Tag: Leslie Verner

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My 14 Favorite Books on Writing and Creativity

Sometimes I’d rather read about writing than actually write. Perhaps I secretly think I’ll glean enough from their advice and experience to produce a crop without the same effort? I pared this list down a bit (believe it or not), and while the majority are about writing, a few are for creatives, by creatives.

Do yourself a favor and dash over to Goodreads, Amazon or to the library and add these to your ever-expanding reading list.

The Artists Way, by Julia Cameron

One of my favorite things about this book are the quotes in the margins. Before I begin writing, I sometimes browse through for writing inspiration. I often think of her reference to “restock the pond” and “refill the well” when I feel creatively depleted. She says, “When we work at our art, we dip into the well of our experience and scoop out images. Because we do this, we need to learn how to put images back.” (p. 21)

The Art of Memoir, by Mary Karr

Mary Karr is hilarious. I heard her interviewed on several podcasts before I read a single book of hers and I confess I still haven’t actually read one of her memoirs. As I’ve been writing, I often think about how she said the reader needs to feel like they’ve zipped themselves into the author’s skin. (Kind of gross and Shel Silverstein-esq, but so helpful.) And I’m going to give away the ending because it makes me cry:

“None of us can ever know the value of our lives, or how our separate and silent scribbling may add to the amenity of the world, if only by how radically it changes us, one and by one.” (p. 218)

The Art of the Personal Essay, edited by Phillip Lopate

I had this anthology for an advanced writing class in college and LOVED it. It’s not a writing book, per se, but has examples of some of the best essays of all time by Annie Dillard, G.K. Chesterton, Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin and Adrienne Rich, among many others.

 

 

The Artful Edit: On the Practice of Editing Yourself, by Susan Bell

I first heard about this from Ann Kroeker on her incredibly helpful podcast for writers and quickly checked it out of the library. I’m struggling to write my first manuscript, so I wasn’t sure if I should be editing as I go along, or if I should wait until it is all completed to wade back through the mire to make sense out of it all. This book helped me figure out a strategy that works for me and provided some tools to edit both at the micro and macro level. My only tip would be to make sure you’ve read The Great Gatsby before reading this book because Bell uses that book as an example in many of the chapters.

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott

I’ve listened to many hours of writers sharing about writing and their favorite books and this one is probably mentioned the most frequently. Lamott loves to share the story about her brother who procrastinated on a project about birds for school and had to finish it the night before. Their father told him, “Son, we’ll just take it bird by bird,” and that became Lamott’s mantra for writing–just take it “bird by bird.” Along with this, the second most quoted part of this book is the author’s permission to create SFD’s, or “s**ty first drafts.” I’ve taken much consolation in that.

Breath for the Bones, by Luci Shaw

Less technical and more spiritual, this book spiritualizes the work of the Christian artist. My favorite parts are when she talks about the Holy Spirit as her muse and mentions walking around at attention, with her antennae combing the air. I once heard a writer say every book is a conversation with another book, and I feel like this book is in conversation with Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water and Barabara Brown Taylor’s An Altar in the World. It’s probably one of my favorites in this list.

Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke

The main reason I list this book here is because it is so often quoted that I think every artist needs to at least say they have read it. Here’s the infamous quote (though the rest is worth reading as well): ”

“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose…”

Life Creative, by Wendy Speake and Kelli Stuart

I read this book in the perfect moment of my writing career, just as I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it or possible to be a mother to little ones AND try to be a writer. Life Creative is the type of empowering, inspiring and fire-lighting book that women need to remind them they are called to this important work of being creators.

 

 

On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Non-fiction, by William Zinsser

This was also assigned reading in one of my writing classes nearly 20 years ago and when I reread it last year, I could see why. Zinsser’s voice is usually in my head as I edit: “Clutter is the enemy” (p. 15), “Do I need it at all? Probably I don’t” (p. 79), and “Every successful piece of nonfiction should leave the reader with one provocative thought that he or she didn’t have before” (p. 52). Thank you, sir. If you need a refresher on the craft of writing, this should be your go-to book.

Several Short Sentences About Writing, by Verlyn Klinkenborg

Similar to On Writing Well, this book celebrates simple, concise work. The entire book is written as a list of sentences, so you can see his point about varying sentence length play out throughout the book. He writes,

“No subject is so good that it can redeem indifferent writing. But good writing can make almost any subject interesting.” (p. 129) This book is a perfect mix of creative inspiration and technical advice on the craft of writing. It’s a quick read, but every sentence packs a punch (sometimes clichés are just exactly what you want to say…).

Walking on Water, by Madeline L’Engle

This is my all-time-favorite book on creativity and spirituality. I wrote a whole post about it for SheLoves here and often quote her in my work. My favorite quote from the book is this:

“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. The amount of the artist’s talent is not what it is about. Jean Rhys said to an interviewer in the Paris Review, ‘Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.” (p. 23) We feed the lake.

Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg

I remember seeing a quote by Natalie Goldberg and being intrigued. The quote was something like, “Writers get to live life twice.” So I put her book on hold in the library and devoured it in less than a week. Now, as I write, I often think about the composting I mentioned in my last post and the redemption of what feels like waste as we write. This is a fabulous companion to the other writing books on your shelf. I wish I had bought it, not just checked it out of the library.

 

The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard

I read this book long before I started a blog, submitted an article or even began calling myself a writer. And when I shyly stepped naked onto the screen, Dillard’s words empowered me:

“Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.” (p. 67-68 emphasis mine)

Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer, by Roy Peter Clark

This is also a very practical book for writers who may have been at it a while and need to hone their craft. It’s added to my personal editing checklist as I read back through my drafts and consider if I’m using active verbs, being too wordy, or losing my subject in long sentences. This book feels a bit like when I used to study theory and practice scales as a piano student–less sexy, but very necessary.

On my “To Read” List:

A Writer’s Diary, by Virgina Woolf

The Art of Nonfiction, by Ayn Rand

Creativity Rules, by Brenda Seelig

If You Want to Write, by Brenda Ueland

Light the Dark, edited by Joe Fassler

Rumors of Water, by L.L. Barkat

Writing About Your Life, by William Zinnser

 

What are your favorite books about writing and creativity? I’d love to hear!

***

Our theme for April is “Books and Writing,” and I hope to share my favorite books, podcasts and resources for new writers.  Be sure to follow me on social media and sign up for my newsletter below so you can be alerted of new posts. Please get in touch at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting on this topic!

