A Thing with Feathers

Forgive!!

2012-01-29T20:21:00.002-06:00

My friend invited me to teach Vacation Bible School (VBS) at her church 10 years ago when I lived just outside of Baltimore. I had worked in youth ministry during college, so I naturally volunteered to help with the youth. She laughed and said, "No way. I'm putting you with the 4-year-olds."

The 4-year-olds?!?!

"There's no way you'll be able to handle the youth. They're from the streets," she said.

Now, I wasn't completely naive to the realities of urban living. I knew the youth and I would have very little in common. I definitely grew up in South Carolina's suburbia with kids calling me OREO because of my voice, my interests and my neighborhood. And The Wire wasn't even on television back then, so she was right that I had no real frame of reference for life on the streets. But these are church youth, I thought. How bad can it be?

But she refused to budge, so I reached into my Old MacDonald bag-o-tricks and tried to remember every delightful e-i-e-i-oh from my childhood. I put on my happy face and read through the lesson plans to prepare for the cute little tots. We were going to be talking about forgiveness, using the story of the prodigal son returning home.

The kids were sweet. We had games and music and plenty of Hi-C and animal crackers, so they were happy. I started a little rhythmic call-and-response with them after learning the lesson:

"When your brother or sister hits you, what do you do?"

"Forgive!" we all shouted together.

"When another kid calls you a name, what do you do?"

"Forgive!!"

"When someone takes something from you, what do you do?"

"Forgive!"

That's when a sweet little girl jumped up-and-down raising her hand.

"And what about when someone drives by your house shooting at your window?" she asked.

Silence.

I sat there staring at this sweet child in pink with barrettes dangling from her braided head. This sweet child whose only knowledge of anything driving by should be the delightful melody of "Pop Goes the Weasel" announcing that a van filled with ice cream is just around the corner. This sweet child who was waiting for my cue so that we could all shout out "forgive" together.

And I was silent. All of a sudden the easy answer wrapped up so politely in this VBS lesson plan seemed so hard to say.

Forgive.

As a group, we all talked a bit more about the drive-by shootings. The kids shared how they would drop to the floor, wait for their parents to crawl towards them and all huddle together. They had their drive-by plan down to a stop, drop and roll kind of science. In just four years.

+++

Bishop Desmond Tutu says there is “no future without forgiveness.” It is truth. But just like so many other truths, it's easier to say than it is to embody. It's easier to shout in a sing-song way with 4-year-olds than it is to toss back at gang-bangers as bullets fly through your window.

It must be practiced. Daily. Practiced until it is our way of living. Practiced until it's natural. Practiced in the face of great difficulty until it's easier.

I write about a trip to Uganda in my book and share the stories of some of the most beautiful young women I've ever met.

I asked one girl for her prayer request, and she asked me to pray that she might forgive the LRA soldier who raped her.

Forgive.

I go on to write in the book:

I don’t want to paint a pretty picture of forgiveness—especially in a war-torn place. I think even the simple declarations of forgiveness and prayers for forgiveness that we heard in Gulu were steps on a very long road. This road will probably be filled with a lot of painful debris—memories that will embitter and frustrate once again. There are likely many hardships and unexpected bumps that may make the course of forgiveness seem frightening at times. This process may take longer than any of the forgivers imagined when they first chose forgiveness.
In the end, though, it’s the most beautiful road if you choose to take it. And the first sign of beauty begins in the choosing.

May we choose to practice forgiveness. Not the easy, polite church school answer kind of forgiveness, either. May we choose the messy hard road of forgiveness and release.

peace.

Memory Bank

2011-11-03T11:29:00.003-05:00

Patrick and I have a memory jar. We started recently recalling memories from our days, writing them on slips of paper and tossing them in our little jar. I love this ritual of ours. Some days they are memories of fun things like winning the Wicked national tour cast basket at their special cabaret for CARES, and some days we store memories of everyday things like the way Fival the cat curls into a little ball and stretches his paw to cover his eyelids.

Last night as we recalled memories from the day, I remembered meeting an amazing woman named Clare in Sacramento this past July. She is delightful! Clare runs the Sacramento Art Complex, which is a cool gallery collective of local artists. Clare told me that she realizes everyone has a memory bank, and often these banks are filled with negative, difficult and sometimes traumatic memories. She says that each day she asks God to help her deposit a good memory in someone's bank.

This is Clare helping a little girl add to a mural on the wall outside of the Art Complex--certainly depositing into that girl's memory bank. On that very day, Clare also deposited into my memory bank by letting me paint a poem on the same wall!

I love it! What if lovers loved with that goal in mind? What if parents parented with that goal in mind? What if kids at school treated each other with that goal in mind instead of bullying? What if strangers met each other with that goal in mind? What if instead of only trying to create a beautiful life for ourselves, we were to think of how to help create beauty in someone else's life each and every day? What a wonderful world it might be . . . And I bet that Clare has an overflowing bank of memories from how she has inspired and delighted others! What a wonderful life she must live!

May you have a beautiful day and take some time to intentionally deposit delight into someone's memory bank. Today and every day.

peace.

a little about me

2011-09-19T16:58:00.000-05:00

Occasionally I blog for the Devo'Zine youth worker blog "In the Habit," and they invited me to write a bio for an upcoming blog post I wrote for youth workers to explore photography and other creative faith expressions with their youngin's. So I decided to use photography in my bio and thought it might be fun to share here and reintroduce myself to all of you.

So let the fun begin, eh?!?!

My name is

Made in the image of our Creator, all of us were born to

So that’s what I live to do each day of my life. I

for a living, and writing is my heartsong. And I work at

(pronounced lulu + lemon like the fruit, by the way).

Both of my jobs push me and inspire me in more ways than I could have ever imagined.

I love dancing, reading, cupcaking and practicing

I’m a firm believer that we should

& so I do. Occasionally I bring out my camera and take photographs or find myself with a canvas and a paintbrush just to try something new.

May you all tap into the

and the

that God has planted deep within each of our hearts, and shine! That is the joy of life, and life is meant to be lived joyfully.

namaste.

Crazy Things . . .

2011-07-28T14:35:00.007-05:00

Several people have commented to me (in person) about my poem Do the Crazy Thing that I posted here a couple of months ago. It has a special story to it, so I thought I'd share it here.

In May I took a visual poetry class at Art & Soul taught by the wonderful Kelly Falzone (who will be featured next week on my new site Just a Footnote!). It's a class where poetry interacts with visual art; we made art to fit our words, we crafted words to complement our art, we shaped our poetry, we were inspired by images and paintings and one another. It was a lovely course.

In one particular class, Kelly pulled out an old box filled with black & white postcards. She turned them over so that we could not see the images and fanned them in her hands, asking us to select two postcards like she was a magician starting a card trick. We were told not to look at the cards but to simply think of someone who was no longer in our lives--either because their breath had expired or because life situations had taken us away from each other (break-ups, moves, graduations, etc.). Kelly told us that this person we were thinking of had a message for us and they wanted to send on a postcard. Once we turned the cards over, she said, we would know which card this person would send and what the message was. Our exercise was to write down the message.

So I selected two cards, as instructed. I immediately thought of my dear Teri who died unexpectedly in 2003. The heft of her death sits near me still. I flipped the cards over and saw two images: one was a man standing on a bridge in Chicago with a tall well-windowed building behind him, the other was of a man with one knee on the ground who was balancing a sword on his nose. Just as Kelly promised, I knew Teri would send the sword-balancing card, and so I started writing.

"Do the Crazy Thing" is Teri's beautiful message to me, and it came at just the most amazing time. Just days before I had mentioned to my besties Beth (my Bethstie!) and my sister that I was going to just go ahead and leave my job, start writing again and trust that all would work out as it was to be. I had done that before in 2005, and I was ready to do it again, I told them. They both thought that maybe I wasn't making the most rational of decisions.

But this exercise reminded me that sometimes the most rational of decisions keeps us from doing things of wonder. And this exercise reminded me that Teri inspired me so much in her living because she did wonder-filled things! And this exercise gave me a gift I've missed for almost 8 long years: sitting down and telling Teri my secrets and hearing her crazy-wonderful advice!

I highly recommend an exercise like this if you have someone who's missing from your life. It's magical.

p.s.--and just so you know, I did leave my job just two or three weeks after writing this poem and started writing again! I also work at the Nashville lululemon, and love my work every day. And the fabulous Alessia at the lululemon headquarters put some graphics to this poem in October, and voila!

New web site

2011-05-30T17:42:00.002-05:00

"A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote." - Yevgeny Yevtushenko

I have a new web site coming, and I'm excited about it!

I’m launching a new site all about poets in June: JustAFootnote.com. It’s a place where I will talk about writerly things—the writing process, exercises that interest and challenge me as a poet and, most importantly, the stories of other poets whose narrations of life inspire me. Inspired by Yevtushenko’s quotation, I fully realize that snippets of a poet’s life are simply footnotes of a greater story that his or her poetry tells. Still, I hope we will all connect more deeply with poetry because of the inspiring lives of poets I know and share with readers of Just a Footnote.

Each week I’ll spend time with a different poet, and on Mondays I will feature a new poet on the site. Readers will get snippets of our conversations, photographs of the poet in his or her element, and a brief introduction to their work. I’ve got some amazing Nashville poets lined up and some fun contests, so make sure you check it out and come back often!

I’ll keep you posted when we launch.

In the meantime, love well . . .

Like my facebook page or follow me on Twitter for further updates!

do the crazy thing

2011-05-06T07:40:00.006-05:00

Image of the amazing Melina of Daughters of Rhea, used with her permission. Check her out: www.daughtersofrhea.com. Photo by Dav Rue for Goddess Motion

do the crazy thing
the hard-to-imagine-but-somehow-you-did thing
the brings-you-to-your-knees thing
the no-one-would-ever-do-it-that-way-thing
the safety-net-would-not-even-matter thing
the it-could-kill-you-but-not-trying-is-another-kind-of-death thing
the thing on your heart
do it
and let them gasp
right before they call it a thing of wonder

05.2011

love your dreams well, friends!

namaste.

