Connecting with Cameroon Refugees in Idaho

By Jessica Peretti | Instagram: @roonieandlucia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Jessica:

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

October 22, 2019October 10, 2019

No More Strangers {guest post}

By Jessica Udall | Website: www.lovingthestrangerblo g .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

October 14, 2019October 13, 2019

What If We Viewed Refugees as Guests? {guest post}

By Nicole O’Meara | Instagram: @nicoleeomeara

My first experience with refugees was when I was very young, although I didn’t learn the word, “refugee,” until many years later. I was taught to call them, “Guests.”

For a short time, my father worked for an inner-city mission in the Bay Area of California. As a mechanic, he was responsible to keep the mission’s vans and buses running. When they were short-staffed, my father drove the bus to pick up Guests and bring them to the mission. On occasion, I was allowed to accompany him on these trips.

I sat on the front seat and watched as the bus filled with people very different than me. Dad told me they were from Vietnam and Cambodia, places I didn’t know how to find on a map. Brown-skinned parents carried tired children, some without shoes. They whispered words that clipped and twanged in my ears. Their clothes, in various shades of brown, hung loose on every one of them. The oldest, wrinkled and hunched over, were given the best seats, a clear sign of reverence even a child could not miss. As they piled in, I wondered why they were there and why they looked so sad.

Once, I followed the crowd off the bus and into a small chapel. The room was familiar enough, with lines of wooden pews and a large oak table near the front. There, the Guests sang hymns using strange words, not the words I sang to the same tune on Sundays. I watched more than listened as a man at the front stood to speak. It didn’t need to be in English for me to recognize the sounds of a fiery gospel message. The children fell asleep while their mothers rubbed their heads and the preacher droned on. My sister and I would have run off to play in the back of the room after such a long sermon but these children stayed with their parents quietly. My first experience with refugees, guests to our country, was simply a look at tired, weary people.

My second experience with refugees came three decades later. Our church partnered with a local ministry to share Thanksgiving dinner with Arab refugees. With our favorite Thanksgiving side dish in tow, my husband and I packed our three children into the van and drove to Sacramento.

Our two youngest children, adopted from Ethiopia, were still learning English at the time and didn’t understand Thanksgiving or why we were eating turkey dinner with strangers who also didn’t understand English. In a way, they had more in common with our Arab guests than we did, being equally new to every holiday and social gathering. As a mother to little newbie Americans, my heart opened to the discomfort our Arab Guests were experiencing.

We entered a crowded hall packed wall-to-wall with people. Families entered, timid and wide-eyed. Some recognized a ministry worker from the local coffee shop that also served as a translation center. Others clearly knew no-one. They wore an array of Middle Eastern clothing mixed with Goodwill hand-me-downs: ill-fitting jeans and half-worn sneakers.

We found our assigned table and set out our holiday dish. A translator introduced us to the Guests we would dine with, a man and his wife and three children. Just like us, a family of five. Our hosts for the evening gave a mini-lesson on pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving dinner but I doubt many in the room understood.

The Guests who sat at our table had come to Sacramento from Syria less than one month earlier. The mother brought a plate of hummus to share and sat silently in a beautiful black headscarf. The father was more eager to talk. Our translator kindly relayed their story as the father told it.

They were from Syria but left suddenly after he was shot in the leg, he explained as he pointed to his thigh still wrapped in a compression bandage. ISIS soldiers came to the hotel where he worked and shot him, accusing him of being friendly with Americans. They did not want to leave Syria like so many of their friends had but after the shooting, they had no choice. Having lived away from home three times in my life, I understood the desire to be home. It was clear to me that while they were guests in our country, they would dearly love to be back home.

Sometime later, I realized my children and their children had left the table to play in the corner. I looked at the mother with the universal expression that says, “I’m ok with this if you are.” She smiled back, displaying the first sign of comfort all evening. In that moment, I realized the relief my children brought this tired mother and I was grateful we had come. I gave my kids a thumbs-up signal and off they went. Our Ethiopian children and their Arabic children found a way to cross the language-barrier: a game of tag. It seemed to be universally true that mothers from all countries get worn out by antsy children and children can lead the way to crossing cultural boundaries.

