Day 4: Rich, Loud and Carries a Backpack {31 Days of #WOKE}

Rich, Loud and Carries a Backpack--the danger of stereotypes

All Americans are loud, carry backpacks, wear sneakers, eat dessert and junk food, are overweight, speak only one language, are promiscuous, kick our kids out at age 18 and are rich. These are a few of the stereotypes about Americans I’ve heard in my travels, but especially from my Chinese friends during the five years I lived in northwest China.

“We know you love sweets,” my Chinese students said as I passed out brownies after dinner one Sunday evening. Three shy freshman students had come over to “teach” me how to cook Chinese food (a.k.a. they argued about how to do it the way their mothers had done it while I frantically scribbled notes on index cards). In an attempt to find something authentically American to serve to them, brownies was all I could come up with.

“Yes, many Americans like sweets,” I said. But then I blew them away.

“But I never ate dessert in my home.” They traded glances, questioning my sincerity since I had already rattled their worlds as I told them earlier that I loved spicy Chinese food and rarely ate burgers back in the states.

After five years in China, silence would still descend upon the room as I sat down to dinner with a new group of students in a restaurant. “You can use chopsticks?!” they would gasp, in awe of my skill. Snapping up a piece of eggplant from the dish, I’d suppress my sarcastic reply.

We stereotype others because it makes us feel like we are in control. It gives us a framework to solve the mystery of the “other.”

Don’t think you have stereotypes? Slowly read through this list and see what words your brain inserts:

Men are …

Women are …

Three year olds are …

Introverts like …

Extroverts like …

Evangelical Christians are …

Muslims are …

African Americans are …

Chinese are …

Mexicans are …

Indians are …

If you found yourself quickly responding with a word or phrase, you have made a stereotype.

Some stereotypes are helpful for decoding culture, but most insult the humanity of the unique individual. There is a striking scene in the T.V. show The Man in the High Castle where a Japanese family invites a white American man over under the guise of friendship. The couple rattles off questions about music and sports that whites “usually like,” but are increasingly disappointed when the man doesn’t fit their stereotypes. The white man senses he let down his new friends, but isn’t sure why.

It’s a scene I experienced many times in China and Uganda when friends would assume they understood me, only to find I didn’t fit their mold. I sensed their disappointment when I couldn’t educate them on pop culture or fashion in America. Some Americans might have cared, but I didn’t.

During my senior year of college I lived with an African family in a village outside of Kampala, Uganda. It was considered a middle class home, yet we didn’t have running water. The house servants washed dishes in the morning on a wooden table in the front yard as chickens squawked in the distance. Feeling useless, I offered to rise at dawn and help wash dishes. My host mother looked skeptical. “But we will just have to rewash them,” she said. “I know you have machines that do that in your country.”

The Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave the infamous TED Talk “The Danger of a Single Story.” In it, she said: “I’ve always felt that it is impossible to engage properly with a place or a person without engaging with all of the stories of that place and that person. The consequence of the single story is this: It robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar …

The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”

I believe relationship is the key to deconstructing stereotypes. It is in relationship that we can finally see that we are more similar than we thought. At our core, we all desire love, purpose and security.

Unfortunately you may not have the opportunity to live with an African family, teach in the inner city or have a Muslim live in your home. And even experiencing other cultures in that way does not ensure you do not have stereotypes. So what can you do?

Read, listen and learn. Seek out new and possibly uncomfortable friendships. Pray for fresh eyes, open ears and humble hearts. Peel away the stereotypes you have formed and allow each person to stand on their own as the unique individuals they were created to be. But I would also encourage you to tell your own story. You never know when you might smash someone else’s stereotype of “people like you.”

***

What stereotypes do you have about the “other”?

How do these diminish the humanity of your neighbor?

Have you ever been hurt by being stereotyped?

If you haven’t, I would highly recommend watching “The Danger of a Single Story”:

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

A 31 Day Series Exploring Whiteness and Racial Perspectives

During the month of March, 2017, I will be sharing a series called 31 Days of #Woke. I’ll be doing some personal excavating of views of race I’ve developed through being in schools that were under court order to be integrated, teaching in an all black school as well as in diverse classrooms in Chicago and my experiences of whiteness living in Uganda and China. I’ll also have some people of color share their views and experiences of race in the United States (I still have some open spots, so contact me if you are a person of color who wants to share). So check back and join in the conversation. You are welcome in this space.

Rich, Loud and Carries a Backpack

March 3, 2017

Day 3: My #Woke Journey {for SheLoves–31 Days of #WOKE}

Last year, at the age of 37, in spite of living and working among other races for my entire life, I finally noticed the racial divide.

As a child of the 80s, I was taught that talking about race was impolite; it meant you noticed differences. We say, “We’re all the same, after all—on the inside. Isn’t it better to be ‘colorblind’?”

But ignoring race is like sidestepping the gigantic crack in the sidewalk of society and history. We try and tiptoe over it, or worse, we pretend it doesn’t even exist.