If you’re gonna have sex, make sure he’s a Jew . . . (and other tales of HIV testing)

2011-03-22T23:58:00.015-05:00

image by Lanecia Rouse

As an HIV testing specialist, I often hear some of the darnedest things whenever I ask people if they’ve had their recommended annual HIV screening yet. I hinted at them in a letter I wrote to “Stigma” a few months back, but my coworkers and I really get a kick out of some of the things we hear, so I thought I’d share them here.

And, believe it or not, I’m not joking or exaggerating about these:

HER: Weeeeelllll . . . I’ll take one . . . Oh, but wait! Where are you from?
ME: Ummm . . . I grew up in South Carolina.
HER: Are you sure?
ME: Ummm . . . yes.
HER: I just want to make sure you’re not from Africa or something putting voodoo on that stick.
ME: Hmmm . . . no ma’am. I don’t know voodoo.

Cue the convulsions and chanting as I did her mouth swab (Ok . . I did exaggerate that part, but I definitely wish I had done that).

+++

HIM: Oh, no no no no. I don’t need a test.
ME: But have you had one before?
HIM: Oh, no no no. I’ve never had an HIV test because I’ve never had HIV.
Crickets.
ME: Well, sir, it’s always good to get a test and know your status for certain, and it’s just a free mouth swab.
HIM: Oh no no no! I know how some people get the flu for a little while when they take the flu shot . . . I don’t want to do anything like that.
ME: Sir, are. you. kidding. me. Are you seriously kidding me? We’re not going to give you HIV for a little while with this voodoo stick.
(ok ok . . . I didn't really say that; I only wish that I had).

+++

HER: Oooohhhh . . . I’ve seen that on CSI before. You’re trying to steal my DNA.

+++

HER: I don’t need a test. I’m not promiscuous.
Meanwhile the young lady sitting next to her has decided there’s no way she can take the test. If she says yes, then everyone will think she is promiscuous.

+++

HER: No, thanks. I’m a Christian. I don't do those kinds of things.
ME: Oh, we test Christians all the time. No worries. And some of them are (gasp!) HIV+ even!
Well, I didn’t gasp, but . . . you know the deal . . . I certainly wish I had.

+++

HER: I’m a mother! And I’ve been married for 13 years! And I believe in God! How dare you come in here and give me an HIV test!”
(slightly paraphrased from my coworker who was yelled at by this married God-fearing woman today)

+++

HIM: Oh, we don’t need tests; Jews and Catholics don’t get HIV.

Awesome.

The moral of this story is, if you’re gonna sleep with someone, clearly Yahweh and Mother Mary are keeping their people in check, so these are your safest bachelors and bachelorettes!

Or maybe the real moral of the story is that everyone has a different sexual story—maybe you are celibate or delaying sex or married to your one sexual partner or have a different sexual partner with each change of underwear. Whatever your story, the story of public health is this: all of us should be tested at least once in our lives, most of us should be tested once each year (yes, even if we’re married, observe the Sabbath or say our Hail Marys regularly) and some of us should be tested every 3-6 months if we participate in high-risk behaviors.

And definitely, if you’re in a setting where someone is promoting HIV testing publicly, never allow any of the above absurd comments to fall from your lips. It does nothing to help get more at-risk populations comfortable with testing, and there’s never a reason to be offended by an HIV test or ignorant about HIV. Simply say, “yes!” It really doesn’t hurt to even get tested again for the sake of public health—especially when there are no needles involved. Or decline if you wish, but do so with respect and say, “but I’m really glad that you offer this free test. It’s important for everyone to know his or her status.”

And HIV knows no race, gender, age, socio-econimic level or religious affiliation, despite popular (or should I say questionable?) belief.

If there are any other HIV testers out there reading this, I’d love to hear some of the interesting things you’ve heard before . . .

Amira in America at the Spoken Word Census 2010

2011-03-14T15:40:00.001-05:00

Here is a video of my poem from last year's Spoken Word Census in Nashville. My name is not spelled correctly, but that's all good . . .

:)

peace.

now i ain't sayin' she's a goalsetter . . .

2011-02-22T17:25:00.008-06:00

I'm a dreamer.

Which means, for most of us dreamers, that I think the word goalsetting is a synonym for words like plague, allergic reaction and death. Ok . . . possibly I have a flair for the dramatic, as well, but I can wholeheartedly confirm that I certainly avoid sitting down with pen and paper to make a list of goals. It just doesn't seem right. Why not dream and follow the dreams as they come? Be present to the now, you know!

But part of loving well is to see the dreams that have been given to me (for myself and for the world) actually come to fruition. Or at least to focus enough on a few of them at a time, so that all my dreams don't become too whelming at once.

Enter a book for right-brainiacs. After a conversation with my friend where I expressed some of my frustrations with my scattered dreams, I found the book Organizing for the Creative Person and hoped I could check it out from the library. Much to my chagrin, the library didn't have it, but out of nowhere it appeared one day thanks to my dear friend . . .

And here are the fruits of chapter one:

There is no list involved in this goal-setting venture. There are no checked boxes or firm dates. It's just these colorful strips of paper holding my wild dreams, dropped into bright bags I will sit on my shelf as a daily reminder of dreams I love. I can move the papers from bag-to-bag if, for example, life alters the timeline of one of my "maybe" dreams to become a "now" dream or if I uncover more dreams behind a moonbeam that I decide to drop into "someday."

I love it! And it felt good to write all of my dreams down, see them and know they now have a home. And the best part is that the book didn't tell me exactly HOW I had to do my goalsetting. I just came up with the strips of paper and bag idea on my own. Indeed, the authors shape a helpful task that a creative person can be . . . well, creative in accomplishing.

So happy to be loving my dreams well . . . And I believe my future will be even brighter than these super cute dream bags.

love well.

C

love well . . .

2011-01-14T17:19:00.007-06:00

I have one intention for my life right now: that I might love well.

And this intention is larger than I could imagine, but I'm excited about what it will mean. I will love the people I love well. I will love people who make my head pound and force my eyes to roll well. I will love my writing well. I will love the earth well. I will love my body well. I will love God and God's people well. And I will be open to whatever ways God may call me to love well . . .

As you can see, this is quite a life intention. I will need enormous amounts of accountability. I am grateful to be surrounded by beautiful, honest people who love me even when I don't love well (and I have been a poor lover more often than not). Thank you, my loves! Please keep inspiring me and holding me accountable.

My lastest joys for practicing some good loving:

Water. Water is life. And I'm drinking a lot more of life these days, and life is yummy. I'm not a fan of NYResolutions, but I guess this is the closest to one that I've made. So I upped the water ante a couple of weeks ago, and I can tell a difference already.

Yoga Journal. Such a good magazine with health tips, life tips and a greater understanding of the practice. I'm trying the 21-day challenge to commit to a home practice. Delightful.

Namaste. It's a Sanskrit word that basically means that the divine that dwells within me recognizes and honors the divine that dwells within you. We say this at the end of yoga practices, but I have better days when I think of namaste throughout my day. And I consider it a most loving of greetings. Would that we all might see and greet our Creator in our neighbors before anything else.

Miss Ruby. Our friend Miss Ruby is the most loving person I know. Her latest favorite song is "Say Hey" by Michael Franti & Spearhead. I'm pretty sure this is because every 30 seconds or so you get to repeat, "I love you," several times (and it's a good rhythm, and Miss Ruby loves good rhythms so that we can dance). She consoles people who seem sad. She laughs loudly. She watches the news and calls on "Jesus" when she hears of shootings and hardships. She says "I love you" as often as she can to as many people as she can, and I love that about her. She loves well.

CrazySexyLife. I stumbled across this site from a Facebook ad (I know . . . FB is so good at what it does). And this Kris Carr seems infectious. Great blog name, for starters. And let's not ignore her website's tagline: "a super disco of health, spiritual wealth and happiness!" Yes. And with increasing weight and blood pressure, I just got orders from the doctor to change some parts of my lifestyle. While I avoid diets (because the word "die" is in it for a reason), I think I like Carr's approach to lifestyle change. I just might be buying the book and love my body well.

Common Prayer. Liturgy at its finest. Written by three people I call friends. I'm struggling with church and all of its complexities these days. But I'm always a lover of liturgy. And this book helps me to love Christ well. Thanks, my sister, for gifting it to me. [There's a good web site, too, for daily practice: Common Prayer]

Writing. My first true love. And instead of critiquing it, I'm practicing silencing the editor and loving it back. And this is actually harder than I could imagine. But it hurts so good.

In his Ode Magazine article "Standing Barefoot Before God," Rabbi Rami writes, "write what you know and keep at it until you at last realize you don't know much and what you do know is terrifyingly trite and stupefyingly boring." And he basically encourages writers to let writing strip us bare. Yes. Stripped and naked and vulnerable--these are the places where God's light shines, where honesty can't help but dance, where words we are too afraid to say reveal themselves in crazy/beautiful madness.

That's all for today.

love well.

C

You Ain't Taking That from Me . . .

2010-12-16T22:31:00.006-06:00

A friend told me that Natasha Bedingfield's new song "Strip Me" reminded her of me, so I decided to buy it on my cell phone immediately. I usually like Bedingfield's songs and the 30-second Amazon.com demo sounded great.

As soon as I listened to the full song, I knew I'd uncovered a new theme song for the rest of 2010: Take what you want, steal my pride. Build me up or cut me down to size. Shut me out, but I'll just scream. I'm only one voice in a million, but you ain't taking that from me.

The next time I listened to it at nearly full volume in my car, bobbing my head and throwing my free hand in the air, I was trying to simply jam out. But before I knew what was happening, I burst into tears. As I listened to the words and sang out, I thought of the 14-year-old girls I met in Moshi, Tanzania, through the Compassion International sponsorship program ministry. I thought of Judith, Siwabena, Gladness, Beatrice, the two Jasmines, Margaret and Witness--the girls who after just one afternoon of visiting with them seem to find their way into my thoughts often.