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

**Includes Amazon affiliate links

Writing & Creativity #writing #writerslife #amwriting #booksonwriting #bookreview

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Writing Garbage

Three years ago if you had told me I’d be calling myself a writer today, I would have chuckled and said, “Right. I wish.”

Natalie Goldberg talks about writing being like a compost heap. All those journal entries, letters, emails, short stories, articles, and blog posts mingle together in their juices and every once in a while a stunning tulip pushes her way up and out of the mush. I had about 30 years of composting—mostly pure garbage–before I ever published a word.

This month on the blog, the theme is books and writing. I’ll share some guest posts from writers who have called themselves professionals much longer than I have. I’ll also have a book or two (or three) to give away to readers who love books as much as I do. Be sure to follow along on social media and share with your book-nerd and writerly friends.

I signed a book contract this February, though it won’t be published until fall of 2019, so it still feels distant and surreal. I confess I suffer from major Imposter Syndrome most days (check out a couple great podcasts by Lead Stories about that).

But I’m writing the words and adding compost to the pile, trusting something holy, hopeful, and transcendent will emerge from the heap. Before I begin writing, I pray for those who read my book—that this wouldn’t just be about me, but that we’d be together in it all. I ask the Holy Spirit for inspiration, wisdom and winsome words.

But mostly I beg God for permission to write badly. At least at first.

Julia Cameron says it like this:

“Remember that in order to recover as an artist, you must be willing to be a bad artist. Give yourself permission to be a beginner. By being willing to be a bad artist, you have a chance to be an artist, and perhaps, over time, a very good one” (The Artist’s Way, p. 30)

I pray for freedom to run my fingers over the keyboard without obsessing, over-analyzing or self-criticizing, with the reckless abandon of my naked children dancing around the living room after a bath. I need that level of confidence, self-indulgence and blind courage.

Many writers have said you can’t edit a blank page, so I’m filling the page with words and then giving myself time to wade back through the sludge. I’m hoping to find some gems buried there.

This month is about writing and books mainly because writing is at the center of my story right now. I hope this theme will somehow intersect with wherever you are in life—even if you’re not a writer. Perhaps insert whatever thing God is calling you to do that causes you the greatest amount of self-doubt or quivering-in-your-boots and relate in that way.

Now that I’m a writer, I read the Bible with new lenses. As I read Ecclesiastes recently, certain passages suddenly glowed with new meaning. Wise Solomon writes,

“He who observes the wind will not sow, and he who regards the clouds will not reap.

As you do not know the way the spirit comes to the bones in the womb of a woman with child, so you do not know the work of God who makes everything.

In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.” (Eccl. 11:5-6 ESV)

Writing demands feisty faith.

Writing demands feisty faith.

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 We till, plant, and sow, then God whispers miracles from mounds of trash. He infuses bones with spirit breath and tiny seeds hidden in the ground with life. Our job is to show up, trust the Light to do its part, and keep doing the work of tilling, planting and watering. Then we sit back on our heels, and do some waiting for the tulips to grow out of our years of faithful composting.

***

This month, I hope to cover some of the following topics, so you can treat this introduction like a table of contents for the month and check back here for updated links. I probably won’t have time to do all of this, but here are some topics I *want* to cover:

My Favorite Books on Writing
Redbud Writer’s Guild vs. Hope Writers
#WOCwithpens (And a White Evangelical Woman’s Place in the Interwebs)
Interviews with Authors
What Should I Write About?
Juggling Motherhood and that Other Thing You Love to Do
Favorite Podcasts about Writing
10 Reasons You Should Start Writing
How to Start a Blog (ok, so this could be like 10 posts…help?)
Book Reviews
Summary of My Favorite Sessions at the Festival of Faith & Writing
Editing Checklist (s)

***

Our theme for April is “Books and Writing,” and I will share my favorite books, podcasts and resources for new writers.  Be sure to follow along on social media and sign up for my newsletter below so you can be alerted of new posts and free book give aways. Please get in touch at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting on this topic!

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

**Includes Amazon affiliate links

Writing Garbage: Natalie Goldberg talks about writing being like a compost heap. All those journal entries, letters, emails, short stories, articles, and blog posts mingle together in their juices and every once in a while a stunning tulip pushes her way up and out of the mush.

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The IHOP Days of Motherhood (#threekids)

(I wrote this in February of 2017, but it still holds true.) 

The IHOP Days of Motherhood

The middle-aged woman at the checkout aisle across from me quickly looks away as I glance up. My five-month-old is strapped to my chest, sucking on the side of the baby wrap; the other two kids are now riding the one cent plastic horse ride next to the lotto ticket kiosk. I wonder what the woman is thinking as she watches me drop coins on the floor, lecture children and bag my own groceries with a baby strapped to my chest.

It could be, “What a precious mom—she’s doing such a great job.”

But I suspect it was, “Thank God that’s not MY life.”

These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say,

“Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

And so instead of running away forever, I’ve escaped for two hours. It’s seven degrees below zero today, but the sun is streaming through the window, spotlighting the stardust lazily floating in the air. For once, this coffee shop is nearly empty and I have the couch spot by the fireplace with the mosaic table all to myself. Men are talking loudly in the back room. They began their meeting with prayer and I hear church words punctuate their conversations like “Old Testament,” “Bible” and “Communion.” I don’t even mind, because—for once–the voices do not belong to anyone related to me.

These are the weeks when my nose is right up against the oil painting of my life and all I see is a blob of sticky paint. I can’t get enough distance to know that this week, this day, this moment of juggling a sick, crying infant while my other two children beg for more milk, more cheerios, more love, more attention, more, more, more is a mere dab on the canvas. A stroke of grey on blue.

Nap times, Monday through Friday, look like this: We finish lunch and my two-year-old hands me a board book about an acorn, while my son chooses The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I swaddle the baby and get him situated to nurse, guarding his head with my hand as the other two scramble onto the couch, all bruised elbows, knees and wet noses.

We read a picture book about a small acorn waiting on the ground as each animal approaches and asks that the acorn serve it in some way: scratch its back, provide shade, shelter or food, which it promises to do when it becomes a big, strong tree. The acorn begins to break apart, sending roots down and leaves up. Eventually, the acorn disappears entirely and a tree stretches out and up. The other animals run to make good on the promises made in it’s infancy.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Edmund is playing hide-and-seek and thinks he is following his sister into the wardrobe when his feet crunch on snow. He discovers a magical world in an ordinary closet. I slide the bookmark into the binding, easing off of the couch without disturbing the still-nursing baby. My older son protests, begging me to read more.

