Scraping Raisins

October 30, 2019October 29, 2019

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 10, 2019October 10, 2019

Revisiting Hospitality After Life Takes a Turn {guest post}

By Heather Legge | Instagram: @heatherand2girls

Hospitality growing up was backyard grilling, a living room full of people eating Christmas cookies after a local community concert, encouraging cards written to friends and family, bowls of popped corn for teenage sleepovers, and a listening ear. It was not unusual for neighborhood kids to be playing in the yard even if we weren’t there, or for a kid to walk in and open the refrigerator for a snack. I truly believed this would be the story of my adult life – partly because I have so many happy memories and partly because it was the example I was given.

In my early years growing up, my mom had an open door. Friends came in and out and all the kids of my parents’ friends were friends. If someone needed help, it was given without hesitation; everyone took care of each other. We moved to New England when I was eight and the houses were a bit more spread apart than the close-knit neighborhood I started life in. Regardless, if someone had a new baby, my mom was there.

If someone came over, the door was open.

When my friends wanted a place to hang out, it was our house. Even in the four years that she battled ovarian cancer, my mom opened her heart and home to others.

I moved south after college and quickly got engaged to be married. The easy-going way of hospitality that I knew was exchanged for china dishes, elegantly casual attire, formal wedding and baby showers, closed doors, unspoken rules, and enormous homes kept pristine by cleaning services. I was in culture shock and my mom had died a couple years before, so I couldn’t ask her if this was some kind of new normal and what was expected of me.

When I became a wife and then a mother, I was so overwhelmed that I rarely invited people over. I was ashamed of my house not being perfect. Even when people dropped off meals after my babies were born, I felt silent judgment for not having it all together. I was also confused because the visits seemed to be for the purpose of holding the babies and not for actually helping. This is not the way my mom did it. If she brought a meal to a new mom or someone who had been sick, she was also washing the sink full of dishes or doing a load of laundry.

I began a small rebellion in my late twenties by hosting college students and purposefully leaving dishes in the sink, piles of clutter lying around, and occasionally some laundry that needed to be folded. This was real life and I was determined to show that it was not about having an impeccable home and well-designed plans. I was going counter-culture and it felt good and right. I reclaimed my dream of my kids getting older and eventually having an open door and yard for their friends and my neighbors. We moved into a small neighborhood with cul-de-sacs and even though there were no kids nearby, I knew they would eventually come.

My home would be the one with the swinging door and coffee on the porch, backyard barbecues, and the sounds of kids playing. But, just as we all find ourselves in situations that were not what we dreamed of, so did I.

Divorce, moving from my neighborhood to an apartment complex, and a difficult illness took away my hopes of an open door and yard. I probably spent too many years grieving this and other losses, but that doesn’t mean that new dreams can’t be imagined.

It’s easy with a chronic illness to become isolated and lonely and to feel forgotten. I am exhausted all the time and my income is impossibly small, both of which make it difficult to go out or to provide for guests. I found myself not making plans to go out in my free time in case I didn’t feel good. I didn’t invite people over for the same reasons. I would sit at home, alone, feeling sorry for myself.

There are definitely times where rest has to be my number one priority, but I also need to revisit hospitality and what it means now.

My new-to-me-life equals new-to-me-ideas about hospitality. It’s more about opening my heart and making places wherever I am, whether at home, a coffee shop, at work, a friend’s house, or out in the community. If I am already going to be somewhere, I can find a way to make it a place of welcome; extend myself as a welcoming person. It’s even possible to do hospitality from afar by writing notes. Who doesn’t love finding a card in the mailbox amidst bills?

My heart softened a couple years ago when I had made plans to get together with another mom at my church. We hadn’t met, but had messaged on Facebook a few times, realizing we had some things in common. We made plans to meet for coffee. On the day we were meeting, I woke up feeling unwell. I texted her and let her know that I didn’t think I’d be able to go out and meet but that she was welcome to come to my apartment. She showed up, and I answered the door still in my pjs.

I welcomed her, handed her a blanket to use while sitting on my couch, and climbed back into my comfy chair under a pile of blankets and a heating pad. I felt like the epitome of a bad host, but I also didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to make a friend and to extend welcome no matter the circumstances. As my new friend got ready to leave, she told me she had never felt more cozy and welcomed than she had that morning, simply because there were absolutely no expectations. She could be completely herself because of how low-key it was. I was astonished. I could do this!