Of all whites, I should have known better, because I can’t think of a time when I didn’t have a person of color in my life.

The first boy I ever liked in kindergarten was black. I nearly followed him into the boys’ restroom one day. When I described him to my mom as having dark skin, she asked, “Is he black?”

“Of course not,” I said. “No one has black skin. He’s brown.”

In middle school, I rode the bus for an hour, either way, to attend school in the projects because our county in Tampa, Florida, was one of the last to integrate schools.

My midwest Christian college was majority white. Some black students were browsing in the bookstore once and the cops showed up. Someone assumed they were there to shoplift.

In college, I spent six months in Uganda and lived with an African family in a village. I often confounded their assumptions. “I didn’t think you people did things that way,” they’d say. To them, I was America. More than once, I was asked if I knew President Bush.

After college, my first teaching job was in the inner city of Chicago, in North Lawndale, at a 100% African-American school. I asked my students if any white kids ever attended there. “I think once … maybe,” they replied. I got so used to seeing black faces that I was shocked by my whiteness when I saw myself in the mirror during bathroom breaks.

I lived in China for five years. For the first three, I was one of three white faces in a city of 60,000. Many people wanted to be my friend. I understood it was because I was white. I humored them, telling myself I’d be more accepted if I learned Chinese. So I spent hours studying until I was fluent. But even then I wondered about my friends’ motives in spending time with me. I wished I could look Chinese.

After China, I taught at a small private Christian school in Chinatown in Chicago. Six out of eleven students were boys. Only one of those boys was black, the rest were Asian and white. One day all the other boys showed up at school with their backpacks full of clothes for a sleepover at one of the boy’s houses for his birthday. Guess which boy wasn’t invited …

To not notice race is to not notice the way clouds affect the shifting of light in the sky. It is to pretend you don’t feel the rain pelting the hood of your coat or soaking into the hole in your boots. It is to ignore reality.

And yet somehow I still believed we were living in a post-racial, inclusive, equal society.

Continue reading at SheLoves Magazine.

March 2, 2017March 27, 2017

Day 2: The Year I Went All ‘Dangerous Minds’ {31 Days of #WOKE}

My first year teaching in inner city Chicago was a spectacular failure.

The middle schoolers at a school in North Lawndale ran off two teachers in the four months before I arrived. A mid-year graduate from a nearly all white Wheaton College in the Chicago suburbs, I believed I was different. I would love my students. I would ignite their young minds with a passion for learning. When others ran, I would stay.

In my arrogance, I actually watched the movie Dangerous Minds the week after I accepted the job. In it, beautiful, blond Michelle Pfeiffer transforms her black and Latino students through the magic of learning. I, too, was determined to be an inspirational badass.

I couldn’t wait to be the hero.

I didn’t realize I was stepping into a complex web of poverty, segregation, unemployment, emotional wounds, lack of education and a deadly compulsion to belong even if it meant to a gang. In my desire to be a do-gooder, I added clutter to an already chaotic and confusing system.

I worked 16 hour days, planned elaborate lessons, called parents daily and quickly memorized student’s names. But after having done nothing for the entire year, the students were not about to begin working. On the third day of school, my students egged my car. By the end of the semester, I wept every morning on the drive to school. I was sick a total of seven weeks between the months of January and June.

In 2002, North Lawndale was (and still is) one of the most segregated, drug-riddled, and poverty-stricken areas of Chicago. When asked to draw their neighborhood, my sixth graders drew corners where drugs were sold and houses where gang-bangers lived. To buy anything from a gas station, you had to order it from the cashier from behind a barred window. Boarded up houses, abandoned lots and glass-littered parks spread out like a ghost town. Twelve year olds were checked regularly for weapons.

The school was 100 percent black. Most of my students did not live at home with two parents and the majority were being raised by a grandmother. I had to be careful which students I called home about missing homework or behavior, because they would be beaten. I was convinced that if tested, every single one of my students would have been diagnosed as having some sort of behavioral disorder. Some of them would throw desks if I didn’t call on them to read out of the social studies book.

At first, I couldn’t understand my students when they spoke. They twisted and played with words, volleying back and forth. I struggled to decode their cryptic language and enter into their conversations. Their invisible walls seemed impenetrable.

I quickly realized the dilemma of being the lone adult in the classroom when a fight broke out (which happened at least weekly). As soon as you secured one student, the other would come swinging at both of you. A student accidentally struck me once and from then on I decided to let them fight it out until I could seek help. The office got used to me buzzing down, though I was more likely to send a student next door to enlist the help of the eccentric 60 year-old gay hippie teacher.

The staff was about half black, though our middle school group of four teachers was all white. The other three had been teaching in the neighborhood for many years. The math teacher, who had taught in Lawndale about 30 years, told how the white staff were hidden in the trunks of the African American’s cars on the day that Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. I remember she would wrap Snickers bars for all her students for their birthdays. Her students adored her.