“Time to go potty,” I say.

I momentarily lay the baby on the guest bed and hoist my daughter into her crib, making sure she has her baby dolls, water and blankie. She immediately turns on her tummy, hugging her water cup to herself.

“Goodnight, Mom,” she says, pretending she’s a teenager instead of a two-year-old girl with pigtails.

I scoop up the baby and meet my son in his room, waiting for him to wriggle his feet under the sheet before bringing it to his chin. He turns and snuggles closer to me as I sing the usual three songs, pray and receive “two kisses on two cheeks,” all with a baby attached to my breast.

By the time I close the door, I feel the baby go limp and gently lay him down in his bassinet in our room. Pausing, I smile at the miracle of three children in three beds, quiet. Creeping down and pushing the button on the hot water kettle and throwing a tea bag in an oversized mug, I sit down at the computer. Just as the aroma of black tea infused with cardamom and cinnamon begins to seep into the room and the thoughts begin to flow, footsteps echo in the hall.

“Just need to use the potty,” my son announces. I hear soft cries coming from our room. Sighing, I get up from my chair to retrieve the baby.

***

Last Thursday I got everyone out of the house after much weeping and gnashing of teeth to go to Bible study, but found an empty, unplowed parking lot when I arrived. It had been cancelled. No way was I going back home.

Plan B was a coffee shop where my children made such a shrieking, toy-snatching scene while I was nursing the baby that an irritated man snarled at them, “This is a COFFEE SHOP.” As if that means anything to a two-year-old.

So Plan C was to brave the snowy roads and drive an hour to the children’s museum because even if I had to drive 20 miles an hour, they’d be STRAPPED IN–the only legal way to physically bind my children for an hour. The car was quiet the entire way, which I counted as a gift from God Himself. At the museum, I sat dully watching the children play, too exhausted to even pull out my phone. I enjoyed the hours of not having to say “No,” “Don’t” or “What were you thinking???”

The baby screamed the entire ride home and my daughter woke up in hysterics when we pulled off the interstate at our exit. I convinced my husband to meet us at a restaurant because I still couldn’t bear the thought of going home.

Friday I dragged all three children to the doctor’s office and let them play with the germy toys in the lobby. An hour and a half and 75 dollars later, the doctor confirmed my suspicion: all three children had colds and no, there was nothing he could do. The baby had a fever that night resulting in neither of us sleeping and my son threw up all night and morning—of course this all happened AFTER the doctor’s appointment.

I talked to my high school best friend on the phone, who is laps ahead of me in the motherhood race, with an 11, 13 and 15 year old. After venting about my disobedient, selfish, irrational, unkind children, she sent me a string of texts, which I read when I got up with the baby at 2 am.

She reminded me of the time her four-year-old daughter poured water on the head of a girl during the girl’s birthday party. Her daughter had also been responsible for breaking up the playgroup my best friend started because she was such a terror. Plus there was the time her teacher had informed my friend that her daughter was the worst student in class.

But then my friend detailed what her now-thirteen-year-old had done that day. She woke before everyone else, got dressed, made breakfast for her daddy, did homework and then helped her younger sister with her homework. She cleaned up the living room, then played the piano for the congregation at church that evening.

My friend ended her text with this: “My take is that your son is going to be the brightest, most successful in his class. And since daughters are amazing, your daughter is going to be your future bestie. And the baby, well, he is bound to turn out wonderful because … well … as my mom always said [my friend is the third born] … the third is a charm.”

Eyes burning with tears, I stood in the darkened kitchen, phone in one hand, sleeping baby in the other. Friends like this grab my arm and drag me back for the distance needed to give me a view of this life canvas I’m living. One day my children will provide food, shelter, comfort and shade for themselves and others. One day they will be strong, tall and be able to stand on their own.

But today, they are tiny and vulnerable. And the lifespan of an acorn is a stroke of the brush in the huge painting of their life and mine.

Today, though it is cold outside, the sun is shining in this coffeeshop and I have the gift of a morning to breathe. A sliver of space to remember what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I step into the ordinary wardrobe and for just a short time, I remember the magic and feel the crunch of snow at my feet. I am gathering strength. I glance out the window at naked branches, then write:

Bare trees showcase blue sky.
Branches weighted with snow sigh
in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

On Motherhood: Bare trees showcase blue sky. Branches weighted with snow sigh in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

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I am ready to go home, to do this. I am ready to be a mom again.

***

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

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

*Contains Amazon affiliate links

These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say, “Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

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Where to Buy Used Clothing Online

The danger of watching documentaries is that they can alter your entire life. After watching The True Cost on Netflix two years ago and discussing it with a friend, we decided to stop buying cheap clothing, called “fast fashion,” from places like Forever 21, Old Navy, Target and others and start buying used or American-made for us and our family members.

It’s taken a little scavenging, but with the help of thrift stores and consignment shops like Once Upon a Child and Clothes Mentor, it has been doable. (And just FYI, I have bought NEW shoes, undies, boy’s sized 4T pants and socks for all of us! Don’t bother buying used little boy pants, they’ll have holes in the knees within the week! We’ve also had a hard time buying men’s used clothing.)

I’ve had success buying used clothing online, so I wanted to share my research with you.

ThredUp

Buy and Sell: clothing for women, children, maternity, handbags, accessories, jewelry

Of this list, ThredUp is my preferred site to buy used clothing. The website is very easy to navigate and search for specific items, they do free returns for damaged clothing, and they have a large variety of styles. They also have a great referral program where you get $10 to spend and the person you refer gets $10 to shop after they place their first order. Of the two times I’ve ordered from them, each time I did receive one item that had a hole in it, but was able to return the item free of charge.

If you use the promo code SCRAPINGRAISINS through the end of April 2018, you will receive 35% off all first-time orders up to $50.

Patagonia Worn Wear

Buy and Trade in: men’s, women’s, kids & baby clothing, packs and gear

You can turn your used Patagonia clothing in to any Patagonia retail location and get store credit. They do the washing;-) It looks like the credit you get is maybe half off retail price?

Swap

Buy and Sell: clothing for men, women, kids, maternity and toys

They have a referral program and for every friend you refer who makes a purchase of $20 or more, you earn $20 of credit. Free shipping for your first order of $10. You can buy and sell. Right now, they have $3 days until midnight of March 10th. One thing I like about this company is that they sell used costumes for kids!