I lovingly refer to this now as “blanket hospitality.” If you come over, make yourself comfortable on my couch with blankets and pillows and conversation. We might have coffee or popsicles. All are welcome, and you will see my piles and messes, but maybe that’s just what we need to do to show others that no one is perfect and that the relationship is far more important than appearances.

About Heather:

Heather Legge is originally from New England, but currently lives in Virginia with her two girls. She tries to make places in her heart for those who are hurting. She loves reading, coffee, and is learning to play the violin. You can follow her on Instagram at @heatherand2girls.

Photo by Victoria Bilsborough on Unsplash

August 30, 2019August 31, 2019

Why Authors Do Book Signings (It’s Not for the Reasons You Might Think)

The bookstore manager, Pam, takes me behind the desk to the backroom of Macdonald Book Shop in Estes Park, Colorado. I plop my bags on a table in a snug break room. One door leads to a bathroom.

“The lock doesn’t work, so be sure to knock first. Then leave the door ajar when you go out so we know it’s available,” Pam tells me.

Another doorway leads to a tiny office with a desk facing a window. The owner, Paula, is an elderly woman with a warm smile and curved upper spine. Later in the afternoon, I’ll see her sitting at this desk and imagine she’s ordering books for customers; or perusing reviews online to determine which books will sell to tourists and her loyal customers.

Pam steers me out another door to a room in the bookstore with a worn brown leather chair Pam calls “Grandpa’s chair” in front of a fireplace. A table is next to the chair, with a small poster of my book cover announcing the book signing today from 2 to 4 pm. I’ll sit in Grandpa’s chair between the kid’s book section and the Colorado and Native American book section, which is rather large for a bookstore of this size. Later, another worker, Sally, will tell me she works at the Native American museum in Arizona, and I wonder if she’s responsible for this sizable selection.

I scribble a nametag that I brought for myself: “Local Author Leslie Verner” and stick it to my dress, then hide my pen and post-it notes behind the display. I prop my clipboard with a sign-up for my newsletter on the floor next to the table and wonder if I should sit, stand, or chase down customers to talk about my book (as Pam suggested).

This is my first book signing for my first book. I’m giddy. Writer friends had advised me to avoid scheduling book signings because they’re awkward, not profitable, and are time consuming. But independent bookstores have my heart. If my husband and I travel to a new town, the first thing we do is identify the coffee shops and independent bookstores. We wander to our respective genres: him, to the sci-fi, fantasy, and nature writing aisles; me, to the poetry, essay, and writing sections. If we have our kids with us, we take turns waiting with them in the kid section and rotate after some minutes so we can browse kid-less.

It’s a Friday and overcast, a rarity for the end of August in Colorado. The crowds of tourists have thinned since I stopped by just two weeks before to drop off some posters and copies of my book. Kids have returned to school and summer is quickly melding into fall.

Settling into Grandpa’s chair, I wonder if anyone will stop by at all.

I had contacted the local newspaper to alert them of my signing. Later, Pam will send me a clip of the article—a write up from my Goodreads description of my book, a headshot, and my book cover—vibrant even in newsprint. All three book sales today will result from local residents reading this article and stopping by to meet me and have me sign the book they buy.

What I sacrifice in time and actual sales, I make up for in conversation. I talk to Sally, the employee who volunteers at the museum in Arizona. She’s worked here every summer for over twenty years. I ask her if she reads a ton and she answers, “I try to. But at my age, I’ve decided to only read non-fiction.” I nod, thinking of the truth embedded even in the fiction books I read, but choose not to disagree. I ask her if she’s read any Joan Chittister and tell her I’m reading The Gift of Years, a book on aging. She smiles, “I think I understand aging pretty well.” I wonder how old she is. Seventy? Seventy-five? I have no idea, but I wonder if I’ll be more choosy with my books as I age, knowing my time is limited.

I talk to a mother and daughter for a long time about transition, finding friends, and community—they are dropping her off at college in Boulder. They seem excited about my book until the mother reads the back cover. I wonder if the word “Christian” in the description turns her off.

“How long’d it take you to write it?” another man asks, sauntering by as I sit in Grandpa’s chair, reading my library book in the lull.

I laugh, “Twenty years?” I say. “But from the time I started thinking about writing it to actual publication, about two years.”