When my students cursed at me, I said I loved them. I arrived at work early and stayed up late grading papers and planning lessons. I promised I wouldn’t abandon them. I thought if they knew I was in it for the long haul that they’d start to trust me.

But it wasn’t enough. My words and even some of my actions betrayed me.

In spite of working through the summer to prepare curriculum for the fall, the week before school began I received a message from the principal: “Come and pick up your things. We’re really sorry, but another teacher has been hired to replace you.” Was it because I couldn’t control my classroom? Because the parents complained about me? Because of politics within the school that I wasn’t privy to? Because I was white … ?

Or did my students and the administration sense my lack of authenticity? When I thought I was communicating love, did they feel patronized? Was I trying to fit my students into the culture of my whiteness instead of first learning about their culture, bending and assimilating to them instead of expecting them to orient to me?

I’ll never know.

I fought for my job, but lost the fight. When school began, I was sent to different schools each day as a substitute teacher until a new job opened up.

Perhaps my students and the administration saw through my idealism and lust to be the hero who rushed into the inner city to save the day.

Perhaps they saw what I could not.

***

The woman who originally recruited me, Karen Trout, was also white, but her experience was vastly different from mine. With a pixie-cut and a quick smile, she had showed me around, telling me her dreams for the school and for the students. At 31, she and her husband had already lived in Lawndale for almost ten years and had informally adopted three African American boys. Her husband was in full-time ministry, training men to love God, work hard and be educated. I admired her patience and understanding. Without her as a mentor I wouldn’t have made it six days, much less six months.

Her family is still in Lawndale today. They turned the abandoned lot next to their three-flat into a park for their street. Their adopted children are grown and their two biological children are two of just a few white children in an otherwise all-black school. They have started businesses around the city that provide young men and women with jobs that take them off the streets. As much as possible, they have assimilated into the culture and allowed themselves to not only be known, but to know their neighbors.

I think my mistake was telling myself I was all-in without physically moving in.

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I think my mistake was telling myself I was all-in without physically moving in. I believed I could make a difference from a distance. And my students, the principal and the other teachers saw what I could not yet see.

I was in it for me.

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

A 31 Day Series Exploring Whiteness and Racial Perspectives

February 21, 2017

Wake Up, White Church

Wounded, the Body of Christ walks with a limp. In the United States, our black and brown brothers and sisters are suffering, so the evangelical church–the whole church–should ache with pain. Five generations of so-called freedom have not erased fifteen generations of slavery.

It’s time for the white evangelical church to notice.

I was stunned by these tweets from people of color in the wake of the election in November:

Yolanda Pierce @YNPierce Nov 8: White evangelicals: you’ve decisively proven that you love your whiteness more than you love your black & brown brothers & sisters in Christ.

Soong-Chan Rah ‏@profrah Nov 9 White evangelicals, you could have stood up and said that following Christ and the body of Christ is greater, but you chose to pursue power.

M.DivA ‏@sista_theology Nov 8: #ElectionNight taught me that white evangelicals will NOT be denied their privilege. They will trample the cross to hold onto it.

Leslie D. Callahan ‏@fifthpastor Nov 8 By the way, white evangelicals I see you. I see your racism and sexism. I see your repudiation of the very values you said matter.

Nicole Chung ‏@nicole_soojung Nov 8 This is white people. White people voting directly *against* their neighbors, their friends, some of their family. It’s a vote for violence.

Jamil Smith ‏@JamilSmith Nov 8 Manhattan, NY I knew my country hated me. But this much?

Jemar Tisby, president of the Reformed African American Network told The Atlantic: “The vast majority of white evangelicals with whom I interact are on board and want to see a more racially diversified and unified church. However, when that same constituency overwhelmingly supports Donald Trump, I feel like they haven’t understood any of my concerns as a racial minority and an African American.”

Over the past year, God has taken a tiny fissure in my awareness and cracked it open into a growing knowledge of the pain experienced by people of color today. I’ve immersed myself in stories via podcasts, books and articles. I’ve intentionally followed as many people of color on social media as I can and sought out friends who are people of color.

Because of this newfound sight, I dreaded attending church the Sunday after the election. Instead, I downloaded sermons. Of the four sermons from white pastors, each spent two minutes talking about the election, only to carry on with their regularly scheduled programming.

But the sermons by black pastors I downloaded? Most scrapped their plans and devoted the entire service to preaching on the sovereignty of God in these uneasy times.

The fact that white pastors did not have to talk about race following the election is an indicator of the privilege inherent in white evangelical churches.

Ignoring the Ache

The western church loves to compartmentalize. We talk about “our ministry” and excuse ourselves from the table of other ministries we may not feel passionate about. But listening to a wounded brother or a sister in Christ and trying to love them better is not a ministry, it is a call for every Christ follower.

The Bible says if one member suffers, all suffer together and if one member is honored, all rejoice together (1 Corinthians 12:26 ESV). We are all connected, but as the white church continues to ignore the cries of our brothers and sisters, we become numb to their pain until we no longer feel the ache.