Sharing a holiday meal with refugees opened my eyes to many things, perhaps the most practical is this: food facilitates connection. In the end, we gobbled up their delicious hummus and our hungry, weary guests left with full tummies. My children brought joy to their family just by being kids. And as we sat together, my husband and I listening to their story gave dignity to their journey. It cost my family so little to connect with these Guests, to make them feel comfortable in a season when every day is filled with small discomforts. Hospitality, I learned, is a simple way to welcome the stranger, to welcome the Guest.

About Nicole:

Nicole O’Meara writes about community, adoption, and hope. As a survivor of undiagnosed disease and a mother by adoption of children with trauma backgrounds, hope is the anthem in her home. Nicole lives with her family and sweet aussiedoodle in the Sierra foothills of northern California. Find her at her website, or on Facebook or Instagram.

October 26, 2018October 26, 2018

A Philosophy of Home {guest post}

By Josi Seibert

My husband and I live in Chicago on the north side on a quiet, apartment-lined street called Mozart in a neighborhood where our white faces are the minority. Our apartment building is 100 years old and is a four-flat containing four apartments or homes. We (and our two small children) live on the first floor. The other three homes are inhabited by people in our church community. Some call it a Christian commune, some joke it’s a cult. 😉 But we call it intentional and awesome.

The ins and outs of our home are fluid and our door is revolving. Our beloved neighbor-friends “pop in” to chat, ask a question, borrow something, eat a meal or play with our wild kids. Our Afghani friends, who live a couple blocks away, knock on our door at 11pm in tears needing help and comfort. Whether weekend stays of family and friends, a Brazilian man here for a month to study English, or dear friends needing a place to lay their heads in between homes, we have experienced the life-giving, joy-yielding potential of hospitality. We swap stories over bowls of pasta and glasses of wine, laugh together playing Catch Phrase and Funny Bones, and share traumas and dreams over chocolate and cups of steaming tea.

As I’ve thought about hospitality, read about it, practiced it and been a beneficiary of it, I want to share with you five beliefs I now hold that have helped inform my philosophy of home and opening my door to neighbors, friends, and strangers.

1. All is gift. Remembering that everything in my possession (my home, my family, my money, my talents and my stuff) has been loaned to me. As a child of God, I believe He is my heavenly Father, He provides for my needs and that He is the giver of everything good. All is a gift from His generous hand that I neither deserve nor earn nor own. I believe that at the end of my life, I leave empty-handed. All my precious stuff is provisional and short-lived. This belief unpeels my white-knuckled fingers from their grasp around MY things. This belief opens my hand, palms up, ready to share and bless others with what was never mine in the first place.

2. Exclusion vs. embrace. When I meet people I quickly categorize them. Are they better than me? Am I better than them? Are they a threat to me in any way? Can we be so different and be friends? My insecurity demands I judge and compare, which results in walls, defense, exclusion. But when I take a step back and remember every person’s origin, I see an image bearer. Someone who was created in the image of God with beauty and dignity. She is worthy of my time. He has a story to tell and aches to be heard. She has something to contribute. He longs to be loved, lovable, and loving. When I understand how God sees and values them, I choose to soften and embrace.

3. Give it away. Serving others and following Jesus are inseparable. In the Gospel of Mark chapter 10 Jesus says to his disciples, “Whoever wants to be great must become a servant. Whoever wants to be first among you must be your slave. That is what the Son of Man has done: He came to serve, not to be served—and then to give away his life in exchange for many who are held hostage.” (MSG) Jesus gives the example of what it is to serve – both friends and enemies (he invited his betrayer to the table and washed his feet). Hospitality invites us to choose a sacrificial posture of service to others, giving our lives away to build the body of Christ.

4. Boundaries. I think there is a place for boundaries to our homes, especially if our health or marriage is at stake. However, independent Western thinkers, like myself, are bent to believe we need “my space.” We feel entitled to “me time” and do our best to dodge inconveniences of any kind. I’m the first to confess that this is sooooooo me. And, yes, we may need time and space, but they seem to serve us as excuses NOT to invite or live a life accessible to others. I’m convinced, based on personal reflection and experience, that one of the biggest dangers and inhibitors to love (including hospitality) is busyness. We’re hyper-scheduled people with little room for margin. And it’s margin that lets people in. It’s margin that opens the door. It’s margin that has time to listen and to learn how to love another. It’s an act of vulnerability to be available and give people access to your life and home, but it’s the way of love.