ReStitch (Online Goodwill)

Sells: women’s clothing, including maternity and plus-sized clothing

You get 20 percent off your first order. To me, the items look a bit expensive for buying used clothing sight unseen, but if you’re looking for something specific, you could try this out.

More Expensive, but Fancier:

Tradesy

Buy and Sell: designer clothing, bags, shoes, accessories

The fine print: return clothing you don’t want within four days, free of charge, for store credit. Join the mailing list and get $50 off your first purchase of over $400 …

Poshmark

Buy and Sell: men, women, & kids’ clothing, shoes, handbags, jewelry, accessories

You have to create an account with an email address before you can shop. You give your dress size, shoe size, zip code and follow three brands you love to shop (I found it annoying to scroll through all the brands) and then you get a message that says: “Your personal shopping network has been selected.” This was not my favorite online shopping experience, but again if you need something specific you might want to give this one a try. The prices seemed reasonable for the non-designer brands.

BONUS: A Cool Company that Loves the Planet and Supports Ethical Business Practices:

Renewal Workshop

Buy: men and women’s NEW clothing

From their site: “We started our company to solve hard problems and to create new systems that do what is good and right for people and for the planet. We’ve been working day and night over the past year to build a new factory in the US where tons of clothing and textiles are being diverted from landfill and made into renewed apparel, upcycling materials, and recyclable feedstock.”

Shipping is free for Renewal Workshop members, but $8 otherwise. They don’t have free return shipping, but you can return within 90 days. Site lists the “renewed price.” The men’s brands are Ibex, PrAna, and Mountain Khakis, women’s had those, plus Toad & Co. and Indigenous. Still pricier than I would normally pay for new clothing, but probably better quality. One section of the site says “all Renewed Apparel is priced at 25-40% off the original retail price.”

This article and this article explain why I am trying to buy used and American-made clothing instead of going the “fast fashion” route. But you should watch The True Cost documentary … if you dare;-)

 

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

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

Where to Buy Used Clothing Online

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Mom Fail #3,477

I forgot pajama day. I picked my son up from preschool (*yes, we started preschool in January) last week and I watched, horrified, as all the children filed out of the classroom wearing PJ’s. My son came out wearing jeans with torn knees and a batman T-shirt. Now, on the scale of world catastrophe/human suffering/poverty, this ranks low, but when your full-time job is mothering, then missing PJ day at school feels like ultimate failure.

My husband dropped him off at school and neglected to mention it to me, probably because he knew I would have rushed back to school with PJ’s for my son. But instead of telling my son how terrible I felt, that I was an awful mother, and I’d make it up to him by buying him ice cream, I waited to see if he’d mention it. He didn’t. I looked at his little face, scrutinized it for sadness and saw a happy little boy with a construction paper craft dripping with glue in his hand. Phew, deep emotional scars averted. I hoped.

I don’t know if it’s because I used to feel capable and reliable—in my pre-kid days, I mailed notes to friends, called my nieces and nephews on their birthdays, sent out Christmas cards, and brought meals to new moms. But something about having three children has made me the worst friend, housekeeper, wife, neighbor, cook, and Christian person. And it’s not even making me the best mom. I win at nothing. Guilt strangles me at every turn.

I took the kids on a walk in the afternoon, pushing my one year old in the stroller as the other two kids rode far ahead on the sidewalk. I didn’t even feel nervous that they were out of sight because the roads in our city have such wide shoulders.

Moving from Chicago with her narrow lanes, Colorado’s wide roads used to feel strange and unnatural to me, but now I’m thankful for the extra space. As I thought about this, something hit me.

Mothers are gifted with wider roads. We are given the largest margins possible that allow us to veer off the sidewalk and not get run over because of our carelessness. God gives mothers more space.

There are times in life when we will be able to make meals for friends, send Christmas cards with hand-written notes, lead book clubs and groups at church, teach Sunday school, be the room mom, the soccer coach or the friend who watches friend’s kids on a regular basis, but these years when we have tiny kids at home are not those times.

Last year I went to an elaborate Christmas party put on by a friend.

“I wanted to do a party, too, but when I saw you were throwing one, we decided to just come to yours,” I said, embarrassed by my laziness.

She looked at me hard.

“I would have never attempted a party like this when my kids were little like yours,” she said. “I just started doing this last year when my youngest turned eight.”

It’s taken me nearly six years, but I am ready to say yes to support, self-forgiveness, and grace, and no to guilt. I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

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And I’m ready to let myself off the hook, put my achievements, abilities, and education in storage for the season, and pat myself on the back for getting dinner made, children clothed, occasionally bathed, and teeth brushed (okay, so my husband mostly does the teeth).

Yes, I forgot PJ day. But if my son reads this one day, I hope he doesn’t hold on to all of my missteps and foibles, but remembers how I read him books, sang him songs, let him “help” make waffles, tickled him relentlessly, danced with him in the kitchen, told him about Jesus, took him to parks and museums, and occasionally even got down on the floor and pretended to be a wolf, tiger or octopus caught in hot lava.

If you are on the other side of this season and see one of us at the grocery store wrangling our one, two, three or more kids in the cart, will you please smile at us? And will you tell us something we really need to hear?

Can you please say, “Mama, you’re doing a GREAT job.”

At any rate, I know God sees me, holds my guilt and smooths my hair like the tender Father he is, whispering as I fall asleep, “I know, honey. I know you feel bad, but I also know you’re doing the best you can. And you know what? That is more than enough.”

***

[*Aside: For those of you thinking, “Wait, I thought they weren’t doing preschool this year” … turns out my very structured little boy didn’t appreciate my free spirited/unstructured/spontaneous ways, and afternoon preschool three days a week during the (theoretical) naptime of the other kids = a (theoretical) break for me. I still follow too many #unschooling moms on Instagram, though, wishing I were that mom … wait, this post was supposed to be about letting go of mom guilt/comparison … and I’m actually off Instagram for Lent, so that helps 😉 ]

 

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

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

Mom Fail #3,477. "I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am." --Leslie Verner

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The Sacrament of Childbirth {for SheLoves}

I wrote this post for SheLoves Magazine. It’s probably the most personal thing I’ve ever written.