Advocating for the security, equality and respect of our brothers and sisters in Christ is not an option; it is a mandate from Jesus Himself.

True Jesus-followers

In Mark 12:28-31 “one of the scribes came up and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, asked him, “Which commandment is the most important of all?” Jesus answered, “The most important is, ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’

The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

If we do not love our black and brown brothers and sisters–treating them with the same respect, attention and admiration as we expect to be treated–we cannot call ourselves lovers of Jesus.

I’ll be honest. I’m still grappling with my own latent and blatant racism. When I see several black men loitering around a gas station, without even thinking, I say, “This is a bad neighborhood.” I feel uncomfortable watching the TV show The Man in the High Castle where the Japanese have taken over the U.S. and white people are subservient to them. I expect I will be treated fairly if pulled over by police. I can live in a white bubble if I choose to. But the more I listen and learn, the more I realize we are far from living in a post-racial society.

I believe Jesus wants racial justice and radical change to begin with the church. The church is for healing, reconciliation, listening, learning, lament, growth and transformation. Yes, it is a place for studying the Bible, but many churches worship the letter of the law instead of worshipping Jesus. We dole out the minimum amount of love in order to achieve the maximum amount of comfort.

The Heidelberg Catechism asks: “Is it enough that we do not murder our neighbor in such a way?”

The answer is profound:

“No. By condemning envy, hatred, and anger God wants us to love our neighbors as ourselves,¹ to be patient, peace-loving, gentle, merciful, and friendly toward them,² to protect them from harm as much as we can, and to do good even to our enemies.³

Are we protecting our brothers and sisters of color from harm as much as we can?

The church should be the place where people of color feel the absolute safest. It should be a place where we can delight over our differences because we each reflect a facet of the Imago Dei. It should be a stunning picture of heaven on earth.

But it is not. Right now, people of color do not feel safe with their white sisters and brothers in Christ—and that’s a problem for the entire church, not just the few who feel “called to racial justice.”

Many young people are walking away from the church, longing to shed the baggage the term “evangelical” now carries. The white American church is in danger of becoming so irrelevant, self-absorbed and legalistic it will continue to lose members of the congregation who recognize society as doing more to help people than the church is. It’s time for the church to wake up.

So what do we do?

Mostly, we shut up and listen. At first, at least. Michelle Higgins says, “Without humility, there is no solidarity.” We first take the posture of a learner.

We can seek further education individually or as groups. We form book clubs, start prayer groups or attend conferences. We find friends who look different from us. We partner with black churches to meet for meals, holidays or special services. Church leaders can prioritize having people of color on staff and on stage, regularly listening to their heart and voice.

I believe a movement is stirring.

African American sister Latasha Morrison is the founder of Be the Bridge to Racial Unity, a group that focuses on bridging racial divides. It grew from 900 members in July of 2016 to 10,000 members in February of 2017. After the election, Latasha tweeted:

Tasha ‏@LatashaMorrison Nov 16 many POC have been disheartened at the looking away of many White evangelicals. I’m encouraged by those choosing to stand. #bethebridge

White people are beginning to “get woke.”

Nothing New for POC

Our country is spinning wildly and church itself is a dizzying experience. It’s tempting to walk away. But ironically, the greatest solace I’ve found is from my sisters and brothers who are people of color. Why? Because this is not the first time many of them have felt out of control, afraid or had their voices suppressed. These tweets testify to this:

Broderick Greer ‏@BroderickGreer Nov 16 For some of us, the terror began long before Trump’s rise.

Broderick Greer ‏@BroderickGreer Nov 16 And so, this feeling of insecurity isn’t new, it’s just more pronounced.

The Sunday after election day, African American Pastor Eric Mason of Epiphany Fellowship shared a sermon entitled “In God We Trust.” In it, he acknowledged that “there wasn’t a divide made, there was a divide that existed prior to this election. It just exposed this divide.” He said, “Sometimes you need for something to happen on earth so that you can look up to heaven.” And “There is nothing that sneaks past the fingers of the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords.”

He described November 9^th like this: “The clouds were still there. I still had mobility in my limbs. I was able to breathe. I blinked my eyes and I looked … and I said, ‘Hold on, you mean to tell me that this election didn’t stop the universe from being held in its place?’”

He continued, “This election did not move anything.”

Yes, God is in control, but the white evangelical church still has work to do. We need to open our eyes and acknowledge that all is not as it should be. In an age where truth is seen as “alternative fact,” we must advance toward, not away from each other. We are not whole until we suffer together.

White church, it’s time to wake up.