A few minutes later, I see a man reading the back cover of my book at the front of the store. I hear Pam tell him the author is here if he’d like to meet her. I see him look up, then stride back to meet me. I stand and he leans down to point at my book on the table, flipping it to the back. “You say here this book is about ‘holy hospitality’ and ‘how hospitality is at the heart of Christian community,’ but when I read about Christians in the news …” he drops off.

I know what he’s going to say. He starts again, “I grew up kind of going to church, but it seems to me the church isn’t doing what it should be doing.” I didn’t disagree. I told him my book was less of a commentary on the church at large, and more of a consideration of small pivots of faith to follow Jesus and love people around us.

Later, Paula writes me a check in the backroom for the five books I had sold–three today and two of the ones on display in the previous weeks–and three more to keep in the shop ($12 total profit for eight books after subtracting what I paid my publisher for the copies). Pam helps me gather the remaining books and we talk about my conversation with this man.

“I kind of overheard it, but didn’t hear all of it,” Pam says. I tell them I had forgotten the word “Christian” was even on the back of my book and was taken off guard.

“I wish the publisher hadn’t used that word,” I say. “It’s such a trigger word for people in our society.” The women agree. Sadly, the word “Christian” often carries a negative connotation for people today.

Afterward, I order a vanilla latte (using nearly half my profit) at Inkwell and Brew, a coffeeshop behind Macdonald Bookshop, and settle into a small booth overlooking the river glimmering through downtown Estes.

I’ve already asked whether the book writing was worth it. But was the two-hour signing worth it?

I had about seven long conversations on friendship, community, isolation, and the state of Christianity in the world. I advertised my book in the local newspaper and had my book on display in the window of an indie bookstore I’ve visited many times over the years. The booksellers handed out my bookmarks to local residents stopping by to pick up the books they had ordered and random tourists buying the latest bestsellers. Pam put up posters with my book cover around town. And in the days to come, if a customer is looking for a book on spirituality, hospitality, or community, my guess is that Sally, Pam, Paula, and the other employees will steer them to my book.

As in all aspects of the creative life, it’s best not to gauge success by dollar signs. Creators deal in a mysterious currency. Did our art act as a conduit for connection, depth, and soul? If so, I call this “success.”

My book Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness is now available where all books are sold online, but also in some brick and mortar bookstores–check your local Barnes and Noble, or support your local independent bookstore by ordering it from there! You can also order it from your local library.

SO many ways to get your hands on it! 🙂 Sign up for my newsletter and I’ll send you chapter 1 for free!

Why Authors Do Book Signings (It’s Not for the Reasons You Might Think)

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

August 4, 2019August 5, 2019

How Can We Show Hospitality to Different Enneagram Types?

I met Lisa Russell, an Enneagram coach and spiritual counselor, for drinks a few weeks ago. Before meeting, I had thought we would discuss how each Enneagram type practices hospitality.

“Why don’t we talk about how we can show hospitality to each Enneagram type instead?” she suggested, taking a sip of her drink. “That seems less self-focused and more empathetic to me.”

Lisa described the Enneagram types as differing shades on a color palatte—there can be many shades of blue, green, and grey.

We often know about ourselves, but what happens when we become students of others?

How does this transform our communication, community, and hospitality to each Enneagram type? Here are some ideas for understanding and loving individuals as we show hospitality to each Enneagram type in our life (along with a collection of quotes from some of my social media friends.)

Type 1: The Reformer (rational, idealistic, perfectionistic, principled)

According to Lisa, this type is caught up in “holy goodness.” They believe God is good and they want to be right. They have a strong inner influence and the mantra “am I good enough?” often goes through their minds. Type Ones often hold themselves to a higher standard. To welcome a One to your home, have things structured and lined up for them.

M.W. : “Invite me into your fun. Help me play!”

Jacob Robinson: “Showing “hospitality” to a One is a tough ask because of the perfectionist standards. Thus, as a One, I don’t really need “hospitality’ but friendship.”

Annie Rim: “Having a really sweet/personal detail is the best. At dinner, a bottle of wine with a story behind it. As a house guest, a bar of soap or something thoughtful. Anytime someone has done that, I’ve felt especially seen and welcomed.”

Type 2: The Helper (caring, generous, interpersonal, possessive)

As a Type Two herself, Lisa had many thoughts about how to show hospitality to helpers. When you host, Twos are usually the first ones to offer to wash your lettuce or set the table. But sometimes what the Two needs is permission to receive instead of give. They sometimes need to be given “space and time to recharge and rejuvenate and have solitude.” They want to be able to serve out of overflow, not obligation. They want to feel loved for being, not doing.