I was shocked by how similar childbirth was to watching my father-in-law die. There is the pacing, the patience, the impatience, the watching for signs of death—or life. The living room transforms into a tunnel where the outside world is fuzzy and out of focus and inside, all senses are heightened. As the time for birth—or death—nears, erratic breathing ushers a soul into another world. There is pain. There is relief. There is hope. There is life in death.

Death and birth are undeniably spiritual for the person who’s spent time in that sacred space. Something, Someone, is invisibly present in the room with you at the gate. I’ve stood at that gate—a portal to the other world—four times now. Once, as a soul went on to the next world, and three other times, as my body welcomed three souls to this world.

Childbirth is natural and supernatural, real and ephemeral, earthy and otherworldly, you are lost forever, and find yourself anew. Birthing is raw, primitive, immodest. You abandon propriety, trusting the process. An imprint of Eden, you are naked again—and unashamed. As a woman in labor, you follow a script written thousands of years ago that billions of women have followed. You are not the first, but that does not diminish, but rather enlarges the sacred space you are given permission to occupy.

Heaven heaves spirit breath beneath the thin veil of the natural world, sending reality floating up as you tenderly hold the edge of the sheet, gasping at what lies beneath.

You glimpse the divine, who weaves numinous tendrils of time, matter, rhythm and grace to draw this new being out of your body and into the world. You are not alone. The Creator is coaching, whispering, caressing your sweaty hair, kneading your tense shoulders, clothing you in the timeless mystery of mothers who have entered this transcendence…

continue reading at SheLoves Magazine

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I Am 200 Percent. I Am Chinese-American. {Guest Post}

The Chinese-American Weight of Being 200%

By Kaitlin Ho Givens | Blog

After lunch we played hand games. It was just what we did in kindergarten in the suburbs of New York and so after eating, we’d turn towards each other in pairs on the lunch benches, sing songs and clap our hands together to the beat.

There was one hand game that ended with “Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” with corresponding hand motions – pulling your eyes to slant upwards for “Chinese,” downwards slanted eyes for “Japanese,” and crossing your arms against your chest for “Indian chief!” You were supposed to freeze on “Indian Chief,” and the first person who moved, lost.

I hated this game. I tried to avoid it at all costs and so I was a big proponent of “Miss Mary Mac,” whose silver buttons all down her back, back, back were much more pleasant. One of my earliest memories is playing with a girl who refused to play anything besides the one I dreaded most.

What’s wrong with Miss Mary Mac? I thought, irritated.

I reluctantly agreed. I found myself going faster and faster as we played – clap clap clap – so fast we could barely fit the words over the beat. Clap clap clap.

“Chinese! Japanese! Indian chief!” I did the motions in a flurry of movement and purposely “unfroze” myself so I lost and we could move on to another game.

But the girl stopped. She looked at me with a mean grin, and said, “You kind of look like that.”

I feigned confusion. She pulled at her eyes to slant them, and laughed. It was what I dreaded most. Someone had noticed I was different, and it was clearly not a good thing.

I remember lying on the floor eating grapes and asking my mom, “Mom? I’m 100% Chinese, right?”

And she said, “Yes, Daddy and I are both Chinese so you’re 100% Chinese.”

I continued, “And I’m 100% American, right? Because I was born here.”

“Yes, you’re 100% American.”

I paused. “So I’m 200%?”

My mom laughed, “Yes, you’re 200%.”

Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough. I had the vacillating experience of attending a predominantly white suburban school and going to Chinatown on Sundays for my Chinese church.

In school, I was seen as fairly quiet. At church, I was one of the more outspoken. At school, I was the smallest person on all of my sports teams. At church, I was bigger than most with an athletic build that was unwonted, and I often felt like I had to lose weight.

At school, I would get the “slanty eye” jab from people who were feeling particularly mean-spirited, while at church my eyes were admired for being “so big” because I have double eyelids (a feature that most have, but many Asians do not, and one of the most popular plastic surgeries in Asia).

My white school friends didn’t take their shoes off when they came to my house, and I was horrified. When I asked them to take them off, they laughed and said that was weird. “Nevermind,” I muttered. I vacuumed with vigor after they left.

In Chinatown, Chinese shops involve no lines, actively pushing yourself forward and shouting in Chinese; they are not for the faint of heart. The Chinese bakery women would say things to each other about me in Chinese after my feeble attempts at ordering baos; I didn’t know what they were saying but I knew they were talking about me because “lo fan” means white person, and they used that term to refer to me, the white one.

I couldn’t hide the fact that I wasn’t white at school, especially with a last name “Ho” that would always get snickers, while at church I was called a twinkie: “yellow on the outside, white on the inside.”

In subtle and overt ways, I was continuously told by white Americans that being Chinese was weird, and I was abnormal. And yet I couldn’t change the shape of my eyes or the food we ate and the way my culture shaped me, so I was stuck in shame. And it seemed I could never be Chinese enough to fit into the Chinese community, leaving me exasperated. I was confused, weighed down by the 200% of my Chinese-American self, continually feeling like I was not enough of either.

The cacophony of my hyphenated Chinese-American identity sent me running every which way to find a place where I belonged. By the time I got to college, I was jaded by both the white American community and the Chinese community and found myself seeking acceptance in the black community on the gospel choir and the step team, with the Latino community in their cultural association.

It is good to discover other cultures, but it was at the expense of my own identity. I was ashamed of my Chinese-American identity, trying to deny my own culture, and desperate to hear that I was enough. I was weighed down by the load of trying to carry an identity I didn’t understand. I was running from my own skin, my own self, and ultimately, I was running from the One who made me.

I heard the voice of my Creator through a bumper sticker in the Dominican Republic: “Soy especial, Dios no hace basura.” I am special, God doesn’t make garbage.

Something broke inside me when I saw that bumper sticker. I heard the voice of God say, “Kata, you are enough.”

I heard, “The ignorance and inhospitality of white Americans and even your own race have bent you in shame. That was never my intention; I want to heal you so you can stand tall.” I heard God say that his creation of me as a Chinese-American woman was not a mistake, but profoundly purposeful.

There was beauty to be discovered, brokenness to be exposed and healed, and joy and redemption to come if I would just stop running and heed his call. A call to stop cowering under the weight of my own confusion and shame, receive his words of life, and stand tall. A call to intimacy with the Father and a call to a greater understanding of how he made me; a call to see what it looks like to worship him in the fullness of who I am and invite others to do the same.