These young ladies live in a place and financial situation that we in the U.S.A. might pity. Because of their state in life, we sometimes talk about children like them and say that we need to be "their voice"--the "voice for the voiceless," we say, to inspire others to care about them and help make a difference (Read my sister Lanecia's blog that talks about this, as well).

But when I met these girls, I was so moved by how smart, strong, confident and compassionate they were. Judith dreams of traveling and visiting Italy one day. Beautiful Gladness sings with great joy and reads incessantly. She is smart and witty and waxes poetic on politics and Black Americans (and she called me a "spinster," but that's a story for another day, I suppose). Beatrice cares for her mother who is HIV+. Witness is HIV+, does well in all of her classes and loves writing her Compassion sponsor. And Margaret wants to be an evangelist. Actually, she is one already, and she preached for us the day we visited their ministry. When I asked about how people felt about women in pastoral leadership, Margaret and Gladness quickly informed me that girls can do anything they want to do if they are "confident in the Lord."

These girls face enormous challenges daily. Some of them have buried too many parents, siblings and friends. If it was not for sponsorship, they might have to go without meals or education or hope for the future. There are a lot of things they do not have. A voice, however, is not on that list. They have powerful voices, and I cannot wait to hear how their voices ring out when given the platform and opportunity to bring their thoughts and hopes and dreams to the world. I think of these girls whenever I hear this song now.

Take what you want, steal my pride. Build me up or cut me down to size . . .

I'm only one voice in a million, but you ain't taking that from me.

Ring the Alarm

2010-12-14T00:15:00.002-06:00

Pull the Alarm
Originally uploaded by lanecia

"Too often the price exacted by a society for security and respectability is that the Christian movement in its formal expression must be on the side of the strong against the weak. This is a matter of tremendous significance, for it reveals to what extent a religion that was born of a people acquainted with persecution and suffering has become the cornerstone of a civilization and of nations whose very position in modern life has too often been secured by a ruthless use of power applied to weak and defenseless people." -Howard Thurman

In the book 40-Day Journey with Howard Thurman (which I'm reading during this "Little Lent"), they suggest a prayer following this Thurman quote: "Pray for the church, that it may constantly and humbly wonder if it is faithfully following the way of Jesus, which is the way of love and justice."

What a beautiful church, the one that would daily put this prayer before the heartbeat of the congregation, that would question all of its ministries that do not align with this prayer, that would ring the alarm when they discover the path they are on makes a mockery of the very nature of Christ and then believe in the depths of their being that another way is, indeed, very possible.

I am receiving quotes and questions from Thurman that mimic my daily critique and frustration with the church today. What have we become? What are we becoming?

May we always question and desire . . .

Hip Hop started out in the heart . . .

2010-11-21T00:36:00.003-06:00

Lanecia and I watched the screening of this documentary Bouncing Cats, which features the story of Abraham "Abramz" Tekya and the Breakdance Project Uganda. Lanecia met Abramz a couple of years ago when she was in Kampala and took a hip hop class at the BPU (hehehe).

Find this film screening somewhere near you. Seriously. It's a must-see. Good stuff. And it features K'naan. :)

BOUNCING CATS film trailer from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

Walking

2010-10-28T06:02:00.007-05:00

Walking: that's what I've been doing the past two days.

I walked uphill and downhill. I walked barefoot on smoothly paved roads past manicured lawns, flamboyant trees, a tiny white kid running and chatting with his tiny black friend in Chichewa all alone with no parents in sight, and a number of tall brick walls topped with electrical wiring that protects the foreigners who have chosen these elaborate and expensive homes in this still developing country.

I traipsed around on red dirt paths in my dusty sandals, across wooden bridges with some unhinged slats, stepping over discarded banana peels, skeleton corn cobs and flattened plastic bottles, past homemade signs for fruit stands, tuck shops, more flamboyant trees (my favorite), small homes made of mud or brick or metal scraps, straw walls that would take very little huffing and puffing to blow down, and two tiny Chichewa girls laughing and clapping and singing a little rhyme in English.

This is Malawi--her beauty, her contradictions, her complexities, her roads . . .

Today's walk was with my dear friends of Tiwasunge (Tee-wah-soon-gay). These friends are all HIV+, and they have come together in this community-based organization to care for one another and support each other. These friends are beautiful.

We walked all around Kampala village (the Olivers' neighborhood--they do not live with the other foreigners or "azungus;" they live among Malawians) for home visits, praying with bedridden members of the community and meeting orphaned children whose school fees are paid for by Tiwasunge.

I met Cedric, whose parents both died of HIV. He was fortunate for Tiwasunge to pay his fees through form 4 (secondary school). He applied to university but did not get in. But Lucy says it matters not if he got in or not. "If they don't get into university, we have a problem. If they do get into university, we have a problem," she says. In Malawi, I've met too many young people with dreams and hopes and acceptance letters for their preferred university whose education comes to a screeching halt after form 4 exams. Who will pay for their university fees when they are accepted? For the young people supported by Tiwasunge, Lucy has no answer. The organization just cannot afford the expense. Education is power in Malawi--power over poverty, over disease, power to assist their neighbors, to educate other Africans, to increase the hope on their beautiful continent--and these young people quickly become dis-empowered after secondary school.

I also met a woman who has been bedridden for four months now. We could not mention HIV to her or around her, though that is her diagnosis. She believes she has been bewitched and that she has ways to get rid of it. Which means she's probably not so consistent with her ARV's if she takes them at all when the Tiwasunge friends are not around.

She was lying on a piece of foam placed haphazardly on top of bed springs in a dark, dank room that smelled of mud and smoke and manure. We visited her, prayed with her, gave her fresh bananas. Tiwasunge usually wash their patients, feed them more, take their clothes and wash them, provide medicine. They have used their limited funds wisely on supporting education and food for the orphans, but this means they have not been able to afford all of the materials for home-based care in the last couple of months. The bag I remember them carrying 2 years ago on home visits is now very light. But their spirits and belief in prayer is as strong as ever. And I know they will persevere, that God will provide.

I am tired from all of the walking (literally . . . about to take a nap). But I am also tired from all of the disparity. I am tired of seeing 9-month-old babies who are emaciated and don't look like they've been here a day more than 3 weeks. I am tired of knowing HIV destroys lives daily across the world, especially knowing that it's a disease that people can live with if poverty didn't rear its ugly head.

I am also energized to reorganize Pray With Africa and partner with Tiwasunge. I am energized to see what God will do with Tiwasunge and how I can be a part of their story. I am energized to think more about the way I live and how, without even thinking about it, I contribute to a poverty that kills worldwide.

I am hopeful. God is good. And God is desperately in love with us, God's children. The end of our stories is abundant life, and knowing this gives me hope.

Nyali Mushroom Project

2010-10-26T13:48:00.009-05:00

The women of Galilea United Methodist Church here in Blantyre, Malawi, grew tired of not being able to contribute to church finances. So they decided to grow mushrooms.

Well, the decision wasn’t immediate. The women thought that maybe starting a small business would help them to generate some income and become more able to tithe regularly. They also hoped it would help them be able to attend women’s events and meetings that may not be in walking distance. So they considered many business options before finding a man three months ago who said he would show them how to grow mushrooms if they would buy his seeds.

So in Malawi’s hot temperatures, mushrooms thrive in the rainy season but not as much in the heat of today. So with a bit of construction help from the men of the church, the ladies built a small hut that could protect the mushrooms from the sun and heat. They keep the hut wet and cool. It’s really quite amazing.

Then they take maize stalks and chop them into tiny bits to use as fertilizer. They place the maize stalks chips into plastic bags with the mushroom seeds and tie them to wooden sticks that hang in the shed. And, voila! Mushrooms soon pop out of the bags.

Apparently, these mushrooms are delicious (I think we’ll eat the bag I brought back with me tomorrow night at the Oliver house), so they have had no trouble selling them at all. In just three months, the ladies have started a little business and are already talking about growth. Plans are in place to build a second shed, double their mushroom production and maybe learn how to harvest seeds themselves so that they don’t have to keep buying them from the guy who first approached them.

I’m really inspired by their work and loved visiting the Nyali Mushroom Project today (Nyali means “lamp”). These women certainly are radiant and going to do amazing ministry with their proceeds. I’m excited to see it grow . . .

A Beautifully Warmed Heart

2010-10-24T14:48:00.009-05:00

I love Malawi.

The sun feels good on my skin.

The foliage is bright with greens and oranges and purples.

The sun sets behind chez Oliver, and I am moved to do nothing but be still and stare.

And, the best of all, the people I've met here are warm and friendly and beautiful.

As my friend Miss Ruby says, it's happy here. Very, very happy here.

It's so happy here that yesterday when I discovered at 9:30 that I was in charge of training at a writing workshop for the Malawi United Methodist publications team that was supposed to start at 10-ish, I pulled on my inner "hakuna matata" and somehow (and by somehow, I mean by the grace of God) pulled together a workshop. While Kara had asked me to be a part of the workshop a while ago, I was assured that I did not need to prepare anything and that I would not be in charge. Something got lost in translation, however. But I loved everyone in it so much and had so much fun, that it lasted until about 5:30 pm! And I was still smiling as I went to bed later. Everyone just warms my heart.

Then I worshiped at Galilea UMC, where I worshiped with the Pray With Africa team back in 2008, today. I hugged Montfort and Steve, whose family hosted me two years ago, and felt like I was returning home. I sang next to Tereza (or "Ma Katumbi," because she is my Malawian mother). I hugged Daniel and Francis, new friends who embraced me wholeheartedly because they met my sister Lanecia in March. Everyone just warms my heart.

We came back to the Olivers' house, and I played cards with Carter Russell and watched a movie with him and Claire Marin. The two of them are joyous, and I've enjoyed a couple of days getting to spend time with them. Jeff made grilled cheese sandwiches, rice and tomato soup, and all five of us enjoyed a nice lunch together. Yummy. So much warmth in my heart . . .