Andi Cumbo-Floyd: “Hospitality to me is often making it known that I’m wanted just for me, not for the help I can bring.”

Abby Norman: “Either give me a task or tell me everything is taken care of.”

Tanya Marlow: “I like it when people give me quality time and we have a chat about emotions and Real Stuff. I also like it when people ask me for wisdom that will help them out, especially if they’re in crisis. “

Type 3: The Achiever (success-oriented, driven, image-conscious)

To show hospitality to a Three, Lisa advised being punctual and sticking to the set time. Threes get antsy with inefficiencies in gatherings. They appreciate being praised and affirmed for what they can bring to the table. Lisa mentioned a dinner she attended where the host prepared name cards in advance. On the back of each card, the host had written encouragement in the form of “I see this in you” for each specific person. Lisa thought the Type Three would feel especially loved by this gesture.

Sue Fulmore: “The times I have felt most seen and loved is when someone asks questions which help me get more in tune with my emotions. Those people that listen with their whole heart and seek to understand me – this is where I feel most welcome.”

Marci Yoseph: “I want you to sit with me and give me the space/time to sit and relax. If you are up doing stuff I feel obligated to be up and productive too. I need permission to just sit.”

Type 4: The Individualist (sensitive, expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed)

Type Fours “feel all the feels.” Lisa recommended allowing Fours the space and freedom to experience their feelings without shame. They often long for the space to express themselves and have perhaps experienced rejection for their sensitivity. To show hospitality to a Type Four might look like inviting them to share their unique gifts.

F.J. : “Take time to understand me. Be happy to see me. Pursue me. No small talk—only meaningful talk.”

A.M. : “Ask me questions and listen well. Put pretty flowers in my room.”

Type 5: The Investigator (cerebral, perceptive, innovative, isolated)

Lisa said the best way to show hospitality to a Five is to give them space. They tend to be more introverted and sometimes need to isolate and cave up. They appreciate knowing what to expect in advance. They often need to get to a meeting early and observe. But just because they linger on the margins doesn’t mean they don’t want to be invited.

Adam Verner (my husband): “Hand me a good book and tell me to go into another room by myself for three hours before joining the crowd.”

M.D. : “It’s not always easy to articulate deep feelings when you live in your head 99.99% of the time. Having someone who makes it calm, safe, and ok for you to unravel yourself is critical … I need room and empathy to unravel and rewind and figure it out. I need demonstrated empathy which often can mean a strong hug and quality time or asking me specifically about how I am regarding an issue you know I’m struggling with or working through. Presence. I simply need presence.”

Type 6: The Loyalist (committed, security-oriented, responsible, anxious)

Sixes often have a million plans in order to be prepared for the worst case scenario. Lisa mentioned they have the “Mary Poppins bag” of resources “just in case.” They need reassurance that things will be okay. To show hospitality to a Type Six, offer them security, stability, and consistency by following through with promises you make.

A.S. : “Be consistent with invites to hang out. Not with an agenda, but just to chill.”

A.K. : “Consider my children’s needs too. It makes me feel like all of the bases are covered so we can relax and talk.”

Juliana Gordon: “If there is a party, make sure there is plenty of seating so I can make the crowd smaller.”

Cara Strickland: “I love it when people let me know what to expect in advance/anticipate concerns I might have.”

Type 7: The Enthusiast (busy, fun-loving, spontaneous, scattered)

Lisa described this type as the “Joyful Epicurean.” She said they love to go all out and indulge. They are always worried they’ll be deprived and often suffer from FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). What Type Sevens need from their hosts is permission to be spontaneous and fun-loving. They want friends to join them in their joyful spontaneity.

Jamie Bagley: “Let me know it’s okay to curl up on the sofa with a blanket or prop my feet up. Also, offering me tea and talking about all things quirky or deeply philosophical is the way to my worn out heart. Cookies help, too.”

Roxanne Engstrom: “I love when families from other cultures invite me to go places with them or do things that they are doing to celebrate religious or cultural moment. And my love language is also food, lots of ethnic food.”