From that catalytic bumper sticker moment, I have been on this wonder-filled journey with Jesus where I’m still figuring out what it means to be a third-generation Chinese-American. The journey is long but marked with freedom and curiosity, not avoidance and shame. It has been an exhilarating ride of discovering depths of the Father’s heart in ways I never would have known if I had kept running.

If we deny, dismiss, or push aside our ethnicity and race, we are robbed of opportunities to experience deep healing, to enter into the stories of those who are different from us, and we mistakenly assume that our way is the right way and everything else is weird, which hurts our neighbors and our witness.

The Father declares that he has created us purposely, and well. He invites us to explore our ethnic identity with him. Whether we come from a majority or minority culture, we have an ethnicity worth discovering. May we have courage to trust our Creator and be open to his beckoning. Surely it will bring light and life to us and our communities in ways we might never have expected.

About Kaitlin:

I am Kaitlin Sara Ho Givens, also known as “Kata.” I am a Chinese-American campus minister focusing in planting new movements, empowering leaders, and raising up purposefully multiethnic, reconciling communities that reflect the heart of God. I am pursuing a Masters of Divinity at Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in English from Boston University. I speak Spanish and French and Minion proficiently, with Greek and Hebrew up next.

***

Sign up for the Scraping Raisins newsletter by midnight (MT) February 28th and be entered to win a copy of Beyond Colorblind! (sorry, only U.S. residents can win)

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

 

Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving the church towards racial healing and growth.

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

The theme for March is “Simplify” and for April is “Books and Writing.” Email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com if you have an idea for a guest post!

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links

Much of my life has been feeling the weight of this 200%, and yet somehow, being not enough of either. Not American enough, not Chinese enough.

 

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Black Panther (It’s Not Just a Superhero Movie) #WhatBlackPantherMeansToMe

Black Panther

Black Panther is not just a superhero movie.

It’s an anthem to women, a proclamation that black lives matter, and a statement about how power can be manipulated for good or for evil (okay, so some of the usual superhero themes).

One of the ways I keep my ear to the ground on the collective black voice (if there’s such a thing) is through Twitter. And since the trailer for Black Panther dropped last summer, black Twitter has been abuzz with anticipation. So far, less than two weeks after it’s release, it has already broken all kinds of records at the box office.

And it seems viewers (of all races) have not been disappointed. So why all the hype?

The hashtag #WhatBlackPantherMeanstoMe  on Twitter holds open a door to take a peek inside and see what all the excitement’s about. Here are some of the Tweets I’ve noticed over the past few days that are from people of color:

 

Seventeen years ago I sat eating popcorn in a movie theater in Kampala, Uganda, with my Ugandan friends. Tom Cruise scaled a wall in Mission Impossible and for two hours, we were absorbed into the mainly white world of the film. When the movie ended, we exited the front of the theater and I was startled when we stepped into what looked, to me, like another movie set with all black faces, Luganda spoken on the streets, and women wrapped in colorful skirts. For a short time, I was thankful for a movie with people who looked like me and shared my culture. That six months was the first time in my life I experienced being a minority. But what if most of my life was spent watching, reading about, listening to, and seeing representations of people who looked nothing like me?

Black Panther is important. Writer friend Yabome Gilpin-Jackson wrote for a previous post, called “Why Black Panther Matters,”  on Scraping Raisins: “Black children of African descent living off the continent need this. They need these moments of relatable role models, real and iconic, that they can look up to and hear stories from, so that they too can believe in their ability to reach higher.”

If you haven’t seen the film yet, I’ll try and spare you the spoilers, but in my opinion, this is #WhatBlackPantherMeansToMe. As a person who loves other cultures and traveling, I personally loved the depiction of the country of Wakanda. The costumes and scenery were stunning. The customs of Wakanda and the mutual submission and respect they showed one another were fascinating. And yet I also appreciated that even good kings had dark secrets, an aspect that felt more reminiscent of Myazaki and Japanamation than of typical western films. Even good characters are capable of evil; evil characters are capable of good.

Though I’m no sci-fi expert, the gadgets and technology used on Wakanda were intriguing. I especially loved that the sister was the pro at this, and not the stereotypical nerdy tech man of most Hollywood films. What? Girls can be scientists, too?

Which brings me to my favorite part of the movie: the women.

I went into the film with zero knowledge of the comic book the movie was based on, so when the king’s army turned out to be all female, I leaned over to my husband and whispered loudly, “His army is all women!” He nodded, amused by my enthusiasm. Though women have come a long way in gaining rights in society, something primal rose up in me when I saw women portrayed as strong protectors with equal standing as men.

The cast of this movie is incredible and I was happy to see familiar faces, Randall (Sterling K. Brown) from This is Us, Alex (Michael B. Jordan), the boyfriend of Haddie from Parenthood, and Daniel Kaluuya from Get Out.

A few aspects of the movie did surprise me. Though I knew the movie had a mainly all black cast, I’m embarrassed to admit I wasn’t expecting race to be discussed in the film. I feel like this assumption is indicative of lingering ignorance and implicit bias on my part–that deep down, I still believe we live in a post-racial society where race does not need to be touched-on in a film with a nearly all-black cast.

My first thought in the opening scenes of the film were, Why are they perpetuating stereotypes about African Americans by beginning the film in the ghetto, over an illegal deal? I was jarred by the anger and bitterness of the anti-hero, Erick Killmonger, and felt the familiar bristling that whites feel when we’re are accused of our privilege and supremacy. (As an aside, to more acutely feel these feelings, watch the movie Get Out–it’s the good kind of uncomfortable).

I also wondered why the casting directors chose to go with British actor, Martin Freeman from Lord of the Rings, rather than an American actor. Perhaps this was intentional? Maybe the makers did not want to give a white American a lead role in this legendary film? Fair enough.

Of course race needed to be discussed. And this honesty only added another layer of depth to the movie, preventing audiences from skidding across the shallow surface of a “just another superhero film,” forcing them past the wading pool to the deeps of the human psyche.

This movie confronts gender, race, politics, isolationism, impoverished countries, hidden wealth and resources, identity, love, equality, and the trauma and scars of history. If you see any movie this year, you should see Black Panther. It’s not just a superhero movie.

***

Read my film expert friend’s review of Black Panther here.

Read African, Yabome Gilpin-Jackson, Ph. D’s review here.

Sign up for the Scraping Raisins newsletter by February 28th and be entered to win a copy of Beyond Colorblind! (U.S. residents only)

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

How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

* image from here.