And we ended the evening with Ma Katumbi and Lucy, the founder of the Tiwasunge community of HIV+ persons who care for one another, coming over to feast with us for dinner. I love Tereza so much. And I have never met Lucy because she was not here when we visted Tiwasunge in 2008, but she has felt close to my heart. Her love for Tereza radiates, and I am so grateful for her in Tereza's life and in the lives of so many who are HIV+ here in Blantyre. I'm not sure that she knows what an amazing example she is for people all over the world through her ministry. I was honored and humbled and happy to feast with both of them tonight. And I'm also glad that Lucy could give me a good update on Ma Katumbi, who has been quite sick lately, and I could talk with her about taking her medication. Being with them is beyond heartwarming . . . and I'll spend the morning with them. Lucy explained to me that Tereza's son wanted her to come back home with him for a little while so that he could care for her. He lives many hours away from Blantyre. She would not go, though, because she kept telling him that her daughter Ciona was coming to see her. So she delayed her trip home until next week. Love, love! Love all around . . .

So I will sleep well this evening and look forward to the ways my heart will be warmed all week in Malawi, the warm heart of Africa.

peace.

Don't hush, little baby . . .

2010-10-15T12:25:00.006-05:00

The Compassion babies are very loud.

They run that toddler-run . . . away from their mothers and then back to their mothers. They laugh. They scream.

I’m in Tanzania right now visiting with Compassion International who will be one of the key groups at the United Methodist Youth 2011 events. Since I’m one of the emcees for the event, I’ve been blessed to visit some of the work Compassion does in Tanzania through their child sponsorship programs.

Today we visited mothers and babies in the Compassion’s Child Survival Program (CSP) in Arusha, Tanzania (not far from Mt. Kilimanjaro). This is where I met the loud Compassion babies.

I’ve visited a number of African countries and met a lot of African babies. And the thing I’ve noticed about many of the babies I’ve met is that they are calm and peaceful. Most of them sit on their mothers’ laps and watch life happen so quietly.

But not the babies we met at the TAG Bethel Student Center where the CSP is run. These babies played peek-a-boo with us. They giggled when I tossed them into the air. They tugged at my beaded necklace or became fixated on my colorful Ember beads.

This is when I knew the work I was seeing was something special. The other babies I had met were so quiet because they were malnourished. They had no energy to cause a fuss. They were too dehydrated to cry tears.

But the babies I met today have been given a chance at life that many children in extreme poverty rarely get thanks to the amazing work of the people in their communities who run the program and the generous donations of people from around the world who support the program.

I saw this video when a friend posted it on Facebook last week. Why aren’t we as people of faith screaming from rooftops that we’re mad as hell that there are children who are lethargic not because they are just even tempered but because they have NO FOOD? What does it take to make us mad as hell that people in all corners of the world have nothing when so many of us have more than we ever need? Who have we become?

May more babies feast on the hope found in loud giggles and big tears. May more mothers be blessed with the ability to feed their children and watch them grow than mothers who become way too familiar with the process of burying their babies.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

Letter to a Glorious Day

2010-09-13T16:05:00.019-05:00

Dear Glorious Day,

I am thankful for you, and I just wanted to let you know.

Today as I finished mowing the front lawn, I took a minute to admire you and then had a conversation with myself:

I could enjoy the next hour of this most glorious day by mowing our very long backyard. OR I could spend the next hour of this most glorious day having a playdate with the sunshine.

So the decision was quite simple (though I do love the thoughtless, monotonous motions of mowing and the great sense of accomplishment that comes from looking at a freshly shorn lawn). So I dialed up the sunshine and told it not to go anywhere because I was cooking up a fun little afternoon of play.

Here's my recipe in case you want to share it with others:

A lot of bright in your clothing

If there's anything I've learned from my little friends like Lucy and Emma Anne, it's that playtimes are made for loud pinks and yellows and polka dots and stripes. So I put together my most little girl of outfits and headed out the door.

3 Hula Hoops

Hula hoops make the world go 'round. And they also make playdates extra fun. And you must always carry more than one so that you can have a blast trying to keep at least 3 hoops going around your waist & in case some strangers you meet become instant friends.

1 Playground

Because they are just plain perfect for fun

& learning the alphabet

& checking to see how much you've grown

Tons of space

for running or hooping or laughing so loudly that people turn to see who you're laughing with but you're not with anyone which makes you laugh harder because everyone else thinks you're crazy & really you don't care because you're wearing stripes and match the sunshine

An ice cream cone

because let's face it, what day can truly be called glorious without a bit o' ice cream?

I chose Trailer Trash and Butter Pecan from the east side's Pied Piper Creamery. Yummy.

Oh, Glorious Day! I adore you.

ciao.

Ciona

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

-E.E. Cummings

Letter to Yoga

2010-08-23T09:11:00.005-05:00

Salutation Nation - 074
Originally uploaded by lululemon athletica

Dear Yoga,

I tried you for the first time 9 years ago in my old apartment. It was not love at first sight.

A friend from the office had let me borrow her yoga videotape because she was certain you would be my thing. So there I was staring at a guy in red pants, chanting “namaste” and telling me to mold my body into positions named after dogs and farm animals and birds. I made it through 7 minutes of the tape before I opted for workout plan #2: lifting a wooden spoon from a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream to my mouth while watching old episodes of Dawson’s Creek.

Back then I would never have imagined I'd be as in love with you as I am today. After a year of committed yoga practice, you are stretching me, opening me and centering me in beautiful ways. I'm so grateful to move from "doing" yoga to actually practicing yoga in the past year.

I breathe into difficult poses now. I am learning to soften when necessary, to focus when needed. I have twisted and stretched with the intention of opening my heart. I lie in savasana in centered silence, looking forward to what God might be able to whisper to me in my quiet moment. I try to take the benefits of those moments and the heartbeat of namaste into my everyday.

This year my life has been stretched and bent and twisted in unexpected ways--some welcomed, some escorted by pain. But you have taught me to breathe. Just breathe.

And you have also taught me to appreciate community. Maybe that's what I was missing 9 years ago trying to discover you on a screen in my apartment. I read an article recently that said yoga is beneficial in many settings, but the heart of it is communal.

Yes.

While I'm developing a home practice (which rivals Ben & Jerry's now for sure), I look most forward to my Monday night classes and the community you have brought me each week through yoga. I see God in and through them. I feel their support, encouragement, love and passion. We all need community.

I can't wait to practice with them tonight.

namaste.

Ciona

Letter to Stigma

2010-07-22T11:18:00.007-05:00

Free HIV Testing
Originally uploaded by Jeremy Brooks

Dear Stigma,

I tell people they are HIV+ for a living.

More often I am able to tell people they tested negative, which is wonderful. But sometimes I have to tell people they did, in fact, test positive.

I think of myself as an HIV test salesperson. The test is free, so I don’t make money or commission off of each person who gets a test. I’m a “salesperson,” however, because HIV tests aren’t exactly as popular as the iPhone G4. People don’t usually stand in long lines or sleep in the cold overnight waiting to see me. I’ll credit you for that, Stigma.

Instead, I approach people as they wait to see their doctor or dentist at our local non-profit health clinic and try to convince people that everyone should get tested regularly.

“Hello. My name is Ciona, and I’m just going through the clinic getting people started on a free HIV test that we offer if you’ve not had yours this year. When was your last test?”

I get a couple of different responses to this question:

• My favorite: “Let’s see . . . I think it was a couple of years ago. But sure, I’ll take another!”
• Uncomfortable giggle and wrinkled brow, followed by a slowly stammered, “I’ve . . . never . . . had one. I don’t think I . . . need an HIV test . . .” (and occasionally they’ll follow this with a whispered disclosure: I haven’t had sex in 7 years or a very loud I don't do those kinds of things).
• “Oh, I don’t want to know if I have it.” (what?!?!)
• Sheer look of horror as if while traveling from my mouth to their brains, my words transformed into, “Hello. My name is Lucifer, and I’m holding a bottle of the plague in my hand for you to drink."

And, Stigma, I’m pretty sure you’re solely responsible for the last response.

While it certainly feels much better to get to tell someone they are HIV-negative as opposed to positive, I’m pretty certain that a lot of people who don’t even know that they are positive get past me. They are some of the ones who refuse to take the test because they are afraid or because the woman sitting beside them made such a big deal about how she did NOT need an HIV test because she is married and doesn’t do any of those bad things.

So these people who manage to get through may not ever be under the care of an HIV specialist, may not ever take medicine and may not ever know their status until it’s way too late for them to manage the disease and lead a healthy life. Yes, Stigma, all because of you.

And then you creep in and do your work on people who even know they have HIV! I met a man who was emaciated and struggling to even walk. As I rolled him in a wheelchair to go take an HIV test after much convincing, he told me that he did not need a test. He said he already knew his status. He came along with me, however, because he wanted me to pretend to take his test since his sister was there with him and nobody in his family could know he was positive. I obliged because I don't think he should have to disclose his status if he doesn’t desire.

But I was also very sad. This man was not under medical care, he said, because he did not have a car and didn’t want his family to drive him to see the “AIDS doctor.” He was choosing death over telling his family he had HIV.

Stigma, you are doing a great job of helping AIDS kill people. That’s right; I’m calling you an accomplice to murder.

Would you consider retirement? Could you consider letting go of your rank so that people who may not be at risk for HIV would get over you enough to just go ahead and make an HIV test a routine practice? Then this might help normalize it for those who are at a greater risk but are nervous to step into a clinic and ask for a test. Could you consider going away so that people could feel more comfortable saying that they have HIV without people judging them or their behaviors and actually get the medical help and emotional support that they need?

Would you please die instead of killing others?

Awaiting your departure,

Ciona

Letter to a Broken Heart

2010-07-18T11:43:00.016-05:00

Heartbreak
Originally uploaded by emilygrace.

Dear Broken Heart,

Now that I've met you, touched you with my hands . . . Now that you're here, and I feel you, I'm pretty certain we've never really met before.

And now that my mind and soul are forced to share a space with you, I feel impoverished in every way. Except for this pen. And these lined pages. And prayers that have yet to be conceived.

L'Engle says something about words being emptied in prayer. Yes. All I have right now is a Lord, help me. And a belief that this cry alone might honor God in prayer--recognizing God's sovereignty and how much I need my Creator.