Type 8: The Challenger (self-confident, confrontational, decisive, willful)

Type Eights are strong and powerful. They appreciate honesty and “have a nose to sniff out BS,” Lisa said. They don’t like empty flattery or appreciate people gushing over them. To show hospitality to a Type Eight might look like giving them an opportunity to lead and make decisions. They enjoy people bringing confrontation into the group and feel it’s live-giving.

Courtney Skiera-Vaugn: “If someone were to just take charge and allow me not to have to lead – start the convo, have coffee ready, show up and serve without me asking or even agreeing to (a dear friend did this the other day knowing I was super busy, she showed up, took my kids, loaded my dishwasher and made me coffee IN MY HOME.)”

E.D.: “Invite me into a trusting environment. A few friends goes a lot further than a ton of people.”

Type 9: The Peacemaker (easygoing, agreeable, complacent, people-pleaser)

Lisa said Nines are similar to Sixes in that they need to know that they will be okay. They often camouflage themselves and blend in to please others, so they may need to be drawn out with questions like, “What do you really think?” They may need prodding to do something that engages their body like hiking or going for a walk.

Mallary Covington: “People can show hospitality to me by engaging in good conversations. I love asking good questions and listening, and also love it when people ask me good questions and listen to me in return. Something that makes me feel super disconnected from others is when people ask questions but don’t actually want a real answer. Also, keeping an environment low key and low stress really makes me feel welcome and comfortable.“

A.U.: “Make me know I’m really wanted there and that you are ok with me being there. I crave deep conversations, however I always worry that if I talk about something deeper than the weather that I’m rocking the peace.”

***

Although we are each unique, most of the responses I heard sang a similar tune. Most people feel loved when they are welcomed to be themselves. To do this, we put aside our phones and encourage our guests to relax. We arrange smaller groups, ask good questions, and listen for the answers. We affirm our belief that the person we are talking to right then is the most engaging and important person in the room.

About Lisa Russell:

Lisa is a spiritual counselor and Enneagram coach at Restoration Counseling in Fort Collins, Colorado. She teaches large group workshops and team and individual counseling on the Enneagram. Visit the Restoration Counseling website for more details or to sign up for an Enneagram coaching session.

More on the Enneagram:

Enneagram Institute Website (has a test and descriptions of the different types)

Typology Podcast

That Sounds Fun Podcast with Annie Downs series on the Enneagram

The Sacred Enneagram: Finding Your Unique Path to Spiritual Growth, by Christopther L. Heuertz

The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery, by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile

Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness releases August 13. Pre-order now and you will be eligible for some outstanding pre-order bonuses.

**Sign up for my newsletter and I’ll send you Chapter 1 of Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness:**

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links

July 29, 2019July 29, 2019

Four Simple Ways to Practice Hospitality

Since writing a book called Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness, I’ve noticed many people have a nearly visceral reaction to the word “hospitality.” They either “love” it, or they are already skittering to the streets as they try and outrun the negative connotations. But what if we re-thought hospitality? Redefined it, even? What if it was just a bit simpler and easier to swallow? Here are a few ideas anyone can tackle in attempting to practice more hospitality:

1. Say no.

“Sorry, I’m too busy/have too much going on/already have plans …” are common refrains in American society. One way to show hospitality is to say no to busyness and frantic living. When we say no to another lesson, sport, or activity for our kids or ourselves, we reserve time in our lives for spontaneous hospitality and unplanned connection with people.

What happens when we step into slowness and retain a buffer in our schedules reserved for relationship, rest, and wonder? We begin to notice the living, breathing souls right around us. We have time for them. We may even get to know their names, feel known, and start to feel less lonely ourselves.

2. Say yes.

It’s easier for me to offer hospitality than to receive hospitality from others. As we risk the discomfort of giving up control, we learn the humility necessary for relationships to start. Has someone asked you into their life recently? What did you say?

When we refuse busyness, we’ll have more opportunities to say yes to pausing on the sidewalk to chat with a neighbor. We might have more energy to invite someone over spontaneously or ask someone to meet us at a park or outdoor concert. Clearing away the extraneous clutter in our lives leaves space for us to say yes when God nudges us to ask, invite, or welcome outside our comfort levels.

3. Respect the Zone of Hospitality.

I stumbled on an article recently meant for hotel staff, but have begun to apply it to my own life. It describes the “10 and 5 Staff Rule.” The rule goes like this: If you pass within ten feet of someone, called the “zone of hospitality,” you make eye contact and “warmly smile” at a person. When you are within five feet of them, this smile is accompanied by a greeting or some kind of gesture of acknowledgment.