5. Learn by being a guest. It’s important to be both the host and the guest. It’s both good and sacred to be the guest. Hospitality is an expression of the heart and nature of God. It is a picture of God the Father, Jesus the Son and the Holy Spirit inviting outsiders to become part of the family of God. I, and all that identify as the family of God, was first a guest. Our being a recipient first informs how we host. God’s generous, all-welcoming love is the stick we measure with and evaluate our own lifestyles and practice of hospitality.

Hospitality is an expression of the heart and nature of God.

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Hospitality has been a good teacher to us. Over the past seven years we’ve intentionally practiced hospitality, we’ve learned lessons in how to create a safe place where people can hang their hats, let their guards down, have their needs noticed and met and belong. Lessons in how to nourish our guests’ stomachs and souls. Lessons in self-sacrifice and laying down our lives for the good and benefit of others. Lessons in the beauty in diversity of culture and beliefs and the power of listening, relating, encouraging, disagreeing and still loving. Lessons in how church can be found around our table. Lessons in how hospitality is a beautiful means to share the gospel.

In a word, hospitality is love.

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Josi’s Recommendations for Books on Hospitality:
The Gospel Comes with a House Key by Rosaria Butterfield
Imitating Jesus by Lewie Clark
Bread and Wine by Shauna Niequist

About Josi:

Josi grew up on a farm in rural Nebraska. She received a Masters in Biblical and Intercultural Studies in Chicago. Shortly thereafter, Josi and her husband moved to West Africa to do business and non-profit work. Once they returned to Chicago, they worked for a refugee resettlement agency. Now they work for Icon Ministries to make disciples of Jesus within the context of love, friendship and hospitality. She is enthused about having people around her table, finding ordinary adventures with her husband and two young kiddos and uniquely living out Jesus’ commission to make disciples of all nations.

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This month on Scraping Raisins we’re talking about practical and impractical hospitality. Be sure to follow along on my social media channels (buttons on top right of website) and subscribe to my newsletter to be updated on all the posts, plus links to thought-provoking articles from the web and a few books and podcasts.

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October 9, 2018October 16, 2018

Serve Small {guest post}

By Sarah Rennicke | Twitter: @SRennAwake

It starts with a smile.

To look someone straight in the eyes, see into their life, and welcome them to yours.

It’s a simple hello and follows with an honest ask: “How are you?” Then, taking the time to look and see as they tell you. You remember what they said, follow up with another question, ask them again about it next time you two run into each other.

Something so small, which may at first be perceived as insignificant, quite possibly makes all the difference in the world.

Hospitality reaches beyond our homes—it’s bred in the tiny details of the day. Opening doors, sharing a smile, complimenting a jacket or eye color. It’s spreading wide our hearts to all those we rub shoulders with throughout the day. It is seeing someone—really seeing—with a deep soul-eyed stare. Noticing the person—not the problem, not the situation—but deciding to invest care into the stranger, approach them as someone created in God’s image and sharing in their value.

Listening instead of lecturing.

It’s the little things that make a person feel seen, set apart, welcomed and connected, embraced right where they are, as they are, in that moment.

It’s the little things that make a person feel seen, set apart, welcomed and connected, embraced right where they are, as they are, in that moment. @SRennAwake

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I am a director of a nonprofit youth café. I determine what we do and how we do it. I set the tone, create the intentional culture. And everything that we hope to develop in deep relationship starts with a smile and salutation. Every person who walks through the door is greeted this way. When they come to the counter to order coffee, we ask how their day is going. We really ask and respond according to hearing their response.

“How was your day?”

“What made it tiring?”

“How are you holding up with the long hours and crazy class load?”

We pay attention, and sympathize, offer them a listening ear and tell them we’re glad they’re here.

We want to create a space where teens feel seen and welcomed as soon as they cross the threshold, somewhere they can be fully themselves and breathe from the crazy world around them. Give them a piece of peace, if only for thirty minutes or however brief their stay.

Every time, make their day a little better. Touches of grace sprinkled in simple conversations, a gateway into talk that’s real, building blocks for true and genuine relationship.

Sometimes hospitality means shrinking down into the smallness of details, into the little things of life that often get passed over, forgotten. To step in where others feel they are too busy to dig into the trivial, the minute moments where another human being is SEEN as who they are—a brother, a sister, stitched of the same skin.

Could it be small things that show we’re approachable, that draw the onlooker closer to the light of our fire? Such impractical hospitality can turn the axis of affirmation upside down, make a world of a difference to one who is looking for something different in this world.