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Why Black Panther Matters {by Yabome Gilpin-Jackson}

Black Panther

By Yabome Gilpin-Jackson | Instagram

At age 7 in Grade 2, my son came home from chapel day at his private Christian school and said, “Mummy, I don’t want to be African anymore!”

I stopped and turned to face him.

I felt panic lodge itself in my chest and my heart respond by pumping and flooding blood to my ears.

I blinked – hoping that resetting my vision would rewind and reset the moment.

“Africans are poor,” he continued, and went on to say some more things I will not reprint.

The backstory when I found it out? There had been a presentation and video for a fundraiser to help “poor kids in Africa” in chapel.

In kindergarten at age 5, my daughter came home from school fussing about needing to choose and bring a picture of her favorite princess for a project. She ran through her choices.

“Cinderella, because she worked hard and overcame hard stuff.”

“Ariel … well, because I just like her”

“Pocahontas … because she’s brown and I don’t really like Tiana … well I liked her for my birthday cake, but I don’t really like the story … or I could choose the new British princess because she’s pretty.

I piped up … “Well, if you are going with a real princess instead of a fairy tale one, how about a modern-day African princess? Here, let’s look up Princess of Lesotho, or Princess of Swaziland.”

“What?!!! There are really black princesses? African Princesses???”

These stories are not about my children’s preferences. They are not about difference or diversity or even fundamentally about my daughter choosing a brown-skinned or dark-skinned princess over a lighter-skinned one. These stories are about representations of identity and why I wrote my short story collection – Identities. To me, that’s what Black Panther is about and that’s why it’s a milestone movie. Let me explain.

We, humanity, are storytelling beings. We live in and through the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, which are informed by the stories around us that send us identity signals. Subsequently, we make identity conclusions and live by them.

The majority of the identity signals in the stories about what it means to be a Black African in the world are simplistic, narrow and negative. Just pay attention to the stories about “Africa” and “Africans” that you can recall now and see what’s there…Right – that’s what I mean. Those identity signals you are recalling are the same ones that my daughter and sons receive when they see images of themselves reflected only as poor, dirty, helpless, orphaned, children.

They get these images and the message it sends to them often out of context, with little dignity or compassion and with the same, singular, simplistic storyline – African children and Africans in general are poor and helpless on that “dark continent.”

Of course, I am not saying socio-economic issues faced in countries on the continent are not real or that help isn’t necessary. However, the stories that are told about why and how ‘those people’ come to need help can become complicit reinforcements of the complex systems that created the poverty and adversities in the first place, and can hurt rather than help the changes needed.

In our subsequent exchange, my son told me the identity conclusion the presentation left him with – it is better to be white than black/African, so that you won’t be poor and he doesn’t think he ever wants to go to Africa. Of course, my husband and I did our parental bit to dislodge his narrative from his brain – we reminded him we were from Sierra Leone in West Africa, had lived and grew up there and will for sure take him back. We described and showed him ways in which “Africans” are in fact not helpless but amazingly resourceful, generous and innovative in the face of the challenges we face. We showed him maps and pinpointed the exact country and community his school had fundraised for and how small it was in the vastness of Africa.

Wakanda in Black Panther may be a fictional country in Africa, but the parallel of the beauty and richness of the African continent is real. Wakanda’s vibranium may as well be the tantalum that powers our information tech hardware found in abundance in the Democratic Republic of Congo and its environs; or the Blood Diamonds of Sierra Leone; or Oil in Nigeria or any of the other vast natural resources that continue to quietly and often illegally leave the richest continent in natural resources.

Africa’s resources fuel the world’s economies while “Africa” remains depicted as “uncivilized, at war, and poor and helpless.” This, of course was the exact plight the fictional Wakandans were concerned would occur – it is in fact the reality of what Africa and Africans have faced since her “discovery.”

Superheroines and superheroes have a place in the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, because they stretch our imagination and inspire us to reach for more than what we are now. This – reaching beyond our current comfort zones – has always been the way humanity grows and thrives. Our Supers are simply projections of ourselves – the best parts of us – and for the villain Supers – representations of the worst parts of us. Supers are in effect simply role models – or our role icons that we place on pedestals to reach for. When a culture only projects one people group as Supers, it also says this is the ultimate image we must all aspire to.

When a culture only projects one people group as Supers, it also says this is the ultimate image we must all aspire to.

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Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for. My daughter had the opposite issue to her princess selection challenges after watching Black Panther on preview day. She liked and could relate to so many of the black women in it, she kept changing her choice of favorite.

Perhaps the moments in the movie that depict most clearly what I am saying here are the closing scenes. At the end of the movie when T’Challa unveils his plan for the Wakandan Outreach Centre to Shuri, a Wakandan ship lands in the basketball court behind them to underscore the point. After marvelling at it, one of the boys walks over to T’Challa and says: “Hey … this yours? Who are you?”

Black children of African descent living off the continent need this. They need these moments of relatable role models, real and iconic, that they can look up to and hear stories from, so that they too can believe in their ability to reach higher. I am not just saying this theoretically. I lived my formative years in Sierra Leone and understand that the core identity I subconsciously developed by seeing and living among a myriad role models there–in spite of a legacy of colonial education that had me read about lots of non-Black role models–is not as easily accessible to my children as it was for me.

Coincidentally, I attended “A Conversation with Michelle Obama” on her visit to Vancouver, BC the same day as watching Black Panther [what icing on my global African identity cake!]. Michelle Obama’s description of the work her family had done to mentor children on the margins in ways that they can touch, feel and connect to while in the White House made these same points.

In the outtake, T’Challa shares his plan at the UN General Assembly to share Wakanda’s technology with the world and he aptly uses an African proverb often attributed to Nigeria: “In the moment of crisis, the wise build bridges and the foolish build dams.”

So, I say, in a racially divided world, building bridges is our only option. The hour for self-preservation is over. It is time for meaningful reparations, forgiveness, healing, and progress. Let us widen our lenses to truly build open space for the original peoples of these Americas and all us immigrant communities and forced arrivals–Black and White–all made in God’s image – to thrive. Ensuring equal representations of all our peoples is the least of the ways we can do that. Thank you, Marvel.

