I enjoy many artistic endeavors and share a lot of them on my Facebook page. Come find me on Twitter at @debby_hudson and Facebook at @debbyhudsoncreative. Check out Debby’s photography here and here.

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

I Am a Maker. "For some of us, it’s not the cost of supplies but that zen moment we get in the making." #creativity #making #creatives #artists #art #photography #artistsreflections

Author: Scraping Raisins

Keep Your Eyes Open & Your Easter Napkins Close at Hand {guest post}

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

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

Cape Town Hospitality {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

BOOK GIVEAWAY–ENDS JULY 31st!

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

Egyptian Hospitality: Neighbors, Niqabs, and Too Much Food {guest post}

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

How We Welcome {guest post}

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

Building Bridges with Chinese Muslims {guest post}

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

A Shared Burden in Germany {guest post}

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

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

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

The Creator’s Psalm {guest post}

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

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

How We Wait: A Poet’s Spiritual Practice {guest post} + BOOK GIVEAWAY

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

TWO WAYS TO ENTER

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

I Am a Maker {guest post}

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

Welcome to Scraping Raisins!