Could these tears be prayers? If so, I wet my pillow in prayer for the entire world, a world that feeds you, Broken Heart. Feeds you with lies that lead us and deception that decides for us. Feeds you with violence--violence that seeps into our words and pumps blood into our fists and controls our spending. Lord, have mercy.

I weep for those who cheered the execution of Gardner. I weep for those whose lives he stole. For this repetition of folly that trains our children to believe vengeance belongs to us.

I weep for Amira and other immigrants in a strange land. For their financial woes. For my financial woes. I weep that even in my financial despair, I am still considered wealthier than half the world. Lord, have mercy.

I weep for genocide, for war, for trauma, for HIV, for cowardly suicide bombs, for widows, for orphans, for all who sit on the mourners bench. I weep for pregnant bellies of girls too young. I weep for the rapists whose seeds terrorized these too young bodies.

I weep for my father's decisions and my inability to rewind and re-record. And for sweet family memories that seem too far away and hard family memories that seem to linger.

I weep because it's July. And I had William penciled in on my calendar for the whole month. For poetry we never created, for that hug and hongi that never breathed. For moments that seemed so real but mock me now, trying to convince me they were fantasy.

I weep for Wolf and James and Pedro and Tent City. For addiction, depression and trauma that has made the street a home for so many.

I weep because I know the core of my being lives in my heart. I have met her, and she is laughter & playfulness & courage. And there's a guard that stands in front of her keeping her in a tiny chamber while you, Brokenness, scream loudly right now and resound in the rest of my organs and tissues and bones. For her, I weep.

And for her, I also hope. Because she gently whispers that she is strong & grounded & whole. Created for a purpose. She giggles, reminding me that you are in pieces.

And so I will share this space with you until the Artist, my Creator, figures out what kind of mosaic to make out of you.

Until we get to say goodbye,

Ciona

So thankful, Lord, that you never get tired of collecting our pieces and reassembling them. -Kim Thomas
(letter started June 18, 2010, in my journal)

11:27 PM at Waffle House

2010-07-11T22:21:00.006-05:00

wa ho treat
Originally uploaded by lanecia

My sister Lanecia took some delightful photographs at the WaHo in Waynesville, NC. It reminded me of several poems I used to write in the middle of the night on the tiny napkins at the WaHo back in college. I typed up one of them, so I revisited it today and want to share it with you here.

I heart the WaHo.

11:27 P.M. at Waffle House

the stench of oil
the sweetness of pancake batter
accompanied by solitude in my corner booth
I soak in the smells and sounds that surround
silverware scrapes and falls
upon worn plates
my spoon tings the insides of the
white cup containing a concoction
of coffee, milk and mostly sugar

the sizzles
the convulsing bacon, the eggs
everyone—
save for the lone twenty-something
folding his rectangle napkin
pressing creases between his thumb and forefinger
and rubbing it around the brim of a ceramic cup
working slowly around the top to
wax away all of the stories
laughter, kisses, licks and secrets
held by any lips that ever touched it before--
rumbles in conversation
a pleasant combination of laughter, gossip,
orders and questions

I sit silently
sipping my coffee, I contemplate
who I am in this world
and how much change to leave Jean as a tip
I inhale this short-order escape
into my thoughts
soon I must push through
these doors and exit
into a story beyond these walls

1999
columbia, sc

Yellow

2010-07-03T22:32:00.010-05:00

Every time I pull up at Lake Junaluska and cross the wooden one-way bridge to my little paradise, I say, "Oh, I miss you so much, Teri!"

It's not ritual. It's simply instinct.

I hold so many beautiful memories of my friend Teri here at the lake. She is a part of my story even today--six years after her death. If ever there was a life that expired too soon, it's T's. I will never understand. I'm grateful that I don't have to.

So as I sit in front of Lake J tonight, here's a poem I wrote last November in memory of Teri Hughes--my friend with the big laugh and even bigger heart.

I remember she laughed like yellow
it colored daffodils and warm honey and summertime
so loud and leaping

it lingered for some time after the fall of her breath—

which dropped like the first autumn leaf
that pirouetted to the grass
its yellow turned brown
its brown quickly crumbled
beneath the footsteps of toddlers chasing bubbles
brothers tossing pigskins
lovers kissing goodnight under the tree’s shelter
its crumble turned to dust—

and I wonder how the sun manages to find its yellow now.

Chisomo

2010-07-01T08:47:00.002-05:00

she delights
Originally uploaded by lanecia

"I do not understand the mystery of grace--only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us." -Anne LaMott

Summer's Winter

2010-06-24T00:22:00.006-05:00

I’m very aware of death whenever I leave the continent of Africa. This is not necessarily because of seeing so much pain and dying. I think it’s actually because I witnessed so much aliveness! So each time I leave, I’m aware that anything can happen between the moment I leave and the moment I return to the continent. Death can creep into all of that aliveness so unexpectedly. Every once in a while, winter finds its way to summer.

There’s Joseph—so strong, so resilient, so much going for him. I expected to receive emails about the day he was coming to the U.S., sponsored by New Balance, to run in a major race. Or sweet baby Kofine whose body was frail, but who I thought had a chance at life with the year’s supply of food that was given to her family and Peter’s constant care for them. So when I received messages this past year that both Joseph and Kofine died as a result of poor access to good medical care, my heart froze. What seemed like summertime in their lives was a lie.

Then there’s Marion in Malawi and Lavergne in South Africa—both HIV-positive. Honestly, despite my prayers, I expected both of them might breathe their last breaths maybe before I even landed back stateside in 2008. But when my sister went to both countries this past March—nearly two years later—she returned with images of both women standing, smiling, surviving . . . so beautiful! A summer revival in what I thought were wintered lives.

But in the midst of summer, came winter. And I learned this week that Marion died a few days ago.

the Winter pins me
for a moment, my Summer thoughts had consumed me,
convincing my mind they would not forsake.
I imagined the sun would kiss my skin again, leaving it sticky
I promised to call it a beautiful residue
I pictured walking with my head high, slicing
through summer’s thick air
smiling at couples in sandals
holding hands and sipping lemonade
on a sweet summer stroll
but then Fall and I met, he erased
the summer’s cicada songs from my memory
and lied to me
never warned me of December’s early coming
my limbs were captured, encased by ice
it was almost beautiful—a crystal tree
if it were not also a prison to my bones
I shivered, unable to escape cold
even then I believed I might tiptoe into Spring
quietly like a kid sister returning a diary or a
sundress she never asked to borrow
then February
seized my body
refusing to let me March
now I watch snow fall on skeleton trees
and concede to Winter’s heft
while birds learn morning tunes and tulips bloom
in someone else’s yard

3 july 2004

A few months ago I had the idea to write a poem about HIV/AIDS and seasons. I played around with a few words. Then this week I found this poem , and I’d written it in 2004—untitled, but the (very poor) working titles were “Death of AIDS patient” or “Living with AIDS” or “Dying with HIV/AIDS.” How funny to have an idea this year that I actually had in a writing group one time 6 years ago. I honestly didn’t remember I’d written it. My friend calls it self-plagiarism. I find it fitting to have found it just hours before my friend Kara called to tell me of Marion’s surprising death. And so I share it today in her memory. (I think I'll title it "Winter Song: An AIDS Lament." Maybe.)

I leave you with Marion’s prayer request Lanecia collected back in March:

My prayer is for my family. I pray that God should give me a house. When I was very sick Tiwasunge took care of me. I ask God to continue guiding them. As I'm still strong I ask God to give me capital so I can relieve the burden on Tiwasunge because I have 7 kids. I pray God should bless Tiwasunge. Amen.

May we experience many more springs and summers than fall and winters. But may we accept the cycle of all things and live fully into whatever season life has given us this day.

Every Poem is a Love Poem

2010-06-22T18:14:00.014-05:00

image by Kieran Rynhart

"This is a tree on fire with love, but it's still scary since most people think love only looks like one thing instead of the whole world." -storypeople

In March I met a poet who is also an activist. I don't think she intends to write a particular type of poem; it's just that activism is in her bones and words are in her soul. Naturally, activist poetry falls from her breath.

She said that she doesn't write many love poems, however, but then she re-thought that idea and decided that just maybe every poem--especially the kind that inspire movements or change--is a love poem.

I have to agree.

So I met a woman named Amira in April. We were at her apartment complex playing with our little friends from Burma and Bangladesh when we met Amira's oldest son. He just jumped right in and started playing with us, and that's really how we like it anyway. I believe the kingdom of God looks a lot like people of various shades, hues, tongues and incomes jumping right on in and chalking the sidewalk, blowing bubbles and chasing a soccer ball together.

Amira saw her son playing with us and came out to meet me. I loved the way her Egyptian accent curled. And I was struck by her desperate love for her three boys. I noticed that when she saw we had fruit snacks for the kids, she went back to the house and got her other two children. She encouraged all of the boys to eat the snack. I could tell that this wasn't just about greed, so I asked Amira her story. It was no sadder or more compelling than many of the stories of immigrants and refugees I've met. It was her story, though, and I was moved by being a part of hearing her journey as a Christian in a Muslim nation, her struggle to leave her homeland, her need for some kind of financial relief in this very expensive land. At some point she said to me that she had to choose regularly between feeding her children and paying for electricity.

Immediately after meeting Amira, I felt a poem coming to me. It just started one day while I was in the shower and then began taking many different forms. Then when I was invited to participate in the spoken word census of Nashville, I felt like developing Amira's poem as the piece to share a story of an Egyptian-turned-Nashvillian.

I didn't plan for it to be a love poem. Not even an activism poem, I suppose. I am just a storyperson and want to give form to a story after hearing Amira's. Who would have known that just a month later, Amira's husband would lose his job and find it hard to find full time employment, the threat of eviction would hover over them and that I would have a poem ready to share Amira's story and ask for help to keep a roof over her head? But that is the story of today. And thanks to the glories of Facebook and God's amazing grace, friends have offered generous donations in just minutes that will help this family in their emergency situation. And I know we will be able to find others who can help us walk alongside this family and help them figure out ways to make it here in the U.S. Because I also know that the kingdom of God looks not only like a playground but also like a community coming together and picking each other up.