While it seems obvious (and visits to the south prove the regional nature of the head nod, steering-wheel-finger-wave, and vocal greeting), I’ve started doing this here in Colorado. Mostly, I greet the people I pass on my runs. I often think to myself, What if I’m the only person who smiles at them or acknowledges them all day long? Some days, hospitality looks like a simple smile and a head nod to a stranger.

4. Just Invite.

Admittedly, mustering up the nerve to put ourselves out there and risk rejection is the hardest part of hospitality. But the truth is that it takes very little effort on our part to send a text to someone we’ve been wanting to get to know. We pull out our phones, swipe to our text messaging app, and tap out: “Hey! Can you come over sometime?” And then we worry about the details when “sometime” comes around.

***

Invited: The power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness comes out August 13, 2019. If you pre-order now, you qualify for a list of Ideas for Inviting. You’ll also be entered to win either a bundle of ethical gifts or a stack of incredible books. Check out the details here.

*This post includes Amazon affiliate links

Four Simple Ways to Practice Hospitality. #hospitality #community #simplehospitality #friendship #declutter #busyness #makespace #simplicity

July 24, 2019July 24, 2019

Maybe You Shouldn’t Write That Book

Statistics tell us that 81 percent of people want to write a book in their lifetime. Since I wrote my own book, many friends in real life have confessed their secret desire to write a book of their own. Other online friends in writing groups ask questions about how to format their book proposals, query agents, or build their platform.

I often get asked the how. “How did this come about? How did you know what to write? How did you actually write it?” But before addressing the how of writing a book, individuals would benefit from musing over the question of why?

Why do you want to write a book–and why now?

When I wrote my book, I was 39 years old and had a one, three, and five-year-old at home. None of my kids were in school. Although my husband takes full responsibility for praying that book into existence, I still wrestle with my choice to write a book during an already full-to-the-brim time of life. Did it pour life into me and my family, or siphon off joy, peace, and family harmony? Why did I need to write it then?

Over the past few years as a blogger, book launch team member, and book reviewer, I’ve read many non-fiction books written by various authors with different publishers. As a writer, editor, and writing teacher, I have two thoughts:

1. Many books would benefit from better editing. While I’ve read some fabulous books, many that I read were too long, too wordy, or not structured well. Publishers are busy and editors have too much on their plate. Editors don’t have time to struggle back and forth with an author to get it just right. If you are writing a book, I recommend setting aside a portion of your advance to hire your own writing coach. The classics became classics because they had outstanding editors (see The Artful Edit).

2. Many people write their books too soon. We are eager to birth our stories into the world, but many of them are born prematurely. We harvest the gardens of our lives long before they have come to full bloom. Patience should be the writer’s greatest virtue. Our stories usually benefit from a longer time in the ground, on the stalk, or growing on the vine.

Last week my kids and I watched the 2016 animated film Leap about an orphan who becomes a ballerina in Paris (love me a good dancing movie). Throughout the film, her mentor asks her, “Why do you dance?” She doesn’t know, doesn’t have a good answer. Until the end. It is only when she internalizes her “why” that her dancing demonstrates the passion, grace, and conviction required to take her from average to extraordinary.

Some writers claim that writing is their calling. I wrestle with the concept of “calling” because I believe we over-spiritualize and amass undue weight to “Our Call.”

Instead of thinking of writing as my calling, I think of it as my compulsion. Writing is this thing I can’t not do. It’s this thing that helps me illuminate what I ultimately believe about myself, God, and the world. It attunes me to wonder in the world and invites mystery into my ordinary days. Writing–in my journal or for an audience–works out the kinks in my psyche and soul in a way just pondering or talking about those things can’t quite do. Writing, for better or for worse, is an addiction. A compulsion. A need.

I recently finished reading the compelling memoir When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon diagnosed with lung cancer who died before completing the manuscript. When he finally resigned from his work at the hospital, he poured all the rest of his creative energy his last year of life into “finally writing that book.” In his final chapter he writes, “Words have a longevity I do not.” We write to immortalize ourselves.

But writing a book costs us. For me, the price of writing this book was:

Less physical time with my kids (which I was fine with, actually–“I have a book to write” feels like a noble excuse for temporary escape. Much better than “I have a blog post to write or novel to read.”)