How we respond within seconds of an introduction makes an impression that will last for a good long while. Let us seek to serve small, and love with openness every day so the world can’t help but be drawn to the divine.

About Sarah:

Sarah loves words. She also loves people. And she loves weaving them together in honest and vulnerable ways that cut underneath the surface and break open the longings of the heart. She is a writer whose words breathe vulnerability and hope into longing souls. Sarah is a director for a nonprofit student center, writes for numerous international ministries, is a member of Redbud Writers Guild, and invites readers to sit with her awhile at www.sarahrennicke.com and connect with her on Twitter and Instagram at @srennawake.

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I still have a few spots open this month, so email me at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com if you’re interested in guest posting! You can find writing guidelines here. I would need your submission by October 15th;-)

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August 28, 2018August 28, 2018

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

August 21, 2018

A Backwards Way to Welcome Strangers {guest post}

by Sarah Quezada | Twitter: @SarahQuezada

I walked timidly up to the counter at the bus station. I needed to know where the bathroom was located. And while I may have been overwhelmed here in the first hours of my time in a new country, surely my mediocre high school Spanish had been waiting for this very moment. Donde esta el bano? I was prepared.

The man behind the counter smiled at me. I cleared my throat and executed my most confident Spanish question. As it turns out, I was not prepared for his response. A frozen grin crystalized on my face as he gave me detailed and lengthy directions to the restroom. I nodded and walked away. I don’t recall every finding that bathroom.

Being in a new country, not speaking the language. These experiences are incredibly vulnerable. And while mine was born out of a sense of adventure, many people around the world find themselves forced to migrate and re-learn the world and words as they know it. It is not easy.

Most of us have a desire to welcome these immigrants and refugees well. If we’ve grown up in church, we’ve often heard how God instructs us to welcome the stranger. And beyond that, many of us feel a civic responsibility to be kind and nice to others. But what does that mean?

My husband immigrated to the United States from Guatemala in his late 20’s. In a recent conversation, someone asked him how we can better demonstrate welcome to new arrivals in this country. Among his responses, he said something I’d never considered before. “Go into their spaces.”

What? To my Southern sensibilities, that phrase feels intrusive. When I think about being welcoming, I consider having an “open door policy” for my own home, where people feel free to stop by, stay for dinner, or sit and talk awhile. I think about intentionally inviting others into my space and being available to them if ever needed. But I’ve rarely considering foisting myself upon someone else as a welcoming gesture.

But my husband’s perspective was different. “Go into their businesses,” he said, “and spend your money there. Attend their churches. Play in parks in the areas of town where immigrants tend to gather.”

“Go into their businesses,” he said, “and spend your money there. Attend their churches. Play in parks in the areas of town where immigrants tend to gather.”

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These acts, which involve me stepping into the vulnerable position of maybe not understanding the language or perhaps not picking up all the cultural clues, can be a gift and a sacrificial demonstration of welcome.

I think back to my first visit to Guatemala and the man at the bus station. He was certainly welcoming. He was kind. He smiled. He gave me directions in response to my question. But I look back now and wonder how different it would’ve felt if someone had come to me, volunteered to give me directions in broken English, or walked me to the bathroom. It would’ve been more uncomfortable for them, but I certainly would’ve felt welcomed and cared for. I want to try to practice that kind of sacrificial welcome. I want to try going into their spaces.

About Sarah:

Sarah Quezada is a writer living in a bicultural household in Atlanta, Georgia. She has a master’s in sociology and writes regularly at sarahquezada.com. She is the author of Love Undocumented: Risking Trust in a Fearful World (Herald Press, 2018). Click here to download her list of 15 ways you can support immigrants and address the migrant crisis today.

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BOOK GIVEAWAY

We’re giving away a FREE copy of Sarah’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 next Wednesday, August 29th, at midnight (MT). No bots and only U.S. residents, please!

***

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

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links

August 9, 2018August 9, 2018

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.

***

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

August 7, 2018August 6, 2018

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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Category: stranger

Connecting with Cameroon Refugees in Idaho

No More Strangers {guest post}

What If We Viewed Refugees as Guests? {guest post}

A Philosophy of Home {guest post}

GIVEAWAY!!!

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Serve Small {guest post}

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

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

You can hear Michelle interviewed on these podcasts:

BOOK GIVEAWAY

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

A Backwards Way to Welcome Strangers {guest post}

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

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

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

Dreamers, DACA and the Art of Godly Mourning {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!