So in this moment, I think about the poet Andrea's statement about love poems and rejoice in the fabulous shapes that love takes. Writing Amira's story helps me connect with her, and I believe that's where the love is born. And I'm grateful to be able to write a few love poems in this messy, messy beautiful world . . .

May we all write our own kind of love poems in the lives of the people we meet.

Chasing Happiness

2010-06-21T10:18:00.010-05:00

"Chasing Happiness"
image by lanecia

i don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
i donned a soccer uniform when i was 7
made my first goal and grinned with the sunshine
scored a point
for the other team

i don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
as i drive behind a minivan carrying many children
a proud mom of a soccer kid
tells me so
with her bumper sticker

i don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
as we weep at images of starving African children
but on a red dust field in Malawi
a skinny barefoot boy owns nothing but his smile and his dreams
the imaginary goal, his dreamcatcher

i don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
the world's favorite pastime
on manicured fields and crowded streets and shanty towns
this black and white unity ball
speaks every language

I don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
especially since it's a lie
Argentina and Brazil prove the truth
that is
if we dare believe in more than one America

I don't want to hear that Americans don't like football
I don't want to hear that we like buying more for less people
I don't want to hear that we like spending billions on defense and offense
I don't want to hear that we like calling humans aliens

I want to hear that Americans like confession
and reconciliation
and responsibility
and peace
and unity
and chasing happiness for people of all hues and stature and status

and football
may we learn to love football

Nashville Spoken Word Census

2010-06-08T15:44:00.005-05:00

Last week I had the opportunity to participate in Nashville's premier Spoken Word Census, featuring 16 writers/poets on Thursday night, telling the story of Nashville in 2010 through the spoken word. It was my poetry debut. I have spoken my poems aloud before only to a small group in college and a small group of writers at a workshop last fall.

The show was exciting, and I left immensely inspired by all of the artists who participated in the show with me. I'm still getting high on that inspiration nearly a week later.

Some friends have asked to read the poem I shared, so here it is. It's the story of a woman I met in April off of Nolensville Road.

Amira in America

her apartment is always black
lights or food—
she can choose only one

three almond-skinned boys
only one an American baby
soil in his favor

but soil produces no
food no job no chance no light
soil keeps her begging

reaching roots fight
ground of gravel, of gray stone
arms stretch toward the ones

fastening their Bible belts
speaking through smiles, blessing her heart
language now her border

she prefers her story
to these stuttered beggar phrases
extra-terrestrial words

i need job
my boys not eat
please don’t forget me

back home she taught school
owned a store, spoke in
full sentences

she danced by a river
like the Cumberland
but regal, ancient—the soul-deep Nile

home of whispered prayers
home where she feared believing
home where she cradled two boys

against her belly—
the incubator of a
boy ordained for new soil—

and glared down the
barrel of options aimed at her heart:

stay home or survive
she could choose only one

May 2010

About Love . . .

2010-06-06T19:59:00.013-05:00

I've thought a lot about love this year. Agape love. Romantic love. Heartbreak. Passions. I've even written a few heartbreak poems this year (which I don't typically do and rarely share because I'm not a fan of heartbreak poems, but it sometimes feels good to pull pain out of my being and leave it on paper) and several other love poems (because every poem, essentially, is a love poem, right?). I'm currently reading Madeleine L'Engle's poetry compilation The Ordering of Love.

I suppose it's my year of love. And I suppose it's kind of nice to have a year of love without a romance in my life. Maybe it will help me put love in its proper perspective.

Speaking of perspectives on love, I heard the song "My Love Goes Free" at the end of a film a few months ago and weeped for an hour. The film's story and my story collided with this song, and I was moved by the intensity of it all. I learned that Jon Foreman wrote this song for his wife. I initially thought it odd that he'd write such a beautiful love song for THE woman in his life where the chorus says, "If you love her let her go."

I'm used to LeeAnn Rimes belting out, "If you ever leave, baby you would take away everything good in my life" or PM Dawn proclaiming "I'd Die Without You." I'm not used to love songs saying, "my love goes free." But these other popular radio hits are songs we could sing to food and water--things we consume, devour. And these are the songs that make us think we love someone?

What a warped web of love we spin!

I found a quote where Foreman explains his thoughts on love, talking about another song he wrote ("Enough to Let Me Go"):

I was thinking about how love (not just lust or codependency that commonly flood the tunes on the airways) actually involves quite a bit of faith. There’s a lot of letting go involved. Two souls in love is an intricate dance of give and take. I can be a fairly solitary person from time to time. Sure, I love being with people, but I also need time alone. I guess I thrive on the poles. So this song is about the dance involved in a relationship the coming together and letting go. The song equates love with breathing- pulling in and releasing. Or a seed, for the seed to grow it has to be dropped and buried.

In our barcode media, love is often portrayed as consumption. As consumers in a commercial driven culture we can begin to view other souls as objects, or potential cures for our deepest fears and insecurities. “Perhaps if I found the right lover I would no longer feel this deep existential despair.” But of course no human soul could be the Constant Other, the face that will never go away. Only the infinite can fill that role. But the silence can be deafening. It’s a fearful thing to be alone. Do you love me enough to let me go? “I can’t live without you”- “I would die if you ever left me”- These are not the songs of love, these are the songs of consumption.

So beautiful. Divine love is so freeing. God created us to release us to the world--to let us go and love us whether we choose God or not. I like this thought on love. And I'd like to live more fully into the pull-and-release of love in any future romances, in my friendships, in the way I love the world.

Would love to hear your thoughts on love.

May we all love freely.

Less apt to destroy . . .

2010-05-24T22:39:00.002-05:00

"Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of Poetry magazine.

A Hair Story

2010-04-19T16:30:00.009-05:00

As the lighter-skinned, straighter-haired slaves--men and women--continued to curry favor with the Whites in power, a skin-shade, hair-texture hierarchy developed within the social structure of the slave community. There were the light-skinned house slaves and the dark-skinned field slaves. The light-skinned slaves were said to have "good hair," and the dark-skinned slaves to have "bad hair." Good hair was thought of as long and lacking in kink, tight curls, and frizz. And the straighter the better. Bad hair was the antithesis, namely African hair in its purest form.

-from Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America.

I was born bald.

Absolutely bald.

And I stayed that way for a while. I was that absolutely adorable (of course!) bald baby girl whose mother probably heard, "Oh, he's such a cute little boy," more times than she desired.

And when my hair came, it was curly. The hug your scalp kind of curly.

Then it nearly all fell out. I was balding at the tender age of 3 or 4. There are a series of childhood photographs where I always wear a hat because of my hair loss. The doctors never figured out why the follicles refused to hold fast to my hair. But eventually the balding ceased, and my hair grew back again.

And it came back scalp-hugging kinky curly.

But then I started the process of going straight. I have spent many many hours sitting by the stove while my mom straightened my hair with a hot comb or in the beauty salon cringing at the 4-hour process of chemically relaxing (straightening) my hair. I've added hair tracks--with some woman sticky glue-ing or weaving hair into my head.

I've had funky short choppy haircuts done in Europe. I've let it grow to my shoulders. I've sat in chairs for 8 hours of tugging and wincing and more tugging and more wincing as women from Senegal kinky twisted my hair into fabulously long styles.

And now, for the first time since forever, I'm back to the first stages of my hair. Somewhere between the bald and the braids, I had tight, tiny kinky curls that God gave me. And when God gave this hair to me, God said it was "good."

And so I'm now back to my good hair today after the lovely Avery in Hillsboro Village chopped my 'do.

I've experienced tons of emotions today, aware of the many nuances that go along with hair. And I know the journey of learning about and growing my natural hair will be long and probably annoying at times. But right now as I sit here on my bed with my short, scalp-hugging good hair, I am reminded that I am not my hair. I smile. And it feels so so good.

lovers, like tattoos

2010-03-25T00:40:00.003-05:00

I've been recently enthralled by Ezekiel 16. It's not a text we read oft at church. In fact, I'm pretty certain I've never heard anyone reference it before this past week. Even then, the preacher mentioned only Ezekiel 16:8, which is a lovely text with a beautiful metaphor of God promising God's love to Israel and joining in a covenant relationship with the people of Israel. How beautiful that our Creator chooses us and wants to be in union with us.

And then the next part of the text gets graphic and uncomfortable. I want to argue with God in it. I want to even tell God to back off a little. It's raw and honest and pretty mean. And it's life. It's the story of the people of Israel. The story of the Church. My story. As Derek Webb says in his song "Wedding Dress," "I am a whore, I do confess . . ."

Anyway, there's tons I'd like to do with this text. It makes me personally reflective. It calls me to think more about who we are as followers of Christ. It makes me so very grateful for the new covenant in Jesus, which is filled with countless grace even as we continue to flail about in our blood . . . I have so many reads on this text and will probably write much more about it in the near future.

Until then, however, here is a poem inspired by this text:

lovers, like tattoos

I’ve had lovers, like tattoos,
claim this body

at least 70 decorations seven times
of indelible delights

Gold and Silver—
pure and purposed
—my lure

most unplanned
objects of adrenaline rush

many I commissioned to
stain these thighs again

again

free of charge

they painted
heat and passion,
colored lines with lies

immeasurable pleasures
sighs and highs

that left me
naked and bare and flailing about in my blood

now I lay me at your feet
begging for You to paint
me beautiful

do not desert
despite my betrayals
cover me with your skirt

Busboys & Poets

2010-03-10T16:24:00.006-06:00

Busboys & Poets . . . This might now be on my list of favorite places on earth.

A hip, urban spot with high warehouse ceilings. Blue, bright green, brown and tan walls filled with art and happiness. Cozy couches, dining tables, a section in the back with tables, booths, a stage--for spoken word and open mic--and quotes on the wall all about peace. Coffee, chatter, wine. India.Arie singing "Beautiful" and Lauryn Hill belting out "Zion" through the speakers. Candles, lanterns, lamps that double as art. People--every shade and age and size. Organic dishes, fairly traded brews. Large images of Gandhi, King, Mother T. Poems of Langston Hughes and quotes by Eisenhower and the Dalai Lama sprinkled throughout the menu. A delicious, smooth chai latté. This place is funky-strong and laid-back chill. And in case it couldn't get any cooler, there's a non-profit bookstore inside with children's books, poetry books and tons of books about peace and a fair trade store with artisan crafts from impoverished countries worldwide.