***

¹ Matt. 7:12; 22:39; Rom. 12:10
² Matt. 5:3-12; Luke 6:36; Rom. 12:10, 18; Gal. 6:1-2; Eph. 4:2; Col. 3:12; 1 Pet. 3:8
³ Ex. 23:4-5; Matt. 5:44-45; Rom. 12:20-21 (Prov. 25:21-22)

Be sure to sign up for email updates, because you don’t want to miss this:

Beginning March 1st, I will be sharing a series called 31 Days of #Woke. I’ll be doing some personal excavating of views of race I’ve developed through being in schools that were under court order to be integrated, teaching in an all black school as well as in diverse classrooms in Chicago and my experiences of whiteness living in Uganda and China. I’ll also have some people of color share their views and experiences of race in the United States (I still have some open spots, so contact me if you are a person of color who wants to share). So check back and join in the conversation. You are welcome in this space.

January 28, 2017January 28, 2017

This is Not Our America

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus (November 2, 1883)

I used to teach this poem to my seventh graders in the public school in Chicago along with our Constitution unit. Breaking into groups, students from Ghana, Korea, Nigeria, India, Iraq and Mexico discussed what it meant. I never told them why this poem was famous or showed them any image along with the poem, but had them read and reread, marking symbols and figurative language with pencils and encouraging them to jot notes in the margins. We’d reconvene and discuss.

“What is this poem talking about?” I’d ask.” Why are certain words capitalized?” “What is the deeper meaning?”

After discussing, I’d eventually flip on the overhead projector (it was 2004), illuminating a picture of the statue that stands as a symbol of America, the Statue of Liberty. And we’d reread the poem:

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

And the white, brown and black, atheist, Christian, Muslim, Jewish and Hindi children in my class would discuss what this poem meant to them—to their family, identity and future. How once upon a time their families, too, had been welcomed and ushered into a new kind of freedom. Just as my white Irish, English and German ancestors had.

Our country is flawed and is still recovering from the wounds of slavery and oppression in our history. But until yesterday, I was still proud to be an American. I loved knowing that we were a refuge for the refugee, a hope of a new future for the destitute and a place of safe landing for the homeless. Today, I am ashamed.

Last night as the news was still covering a march for life, President Trump sat down to sign a ban of all refugees and restrictions on travel from seven predominantly Muslim countries effective immediately. His order literally left tired and weary refugees stranded at the airport in the very country they hoped would offer them relief from their years of running.

This is not our America.

As a believer not just in a higher power, but a man named Jesus, I pray the church would take up this cause and advocate for the very people Jesus would fight for. Christian colleges, missions organizations and youth groups send followers of Christ to the 10/40 window—an area located between 10 and 40 degrees north of the equator–where the least reached with the message of Jesus live. Most of those fleeing war-torn nations come from the very nations we fund missionaries to go to. The mission field was coming to us.

Most Christians chose Trump because of his stance on abortion, though he is not “pro-life” in any other arena. This week, evangelicals have seen that more than pro-choice or pro-life, our new president is pro-Trump.

Our country needs people to take a stand for freedom again. These organizations are mobilizing and working to help refugees. Please get in touch with them and see how you can help:

World Relief

We Welcome Refugees

UNHCR

(*If you know any others who are doing this work, please leave a link in the comments.)

God is with the poor. When we welcome, open our homes, offer our food, give clothing and furniture and make sure our borders remain open to the poor, we serve Jesus himself.

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in; naked, and you clothed me; I was sick, and you visited me; I was in prison, and you came to me…to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to me.” –Matthew 25: 35-36, 40

January 21, 2017January 24, 2017

Barn Dancing, the Inauguration and the International Women’s Club

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

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

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

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

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

Take courage. Feed love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

January 13, 2017

When the Answer is “Not Now” {For SheLoves}

What about a driving school for Muslim women? My mind buzzes with the possibilities, spinning the details into a feasible plan. I just dropped our Saudi Arabian exchange student off at the international terminal and in the quiet hum of the hour-long interstate ride home, I plan, strategize and dream. Most of the Saudi international student girls I’ve met have a secret desire to learn how to drive since they are not permitted to drive in their country. Likewise, they all complain about the expensive driving schools in the U.S. or about taking private lessons where they have to be alone in a car with a man. We have a spare car, I think. And I could give private lessons and get to know the women at the same time. Perfect …

As I turn the minivan off the interstate at our exit, I hear stirring in the backseat, then arguing, then shrieking. I sigh, smoothing the bunched-up shirt over my ever-growing belly, remembering. Lost in Imaginary Land where I could chase every dream, I had forgotten my reality: two children under four and a baby on the way. I tuck the idea away in the attic of my heart, thinking, If only …

***

Several months later, scrubbing potatoes by the window at the kitchen sink, I watch my elderly neighbor shuffle around in his backyard, shoveling snow. In summer, he and his wife spend hours each day planting, watering, weeding and coaxing incredible beauty out of dry ground. It has always perplexed me, actually, because I’ve never seen anyone else in their yard. It seems like such a waste to sculpt beauty for no one to see.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I think about the notebook I carry around with me that probably has 200 titles of blog posts and ideas to write about. Some of those words will grow, blossom and die without a single other person ever reading them—just a secret thought between God and me. But some will be cut and handed out for others to enjoy (though, like freshly cut flowers, they will likely be forgotten with the next day’s round of blog posts, email newsletters and online journals).