Fractured and distracted time with my kids and my husband. (Nothing like a surprise invasion of imposter syndrome, comparison, or “But I can’t do this” lament to sideline foreplay.)

Much money spent on babysitters, new headshots, postage for mailing books, writing at a nearby Abbey, paying my own book coach and publicist, writing software, purchasing books for research, paying for my own advance reader copies (ARCs) to distribute to influencers, paying for ads on Instagram, and for my launch party. (My husband calls all this “investment in my career”… most days I agree.)

The mental/emotional toll of All The Voices. The result for me was often insomnia, sometimes tears, and the occasional freak out.

Loss of friendships. Every spare moment was spent writing my book. While I used to spend naptimes calling long-distance friends, I now needed to spend that time researching or writing my book. While I used to have time to chat with moms at pre-school pickup-up, I needed to rush home to get to work on a book about making time for people and building community (the irony!).

Before you write that book, count the cost. What’s it worth to you? Could your stories wait?

One friend says she makes decisions based on the criteria: “Does this give life to me and my family or steal life from me and my family?” But is it fair to use the “life-giving/life-stealing criteria” for evaluating the creation of art? Or is the transformation of my readers, their churches, and their neighborhoods worth the temporary strain on my marriage, friendships, and family? (This is where believing in a “Higher Calling” would come in handy. Higher Callings demand personal sacrifice for the greater good of humanity. Do I believe my writing is that far-reaching?)

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle says that “if the work comes to the artist and says, ‘Here I am, serve me,’ then the job of the artist, great or small, is to serve.”

I don’t write because it brings me or my family greater happiness (though I confess I’ve had moments of exhilaration). I don’t write because it brings me greater peace, joy, or helps me sleep better at night (it doesn’t). And I don’t write because I want to be famous, rich, or accomplished. I write because I must. Not writing is more painful, awkward, and–dare I say–foolish. Not writing feels like disobedience. Not writing would be leaving behind the topo map, compass, and binoculars I’ve been gifted to instead bushwhack through the forest blind.

Until we know why we write, our faulty reasons for writing and wanting to publish a book will lead us astray. (To be fair, sometimes we write to pay the bills … this is not exactly what I’m talking about here. There are usually about three hundred better ways to put groceries in your fridge and gas in your car than becoming a writer.)

Before you pursue that agent, that book proposal, that book deal, I urge you to wrestle with your why. And after that, ask yourself some questions:

Why is now the right time?
Would my stories benefit from a bit more marinating? A bit more time curing and being cultivated in secret? Has my story reached maturation?
Must I write?

As writers, we can google “how” to write a book. We can take classes, read books, join online writing communities, and listen to writers on podcasts. But every writer must work out their own “why.”

Why do you write? And are you meant to write that book now? If your answer is yes, then go in peace and serve the work. It may well be the hardest thing you ever do. (Just don’t say no one warned you.) And don’t be shocked if when it’s turned in, printed, and launching out into the world, instead of relaxing in a kayak on a serene lake or tickling your children under an apple tree, you feel The Tug. And you know. You may just need to do it all over again.

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

July 14, 2019July 15, 2019

Book Review of Light from Distant Stars

*This review does not contain spoilers.

My husband had a difficult time convincing me this book wasn’t actually scary. He read it first, so I kept checking in, “Are you sure this isn’t a horror story?” He assured me it wasn’t. He was right. Mostly. Light from Distant Stars by Shawn Smucker is the perfect level of suspense for a light-weight like me. Thrilling, but not too gory. Scary, but not nightmare-inducing.

Through disarming prose and complex characters, Smucker entertains readers with a thought-provoking, engrossing story. Switching back and forth in time between the young and middle-aged protagonist, Cohen, Smucker guides the reader to explore the problem begging for answers: Who (or what) attacked Cohen’s father while he was at work in the morgue? (And the unspoken question: Did Cohen attempt to murder his own father?)

If you’ve read Smucker’s first young adult novel called The Day the Angels Fell, this book has some of the same shadowy parallels as he explores themes of death, guilt, the parent-child relationship, and the fears we struggle to overcome. While this novel is geared more toward adults, mature teens would also enjoy this story. Light from Distant Stars is the kind of novel that carries you away in the story and you don’t want to stop until you get some answers. The last quarter of the book kept me turning pages late into the night. Throughout the book, I kept asking myself, “Do I believe Cohen?” “What is reality?” and “Do I trust Cohen’s memories?”