One roof. Seriously.

I'm here at Busboys & Poets for the second Split This Rock Poetry Festival. It's a gathering to celebrate the poet voice in activism. We're a group of poets who have come together to share with each other and dream together ways that our words can and will make this world a bit better. A lot better. In fact, we gather because we have the audacity to believe that poetry can inspire in the hearts of the world a need to live into the more beautiful ways we were created.

I accidentally read the wrong page of When You Pray in this morning's devotional, but after reading this quotation, I think it might have just been the word God wanted me to hear today:

The true prophetic message always calls us to a spiritual defiance of the world as it now is. Our prayer, to the extent that it is fully authentic, undermines the status quo. It is a spiritual underground resistance movement. We are subversive in a world of injustice, oppression and violence. Like Amos of old, we demand that "justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an everflowing stream" (Amos 5:24). We plead the case of the orphan and the widow, or whoever the helpless ones are in our context. In our prayers and in our actions we stand firm against racism, sexism, nationalism, ageism, and every other "ism" that separates and splits and divides. -Richard J. Foster

Fitting. Please pray that my poetic words might help justice roll down . . .

And may we all live into another way that is very much possible.

Sam Cooke: Change Gonna Come

2010-02-16T06:53:00.004-06:00

When we moved from Myrtle Beach to Greenville, SC, in the middle of my ninth grade year, I found solace in an oldies radio station. Every night I'd listen to WOLT-FM, and there was something about these songs that made the move easier. I probably wouldn't have named why then, but maybe the simple rhythms brought me peace. Or maybe I was moved by how the lyrics spoke to life, love and happiness even decades after they were written. Or maybe it was simply because the 50s, 60s and 70s were just good years for great music.

So that year was the first year I ever purchased music by Sam Cooke, and I would listen to him all of the time--songs from his early days of Gospel to his R&B hits. I knew very little about his story, though, so I enjoyed this NPR segment sharing Cooke's story, particularly through his protest song "A Change is Gonna Come." I highly recommend listening to it.

May we never be complacent human beings. May we always believe that humanity can be greater than what we have been so far. And, even if it's a long time coming, may we hold fast to knowing a change will come.

ways that lead us to poetry

2010-01-31T23:28:00.019-06:00

walking in the light
Originally uploaded by lanecia a rouse

"Anyone who says,“Here’s my address, write me a poem,” deserves something in reply. So I’ll tell you a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them." -Naomi Shihab Nye

May we dance and laugh and breathe and cry and love in ways that lead us to poetry.

Howard Zinn, 1922-2010

2010-01-28T14:52:00.007-06:00

I just heard on NPR that another writer, activist and great thinker died yesterday. Like Brutus, who died in December, Howard Zinn is a thinker/activist I just began paying attention to in recent months. The historian Zinn is most famous for his history text that tells the story of the nation through the lens of the marginalized, A People's History of the United States.

Others will certainly write a better synopsis of his life than I. His friend Daniel Ellsberg shares a great story about him here.

Zinn was concerned about several social issues in our nation, including civil rights. Most recently, I've been thinking quite a bit about war, historic nonviolence movements, and our Nobel Peace Prize-winning war president. Zinn, a former G.I. turned anti-war activist, spent a lot of time saying a word or two about war. So a few weeks ago I found this video of Zinn speaking at Boston University in November about the USA's three holy wars: the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and World War II (in which Zinn volunteered to serve as an Air Force bomber). In memory of him, I return to this clip. It's lengthy but good . . .

Three Holy Wars | Howard Zinn | Nov. 11, 2009 | Boston University from Ken Levy on Vimeo.

In one of his speeches about these "holy wars," Zinn says the following:

Just one point I want to make. This is the question that says, "What else would you do?" They say, "[what about] Hitler? You had to do something." I agree. You have to do something about all these things. You have to do something about winning independence if you're oppressed. You have to do something about slavery if there's slavery. You have to do something about fascism. You have to do something about all these things. But, you don't have to do war.

May we begin to think of another way to "do something" about atrocities, oppression and terrorism in this world of ours. Another way is certainly possible with creative imagination. We're smart people, after all. May we live beautifully into that imagination. And may Howard Zinn's words challenge and move us for years to come as his body and spirit find rest in peace.

Footloose and Facebook-free

2010-01-26T11:49:00.004-06:00

The other night I was on Facebook, and things started messing up. It wouldn't allow me to post on any wall or update my status. After a while, it knocked me offline and would not allow me to log on for about 30 minutes or so.

At first, I (mildly) panicked for about 38 seconds when Lanecia said that she couldn't even get on my FB page. "I was deleted from Facebook!!! Argh!" But then came the whelming sense of calm. "I was deleted from Facebook . . . siiighhh!" Something felt really good about it.

So when they finished with their maintenance and all that jazz, and I was able to log back into my account, I immediately deactivated it. And it feels so very, very good for this particular time.

I suppose this is a season, and I'll join Facebook again. I could be back to posting news articles, quotes and Pray With Africa updates and liking photographs and statuses in a week or a month or sometime thereafter . . . Who knows? But for now, I'm just enjoying this nice, lovely breath of fresh air.

May you find ways to listen to what feels right and breathe fresh air, as well--whether it be in letting go of something or daring to try something new. May you be surrounded by a whelming sense of calm and listen to it.

peace.

2010: Books Come to Life . . .

2010-01-24T14:12:00.008-06:00

I've been inspired by my friend Rod to up my reading ante this year. Rod completed 40 books on his list in 2009. Nice.

I really love books (clearly . . . I write them). Reading makes me happy. Reading improves my writing. Nothing satiates my imagination like a good book. The benefits to reading are endless. And yet I find myself surrounded by a gazillion books on shelves and in baskets on the floor of my room--all lonely and wishing I'd read them. I start them, and they feel loved and admired for a couple of days. And then they sit there lonely before I ever finish them.

Not this year.

And so I thought I'd blog about it and hope that knowing I've written it here will hold me a bit accountable. So I'm starting Hopscotch by South American (though born in Belgium) author Julio Cortazar today. There are two ways to read this book, and I think I'm going for the second way, which begins with chapter 73 and takes you on a haphazard journey of chapters to discover the story. I'll post more later.

I found this video of the NZ Book Council on an artist's blog the other day when I was looking up orizomegami (more on that art and what I'm doing with it another day), and I think it's appropriate for my year of books coming to life. And it's just pretty darn creative:

May you find time to let books come to life in your life this year . . .

I Adore Life . . .

2010-01-20T13:59:00.011-06:00

"I adore Life. What do all the fools matter and all the stupidity. They do matter but somehow for me they cannot touch the body of Life. Life is marvellous. I want to be deeply rooted in it - to live - to expand - to breathe in it - to rejoice - to share it. To give and to be asked for Love."

-Katherine Mansfield in a Jan. 20 letter to Lady Ottoline Morrell

May we all be deeply rooted in life today and all the days to come . . .

unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable . . .

2010-01-19T08:58:00.011-06:00

C.S. Lewis writes in his book The Four Loves:

In words which can still bring tears to the eyes, St Augustine describes the desolation in which the death of his friend Nebridius plunged him (Confessions IV, 10). Then he draws a moral. This is what comes, he says, of giving one's heart to anything but God. All human beings pass away. Do not let your happiness depend on something you may lose. If love is to be a blessing, not a misery, it must be for the only Beloved who will never pass away.

Of course this makes excellent sense. Don't put your goods in a leaky vessel. Don't spend too much on a house you may be turned out of . . . Of all arguments against love none makes so strong an appeal to my nature as "Careful! This might lead you to suffering."

Then Lewis advises that we resist that natural inclination. He says later:

There is no escape along the lines St. Augustine suggests. Nor along any other lines. There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no-one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is hell.

I have learned to be really good at guarding my heart. Death and fear and loss are excellent teachers. I don't like being sliced open and spilling out. And, yet, vulnerability has given me wings, taught me to fly. It's hard not to coast in protection mode again, but I want to hold onto this freedom of flight instead. I think I quite prefer it.

May we risk jumping from our nests even when we've tried it before and have fallen. When the wind catches our wings, may we be reminded that each flight depends on a greater power. May we risk love—affection, friendship or romantic—and there find our understanding and love of God more magnified.

Other thoughts on love:
St. Catherine's Tree
Sarah Slean's "My Invitation" (last stanza especially)

Seeing Humanity

2010-01-14T12:13:00.009-06:00

Sawubona is one of the greetings in South Africa. It's a sibling of our hello, hey, yo! And it's so much more than that. This Zulu term literally means, "we see you." The response is Yebo, sawubona: we see you, too.

Imagine the freedom we might experience in this world if we were to really see each other—with our eyes, our hearts. Might we dismiss each other less? Judge each other less? Pay more attention to those who take our money at a coffee shop, hold cardboard pleas on the roadside, teach our children? Or even those who live in our neighborhoods and homes—those who some of us only pretend to see?

I came across this free online magazine Humanistic Report, and I like that their mission seems simple: tell the stories and show the images that might help people see each other.

May we all see both the heartbreak, healing and happiness happening in our midsts and in places we may never visit in the world. And may we recognize it all as humanity.

Other places to really SEE people:
Pray With Africa
Global Oneness Project

Which others do you know?

p.s. i was originally drawn to this 'zine because the first issue features children from Burma. they were likely all born into war and fear. and yet they look like students of joy and peace to me. i hope . . .