What a waste, I think. But then I begin to wonder …

Is hidden beauty still beautiful?

Continue reading at SheLoves.

August 14, 2016February 10, 2017

What My Pregnant Body is Teaching Me

I just took a personality test and discovered that I am “The Achiever.”

This wasn’t a huge surprise.

I’m the type who decides and actually follows through with goals. I wanted to be a runner, so I started running daily. I was determined to learn to cook, so I made a weekly menu and forced my roommates to join me for our home-cooked meal every day for a year. When I decided to start blogging last year, I jumped in the day before a challenge to write EVERY DAY for 31 days—and I did it. And when I moved to China and saw that a friend of mine who had been there for a month was already advancing in his language skills, I found a tutor to come over EVERY DAY to help me. And after five years, I learned to speak, read and write Chinese.

Hello. I am Leslie Verner and I am an Achiever.

But now this achiever is also a mom. I have two children with one on the way, and now any figurative race I run is a bit like competing with your legs tied together. AND you’re blind-folded. AND you have to run backwards.
So today, my major “achievements” of the day amounted to getting my children dressed, fed a semi-nutritious meal, teeth brushed, curly boy hair tamed with water and wispy girl hair combed into a tiny pony tail. I’m even proud to admit that not only are my own teeth brushed, but I even washed my hair for the first time in a week and managed to go for a walk.

At the beginning of the summer, I had aspirations of daily Bible time with my kids, running until I was 36 weeks pregnant like I did with my daughter (I made it to 20 weeks this time), visiting a diverse park in my city once a week to strike up friendships with international student families and actually planning activities using Pinterest as a springboard (ha).

What I didn’t take into account was that pregnancy would suck the wind from my self-motivated, driven, over-achieving sails. I sit here now, sails flapping in the wind, with my kids stuck (screaming) in my boat in the middle of a sea that I can’t navigate us out of. And I just can’t find the energy to hoist up these sails, make a decision about where to go or even admire the scenery.

But God is beginning to show me that this hugely pregnant body of mine that feels more like a handicap than a blessing is, in fact, swaddled tightly in grace.

Pregnancy is the strong arm that forces the achievers like me to just stop.

Stop doing, achieving, scheming, strategizing and striving and just BE. Be a mommy. Be a wife. Be a beloved daughter of God. Be served, loved and spoiled. Be simple. Cut corners. Accept foot rubs. Do less. Sit on benches. Walk slowly. Order take-out. Indulge in pedicures. Let people carry things. Take elevators. Receive.

Embrace this season of slowness that feels like weakness. There is strength to be found there.

A year ago I was training for a half marathon, running about 10 miles in a go. I explored the city, ran trails hugging the Rocky Mountains, crossed streams and laughed at prairie dogs that warned one another of my arrival just in time to dive back into their holes, their whistles trailing behind them. Today, it took me 40 minutes to walk less than two miles, with a brief stop at a bench at the halfway point. At 36 weeks pregnant, I can’t go fast or far from home. My feet pound the same steps of the same path and I’m passed by the same retired go-getters who comment that “I’m walking for two” or “Must be any day now, eh?”

But in the slowness and the sameness, I strain to hear that still, small voice that speaks to me as I pass one strong tree after another, standing stately by the stream my path parallels. The Voice whispers, “She shall be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water that brings forth its fruit in its season. And its leaf does not wither; and in whatever she does, she prospers.” And the words, strangely familiar, are the first of many such songs of hope for the weary that I happen to come across in Psalm 1 in the few minutes of quiet I snatch in the mornings.

Firmly planted. Watered. Bearing fruit.

Prospering.

Without even moving?

Like the story that Jesus shares with His disciples about birds not panicking over lack of food or flowers not being frantic about finding clothing, I can sink into the soil here for a little while. A constantly transplanted seed cannot thrive as well as one that stays firmly planted. And so God seems to be urging me to remain as I am. Accept this gift. Dig deep, be watered and revel in the slow work of God.

“Cease striving and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the nations, I will be exalted in all the earth,” another psalm singer belts out.

My pregnant body is teaching me the beauty of diminishing, distilling my faith into a silent pool to soak in instead of a body of water to forge.

But this changed body is also teaching me about love.

It is only twisted God humor that chose women, who innately struggle more with body image than men, to be the ones to gain weight, be stretched, left with permanent scars and marks like the rotten milk ruts left under the lazy susan of my parent’s kitchen table, charted with purple veins mapping courses to unknown lands, left with too much saggy skin some places and not enough padding in others and a belly button that resembles a Muppet nose when all is said and done. Good one, God.

Or perhaps rather than a malicious meting out of a curse on our bodies, it is God’s upside-down way He likes to hand out unexpected blessings. A severe mercy.