And as for my husband’s confidence that this was not a thriller, I have to say I disagree. If it were a film, I’d put it at the Sixth Sense-level of spookiness. But even though the story concluded with plenty of unanswered questions, Light from Distant Stars was an entertaining, nuanced, and a satisfying read. The books that leave unanswered questions are usually the ones that keep us thinking for ourselves long after we’ve finished the book.

*This post contains Amazon affiliate links

June 21, 2019July 8, 2019

Pre-order Bonuses!

Here’s how this works:

Pre-order Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness by Leslie Verner wherever you purchase books.
Click on this form to record the number of copies, receipt order number, and your email address.
You will be emailed a PDF of “Ideas for Inviting”–a list of nearly 100 ideas for practicing hospitality included in the back of your new Invited book.
For each copy you order, you’ll qualify for another entry to win one of five bundles of either ethical gifts or books related to Invited. (Details below.)
Winners will be notified by August 20th.

*only U.S. residents and Canadians are eligible for the giveaways, but you can live anywhere to receive “Ideas for Inviting.”

PRE-ORDER INVITED HERE

(You don’t have to order on Amazon, you can pre-order anywhere you buy books.) Then…

CLAIM YOUR PRE-ORDER BONUS

Pre-ordering a book on Amazon locks you in to the lowest price PLUS you’ll receive your book the day it releases, on August 13th.

Don’t forget to snap a pic of your new book and put it on social media (tag @leslie_verner on Twitter and @scraping_raisins on Instagram and use the hashtag #InvitedBook), and review it on Amazon when you get a chance!

***

I am honored to be partnering with some fabulous ethical gift companies (described below) who have donated items to give away for these pre-order bonuses.

BUNDLES:

Gift Bundle #1

Wristlet from Imagine Goods
Table runner from Dignify
Earrings from Grain of Rice Project
A pound of coffee home-roasted by Adam Verner
Shoe bag from The White Peacock
Mug from Papillion Marketplace
Extending the Table cookbook (I’ve used this for twenty years and this is a NEW edition!)
Napkins from Sari Bari

Gift Bundle #2

Apron from Imagine Goods
Placemats & napkins from Ziyada
Table Runner from Sari Bari
Necklace from Grain of Rice Project
Tea from JusTea
Shoe bag from The White Peacock
Mug from Papillion Marketplace
Extending the Table cookbook

Gift Bundle #3

Table runner from Dignify
Tea from JusTea
Earrings from Grain of Rice Project
Tote from Papillion Market Place
Shoe bag from The White Peacock
Placemats & napkins from Ziyada
Mug from Papillion Marketplace
Extending the Table cookbook

Book Bundle #1

Extending the Table: Recipes and stories from Afghanistan to Zambia in the Spirit of More-with-Less (World Community Cookbook) by Joetta Handrich Schlabach

The God Who Sees: Immigrants, the Bible, and the Journey to Belong by Karen Gonzalez

Loving My Actual Neighbor: 7 Practices to Treasure the People Right in Front of You by Alexandra Kuykendall

One: Unity in a Divided World by Deidra Riggs

We Will Feast: Rethinking Dinner, Worship, and the Kingdom of God by Kendall Vanderslice

The Wisdom of Stability: Rooting Faith in a Mobile Culture by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove

Book Bundle #2

Extending the Table: Recipes and stories from Afghanistan to Zambia in the Spirit of More-with-Less (World Community Cookbook) by Joetta Handrich Schlabach

Glorious Weakness: Discovering God in All We Lack by Alia Joy

Hermanas: Deepening Our Identity and Growing Our Influence by Natalia Kohn Rivera, Noemi Vega Quiñones, Kristy Garza Robinson

The Next Worship: Glorifying God in a Diverse World by Sandra Van Opstal

Taste and See: Discovering God Among the Butchers, Bakers, and Fresh Food Makers by Margaret Feinberg

Welcoming the Stranger: Justice, Compassion & Truth in the Immigration Debate by Matthew Soerens, Jenny Yang, and Leith Anderson

I’m Honored to Partner with These 8 Ethical Gift Companies:

I hope you take the time read some of the stories behind these inspiring companies (I’m usually in tears each year as I research them for my Christmas ethical gift list). Be sure to keep these companies in mind when you do your Christmas shopping this year!