About Yabome:

Dr. Yabome Gilpin-Jackson considers herself to be a dreamer, doer and storyteller, committed to imagining and leading the futures we want. She is an award-winning scholar, consultant, writer and curator of African identity and leadership stories. She was born in Germany, grew up in Sierra Leone, and completed her studies in Canada and the USA. Yabome was named International African Woman of the Year by UK-based Women4Africa and also won the Emerging Organization Development Practitioner by the US-based Organization Development Network. Yabome, who is married and the mother of 3 children, has also published several journal articles and book chapters and continues to research, write and speak – most recently at Princeton University – on the importance of holding global mindsets and honouring diversity and social inclusion in our locally global world.

Follow Yabome on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, or at her website, www.sldconsulting.org

Buy her book, Identities: A Short Story Collection here.

Sign up for the Scraping Raisins newsletter by February 28th and be entered to win a copy of Beyond Colorblind! (U.S. residents only)

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

How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’re discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

Black Panther’s T’Challa and all those powerfully intelligent, strong, relevant and relatable black African women in it, gives my daughter and sons images of super icons they can reach for.

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

*image from ETonline

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My Take on Race: From a White Girl in a Multicolored Family {Guest Post}

By Jodie Pine | blog

I was blessed to grow up in a multi-colored family. My “twin” is my biracial brother, younger than me by two months. I have another brother, adopted from Brazil, who is a month older than my biological sister. And she is just 1 ½ years younger than me. My parents had their hands full.

Living in Arkansas in the 1970’s, our unique family experienced misunderstandings and discrimination. Because we were not all welcome at the city park designated for whites, we frequented the “black park.” The local Boy Scouts chapter refused to let my brother join. And I can still remember the fear I felt as we witnessed a KKK cross burning in a friend’s yard. What’s the big deal about skin color, I wondered? Why do some people think whites are superior?

I can recall how proud my sister and I were in the blazing hot summer of 1979. All four of us kids were on an outdoor swim team and, to our great delight, our skin turned the same beautiful shade as our brothers. No longer that sickly pale color. We could actually be called brown. And brown was good in our eyes. We wanted to be like our brothers, not different from them.

Then we moved from Arkansas to a North Carolina mountain town, which was predominately white. It didn’t affect my sister and me much, because we looked just like everyone else, but I’m sure–looking back now–that my brothers were constantly aware of being the minority.

During my freshman year of college at UNC-Chapel Hill, I lived in a randomly assigned suite with eight girls. Seven were black and then there was me. I learned so much during that transformative year from my roommate Sheletha. And even though it was uncomfortable at times to be the only white girl, I’m so thankful God gave me an opportunity that many white people are not privileged to get: to experience being the minority.

After college, God gave me another opportunity to be a white minority by living in the beautiful homogenous land of China. Involved in education, my husband and I raised our three biological children there, who can identify with the image of an egg: white on the outside and yellow on the inside. We adopted our two Chinese boys in 2013 and moved back to the US after 20 years in East Asia.

Last year a Chinese American friend asked me how our boys were doing in American public school, dealing with race issues. I responded that I didn’t think it was a big deal for them and we hadn’t really talked about it much. My flippant comment later made me realize how much I still live in my white privileged world. Another Asian friend at that time encouraged me to join a transracial adoption group to learn more about how race issues affect my children every day.

She wrote, “Society will tell them they’re not white. Society will treat them differently. Don’t be afraid to talk about race and racism. It will benefit them more than you know it. And it will let them know you are not there for the whole ‘I don’t see color’ ideology, because that just means you don’t value where they come from and who they are.”

Growing up as a white girl with brothers of color, and now mothering two sons of color, I am saddened to realize that I still can be sheltered under my white privilege umbrella. I’m therefore incredibly thankful for friends who have challenged me, with their probing questions, to step out from under this umbrella into the world that people of color live in. I have come to see that attempting to better understand the effects of racism on my family and friends will be a lifelong choice.

When we step into someone else’s shoes we gain a different perspective. A better understanding. While will never be able to fully enter into another’s life experience, we can move a step closer.

And we can grow deeper in our conviction that all people are wonderfully and fearfully made, handcrafted by God. Intentionally passing that belief on to the next generation, we never lose hope that–united across the racial divide–we can make a difference in this world.

Martin Luther King Jr. beautifully expressed this view:

“The whole concept of the imago dei, as it is expressed in Latin, the ‘image of God,’ is the idea that all men have something within them that God injected. Not that they have substantial unity with God, but that every man has a capacity to have fellowship with God. And this gives him a uniqueness, it gives him worth, it gives him dignity. And we must never forget this as a nation: There are no gradations in the image of God. Every man from a treble white to a bass black is significant on God’s keyboard, precisely because every man is made in the image of God. One day we will learn that. We will know one day that God made us to live together as brothers and to respect the dignity and worth of every man. That is why we must fight segregation with all of our nonviolent might.”

The reality is that people born into a life of white privilege will never experience the kind of fear and anger and discrimination directed toward those born with black, brown, or yellow skin. And even though it would be easy to do, I strongly believe that privileged white people cannot shut the door, turn the other way, and ignore what is happening right now all around us. We must join together to fight against injustice. Fight for those who face mistreatment every single day of their lives. Mistreatment simply because of the color of their skin.

Even if it’s not our personal battle, it must become our battle. The people suffering from injustice are our brothers and sisters. Our sons and daughters.

Surrounded by different skin colors…

So much beauty in the color. If we choose to see.

So much racism. If we choose to label.

Injustice seems to be growing in our world today.

How do we fight it?

How can we celebrate the diversity of colors and see past the skin to what is in the heart?

So that we can discover the unity in our humanity.

And realize that we are all people wonderfully and fearfully made,

handcrafted by God.

So much alike underneath our different colored skin.

With human hurts and human dreams.

***

About Jodie:

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

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How is God calling you to enter the race conversation? 

This month we’ll be discussing racism, privilege and bridge building. If you’d like to guest post on this topic, please email me at scrapingraisins(dot)gmail(dot)com. Yes, this is awkward and fraught with the potential for missteps, blunders and embarrassing moments, but it’s necessary. Join me?

I’ll go first.

(Consider joining the Facebook group Be the Bridge to Racial Unity to learn more about how God is moving in this sphere.)

If you are a writer, consider using the hashtag #WOCwithpens to showcase the writing of our black and brown sisters of faith every Wednesday specifically, but anytime as well! You can find the explanation for the hashtag here.

If you’re a white person who’s new to all of this, I compiled some resources to start you on your journey (because I’m not much farther ahead):

70+ Race Resources for White People

80+ MORE Race Resources for White people

**Contains Amazon affiliate links

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