Sometimes I like to stand naked in front of the mirror, marveling at this ludicrous body that doesn’t feel like mine. I tenderly touch the too-tight skin stretched over a tiny human body and soul growing within mine. I’m in awe of this mystery. But I also fear that my husband will laugh at making love to a body that is so deformed and abnormal—so different from the woman that he married. And yet all he ever says is exactly what I need to hear:

“You are beautiful.”

“You are the perfect size.”

“Your body is incredible.”

And in those moments I know that I am truly loved. Not for how fast I am, what a good cook I am, what I can achieve in school, how many languages I am fluent in, how creative of a mom I am, or how unblemished and perfect my feminine body is.

I am loved because I am loved.

Not even loved in spite of being pregnant, but loved even because I am pregnant. I’m loved just because I’m loved. And I will be loved even after this baby leaves its forever tattoos behind.

Pregnancy is a gift. God gives some women the inconvenient, uncomfortable, sometimes embarrassing experience of pregnancy to teach us that we can no longer define ourselves by our achievements or by our appearance. He wants us to be weak so that we will accept help from others. He wants us to slow down so that we will notice more. He wants us to be needy so that we will look around for healing and find that He is already feeding, clothing and nurturing us in ways unique to us. He wants us to cease striving and know that He is God—and that we are not. And He wants us to change form so that we will know that we were never loved for our bodies to begin with.

And so in these final weeks of pregnancy, though I feel frustrated at being grounded when my over-achieving self wants to be out doing, I will think about those strong trees firmly planted by streams of water, calmly stretching their roots down to the stream. They do not fear heat or cold, rain or storm, because they are nourished by the Source of everything good. Just because they are not moving doesn’t mean there isn’t growth happening. And they know that not only will be they be taken care of, but that they are lavishly loved, adored even. Just like me.

Linking up with Velvet Ashes {Nest}

" But God is beginning to show me that this hugely pregnant body of mine that feels more like a handicap than a blessing is, in fact, swaddled tightly in grace."

July 9, 2016May 22, 2018

70+ Race Resources for White People

It’s time.

Maybe you read a news article on your Facebook feed or listened to a podcast and feel it’s time for you to finally DO something about the injustices in our nation.

Perhaps it is time for that.

But our African American sisters and brothers have asked that before we speak, we be sure that we have done something else first: educate ourselves.

It‘s not the job of the African American community to teach white people about racism, so we must intentionally and humbly lean in, listen and learn how white culture is killing black lives. Specifically, they want us to grasp our role in the visible and invisible structures that are threatening to crush them.

The following list of resources is far from exhaustive, but will serve as a springboard for those who want to learn more about racism in America right now. Most of the resources are current and ones I’ve run across in the past six months, but do not include news events or historical documents.

Though I‘ve read all the articles and listened to the podcasts in this post, I’m still working my way through the list of books, all of which come highly recommended by others. Please add additional resources in the comments section of this post.

Podcasts

The Liturgists
Episode 34–Black & White: Racism in America
(If you only have time to listen to one podcast from this list, I would recommend this one. It’s nearly two hours, but it’s so packed with insight that you’ll want to listen again.)

Code Switch: Race and Identity, Remixed
Can We Talk about Whiteness?

On Being (with Krista Tippet)
Michelle Alexander–Who We Want to Become: Beyond the New Jim Crow

John A. Powell: Opening the Question of Race to the Question of Belonging

The Practice
Stories of Resurrection in Race

Seminary Dropout
Austin Channing Brown

Deidra Riggs on Women of Color Writers, the Church, and More

Jo Saxton on Post-Christendom, Discipleship, and Being a Woman of Color

Michelle Higgins on That Sermon at Urbana (Here is the talk that this is about: Michelle Higgins)

This American Life
Part I: The Problem We All Live With

Part II: The Problem We All Live With
(On segregation/integration in schools.)

Videos:

Michelle Higgins, Urbana 2015

How Parents Talk to Their African American Sons about Police

On the Web:

Talking to Our Kids about Race:

How to Talk to Kids about Race and Racism

Like Me, Like You Kids
A place to buy toys and decorative items for kids that reflect diversity. From the site: “Our hope is to curate beautiful products that allow children of color to see themselves in the art, books and toys they interact with daily. We also hope that children of all shades would grow up appreciating the gift of diversity – like me, like you.”

Raising Race Conscious Children

12 Books Featuring Black Fathers (for all ages)

28 Black Picture books that Aren’t About Boycotts, Buses or Basketball

50+ Picture Books about Mixed Race Families

In the Church:

Why Jesus’ Skin Color Matters, by Christena Cleveland for Christianity Today

It’s Not a Multicultural Church if… by Starlette McNeill at Raceless Gospel

When Christians Won’t Say #BlackLivesMatter by Kevin Wright at Huffpost

Understanding White Privilege:

How White Privilege Affects 8 People of Color on a Day-to-Day Basis, by Paige Tutt for Bustle

I’m White, but I Married the Son of a Black History Icon–And This is What I Discovered about Color, by Cara Meredith at For Every Mom

On a Plate: A Short Story about Privilege

The Problem with Saying ‘All Lives Matter,’ by Tyler Huckabee for Relevant Magazine

When You’re Accustomed to Privilege, Equality Feels Like Oppression, by Chris Boeskool for Huffington Post

White Privilege, Explained in One Simple Comic (language alert!)

White Privilege: Lessons from a White Mama of Black Children by Christy Richardson at Elephant Journal

White Privilege and What We’re Supposed to Do About It, by Kristen Howerton at her blog, Rage Against the Minivan

**White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack, by Peggy McIntosh
(This checklist is used all over the country in college classes to teach about white privilege).

Black Womanhood:

The Recipe: A Reflection on Black Womanhood by Austin Channing Brown at her blog

4 Things ‘LEMONADE’ Teaches Us About Black Womanhood by Courtney Hall Lee at Sojo.net

White Fragility:

Why White People Freak Out When They’re Called Out About Race, by Sam Adler-Bell for Alternet

“Dear White People, I wish you knew…”

The Heartbreaking Reality of Raising Black Children in America, by Jacalyn Wetzel for the Huffington Post

I Used to Lead Tours at a Plantation. You Won’t Believe the Questions I Got about Slavery., by Margaret Biser for Vox

On Race, Rights & Raising a Black Son: An Interview with Rachel Yantis at Scraping Raisins

Out of Sight, Out of Mind: Why White Moms Need to Care about Murdered Black Children, by Danielle S

Ten Things White People Need to Quit Saying, by Melody Moezzi for Huffington Post

To the White Parents of My Black Son’s Friends, by Maralee

What You Can Do:

One Small Square, by Lisha Epperson for The Mudroom (The Mudroom did an entire series on race in June of 2016 that was fabulous.)

What You Can Do Right Now About Police Brutality, by Ijeoma Oluo for Huff Post Blog

The Case for Reparations, by Ta-Nehisi Coates for The Atlantic

Ok, White Folks, Here’s What You Can Really Do to Help, by Pastor Jonathan Brooks

The Ugly Truth about Diversity at Scraping Raisins

Books

A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America

Between the World and Me

The Cross and the Lynching Tree

Divided by Faith: Evangelical Religion and the Problem of Race in America

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

Let Nobody Turn Us Around: An African American Anthology

More than Just Race: Being Black and Poor in the Inner City (Issues of Our Time)

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness

The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration

Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria: And Other Conversations About Race

People/Blogs to Follow on Twitter or Facebook:

These voices–both white and people of color–are bravely speaking out about racism in our country. If you subscribe to their blogs, follow them on Twitter or “like” their pages on Facebook, then you’ll be sure to always be kept abreast of the latest that is going on in the African American community.

*active on Twitter

**active on Facebook

**A Musing Maralee

Austin Channing Brown

*Broderick Greer

*Shay Stewart-Boulay/Black Girl in Maine

Danielle S/Mamademics

Deidra Riggs

Dr. Brenda Salter McNeil

Drew G. I. Hart

*Jasmine Banks

Jennifer/Baby Making Machine

Jo Saxton

Jon Greenberg

Judy Wu Dominick

**Kristen Howerton/Rage Against the Minivan

Lisha Epperson

**Latasha Morrison

Online Journals:

Ebony

Huff Post Black Voices

The Root

Find a long list of news sources here

Facebook Group:

Be the Bridge (also a website)

Additional Lists of Resources:

Curriculum for White Americans to Educate Themselves on Race and Racism–From Ferguson to Charleston

Racial Reconciliation Resources (from First Free Church, Chicago)

This list barely scratches the surface of the resources available, but I hope that these passionate voices will start you on your journey toward self-education in matters of race and racism.

Feel overwhelmed by the vastness of the problem?

It helps to remember that though the nation is a quilt of many squares, you are only responsible to do your part in toppling racism by “tending to your one small square“–that corner of the world God has placed you in for such a time as this (Lisha Epperson).

~~~

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~~~

Next Posts: I once was (color) blind, but now…

Mourning and the Duty to Delight

Previous Post: A Muslim in Our Home

Related Posts:

31 Days of #WOKE

The Ugly Truth about Diversity

On Race, Rights & Raising a Black Son: An Interview with Rachel Yantis

Note: This post contains affiliate links. If you click on a book and buy it through Amazon, you will not be charged extra, but I will receive a very tiny commission.

~~~

Tag: Leslie Verner

Day 4: Rich, Loud and Carries a Backpack {31 Days of #WOKE}

If you haven’t, I would highly recommend watching “The Danger of a Single Story”:

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

Day 2: The Year I Went All ‘Dangerous Minds’ {31 Days of #WOKE}

New to the Series? Start HERE (though you can jump in at any point!).

This is Not Our America

Barn Dancing, the Inauguration and the International Women’s Club

When the Answer is “Not Now” {For SheLoves}

What My Pregnant Body is Teaching Me

70+ Race Resources for White People

Sign up for my Mid-month Digest and Secret Newsletter Here:

Welcome to Scraping Raisins!