Dennis Brutus, 1924-2009

2010-01-10T21:38:00.003-06:00

We do not talk, do we
of Blood Diamonds?
We do not talk do we
of displaced peoples?
of stolen land?
of sweated labour?
of bloodied labour?
bloodied diamonds?

for blood diamonds, too,
are forever

-From "For DeBeers" by Brutus, 2009

I learned only today that South African activist and poet Dennis Brutus died Dec. 26. I began reading some of his work less than six months ago, so even though he's lived a long, full life, I feel as though a recently unearthed treasure has been stolen from me so suddenly. But his words are powerful, and the beauty of poetry is that it has the power to breathe even long after a poet expires. I am grateful for how he raised his voice and used his words to promote justice and peace and beauty. A statement from his family says that he died quietly in his sleep. May he rest in peace . . .

I leave you with the first Brutus poem I read:

Letter 18

I remember rising one night
after midnight
and moving
through an impulse of loneliness
to try and find the stars.

And through the haze
the battens of fluorescents made
I saw pinpricks of white
and I thought they were stars.

Greatly daring
I thrust my arm through the bars
and easing the switch in the corridor
plunged my cell in darkness

I scampered to my window
and saw the splashes of light
where the stars flowered.

But through my delight
thudded the anxious boots
and a warning barked
from the machine-gun post
on the catwalk.

And it is the brusque inquiry
and threat
that I remember of that night
rather than the stars.

-20th December, 1965, from a South African Prison

High Country Weather by James K. Baxter

2010-01-10T15:15:00.004-06:00

I've taken a liking to this poem. A friend introduced me to New Zealand's beloved poet James K. Baxter several months ago, and I recognized Baxter's name when I stumbled upon this poem today:

alone we are born
and die alone
yet see the red-gold cirrus
over snow-mountain shine

upon the upland road
ride easy stranger
surrender to the sky
your heart of anger

So beautiful . . .

peace.

Sinking into the Now

2010-01-08T19:27:00.005-06:00

My feet hurt every time we go into Tree Pose (Vrksasana) at yoga. I finally told Taunia (my favorite yogini) about the pain after our practice this week. She didn't seem surprised. She said that she noticed whenever I go into this standing pose my toes curl up ever so slightly, as if I'm trying to clutch the ground below in order to stay standing. I put so much pressure on my one foot as it holds my entire body. I can hardly be present to the pose because I'm so ready to get out of it and relieve my foot of this pain. My attempt to stand firm is in vain; I often lose my balance, and it always always hurts.

"Sink into the pose," Taunia recommended. "Lift your toes, relax them and return them to the ground as if you're sinking into the earth, like you're standing on wet sand."

I thought of this advice again several days later as I reflected on questions friends have asked over the last week—this first week of 2010. What's in store? What's on the horizon? What are you most looking forward to in 2010? What are your hopes for the year? What are your plans? Career, art, love?

With each question I was made more aware of the great amount of pressure I put on my soul when I "curl my toes" and cling to my past hopes or try to grab and hold my ideas of what my future should be. I'm following a guy who tweeted yesterday, "dear life. help me understand you." I laughed. I, too, would love to make sense of life these days. This may be why I cling. If I can hold on to "what was," life might make sense. I might find unfulfilled hopes finally fulfilled. If I can craft a perfect "what will be," life might make sense. I might experience great bliss in this story I write for myself. And, just like in the tree pose, my clinging is in vain. I often lose my balance. And it often hurts.

Life—most especially when it makes the least amount of sense—is best lived in the "what is," the now. All I can do is relax, let go and sink into the now like when I stand on a beach as the water rolls over my feet to kiss the last grain of sand before it flows back to the sea, and I feel like I'm being carried away into the ocean. But instead, I'm just settling more deeply into the sand. And it feels good.

May we all honor the memories of our past, and may we never stop dreaming. But may we open ourselves most to the lessons, beauty and gifts of the now and find our feet sinking beautifully into it.

Ode to a Falling Flake

2010-01-07T12:23:00.008-06:00

I want to taste you in my mouth—
not because you are delicious
not because of my hunger
but because
when I stand against this frigid day,
let my head fall to my back,
blink my eyes and
open my mouth to receive the sky's wintry gift,
it feels a lot like freedom

The Dinner Table

2009-11-27T10:52:00.009-06:00

Over dinner once we were having a conversation about race relations—how far we've come in the U.S. and how far we still have to journey towards reconciliation and the Kingdom of God. My friend Shane said that the dinner table will be the place where we find common ground. If people had more meals together, he suggested, we would probably see a difference in race relations. I'd like to take that further and say that we'd see a difference in all boundaries that we've created to separate us—class, religion, politics. We don't feast together enough.

And this makes the Eucharist Table even more beautiful for me. Here, Christ invites us to the most unifying table of all. Everyone is welcomed. I could have been born into the Church or just walked into the door and been recently moved by the Gospel. I could have all the riches in the world or own nothing but the clothes on my back. I could be from the "wrong" side of the tracks. I could be brown or black or white. I could speak Chichewa or French or English or Māori. No matter who I am, I'm always invited.

And when I go to this table to feast on a simple meal of bread and wine, the feast is the same in Nashville, Tenn., as it is in Leeds, England. It's the same today for me as it was for Martin Luther King, Jr., for St. Catherine of Siena and for Peter the disciple. And more importantly, the calling is the same. We are invited into a Kingdom feast—a meal that both blots out my iniquities and calls me to another way of living. Our feast does not end there at the pew or altar in our church buildings. We are called to a bodacious way of life that refuses to be content in the boxes created by a love-ignorant society. We're called into a new covenant. And that new way of life leads me to break bread in many different places with people of various skin tones, beliefs, sexualities and economies.

What a bold feast the Lord created for us—a feast that can truly create a new reality.

How beautiful!

May we feast with Christ and Christ's people today and everyday. May we intentionally go beyond our places of comfort to find ourselves at Christ's holy dinner table.

Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me." And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, "This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood." -Luke 22:19-20

And I think the true beauty comes when we step outside the symbol. Instead of merely taking part in a two-century-old tradition, let's also share food and talk about our experiences of God with the people that society tells us we should be staying clear of. Business people and homeless veterans, retirees and teenagers, Pacers fans and Pistons fans, Iraqis and Americans: let's all share a table together . . . Let the wafer and the juice be a reminder. -Caleb Mechem in New Neighbor: An Invitation to Join Beloved Community

Singing My Prayers Today . . .

2009-11-25T14:32:00.006-06:00

I turned on iTunes Genius today while listening to Jennifer Knapp. These two songs popped up and surprised me and felt quite excellent for the day. I believe they will be my prayers today.

Melody of You by Sixpence None the Richer

you're a painting with symbols deep, symphony
soft as it shifts from dark beneath
a poem that flows, caressing my skin
in all of these things you reside and i
want you flow from the pen, bow and brush
that paper and string, and canvas touch
with ink in the air, to dust your light
from morning to the black of night

[Chorus]
this is my call i belong to You
this is my call to sing the melodies of You
this is my call i can do nothing else
i can do nothing else

you're the scent of an unfound bloom
a simple tune
i only write variations to
a drink that will knock me down to the floor
a key that will unlock the door
where i hear a voice sing familiar themes
then beckons me weave notes in between
a bow and a string, a tap and glass
you pour me till the day has passed

I cannot find a video or audio clip of Jennifer Knapp singing the next song, so I'll share a 30-second cover of it by Ayiesha Woods, which is pretty good. The Knapp version is beautiful, though, and you can go to this site to hear it.

Refine Me - Ayiesha Woods

Refine Me by Jennifer Knapp
i come into this place
burning to receive your peace
i come with my own chains
from wars i've fought for my own selfish gain
you're my God and my Father
i've accepted your Son
but my soul feels so empty now
what have i become?

Lord, come with your fire,
burn my desires; refine me
Lord, my will has deceived me
please come and free me
refine me

my heart can't see
when i only look at me
my soul can't hear
when i only think of my own fears
they are gone in a moment
you're forever the same
why did i look away from You
how can i speak Your name?

Lord, come with Your fire,
burn my desires; refine me
Lord, my will has deceived me
please come and free me
come rescue this child
for i long to be reconciled to You

it's all i can do
to give my heart and soul to You
and pray, and pray, oh i will pray

Lord, come with Your fire,
burn my desires; refine me
Lord, my will has deceived me
please come and free me
come rescue this child
for i long to be reconciled to You

refine me, refine me
refine me, refine me

Smile . . .

2009-11-23T08:38:00.009-06:00

"Alright . . . you two get together and smile."

My sister Lanecia was at it again with her camera--creating 4x6 memories of my daily living. I love it. Especially this time because I was sitting next to my adorable 6-year-old friend A.

After Lanecia shot the image, I heard A say proudly, "I didn't show my teeth."

Lanecia confirmed that A did not fully smile or show her teeth in the photograph. So I asked her why she didn't show her teeth, and A just shook her head. I couldn't leave it at that. My sweet A had a beautiful smile; it was bursting to get out of her body. Why would she purse her lips and keep it hostage? Sure, her teeth aren't perfectly straight. Some of them are even rotting just a little.

Her family, refugees from Burma, have done the best they can to establish themselves in a new country, culture and language. A and her brother are smart and happy children who love reading and mathematics. They are excelling in school, which is especially amazing knowing their story. With the little bit their father makes, it's a wonder the children have clothes and food. If A has a few rotten or missing teeth out of their journey from Burma to the U.S., at least she has her life and her family. I'm sure they will get dental care as soon as they can afford it.

So I probed a bit more and asked A if the kids at school had said something to her about her teeth. She nodded yes. I asked her what they said to her. "They say my teeth are dirty," she said.

My heart sank into my stomach. How does poking fun, calling names and judging by appearance start so early? Is it nature? Nurtured by the American way? How is it that some 6-year-olds train a beautiful girl to lose her smile?

"The children at school are not telling you the truth, pretty girl," I told my sweet friend. I told her that her smile was beautiful and that it didn't matter what other people thought.

Lanecia took another photograph of us, and I think it's perfect.

May we practice peace in our words and deeds. May we always teach little girls and boys that their beauty does not depend on the lies of little kids who have been taught a bunch of lies themselves. May we smile and give others in our lives permission to smile, as well.

Great big sunshine smiles!

Smile at each other, smile at your wife, smile at your husband, smile at your children, smile at each other - it doesn't matter who it is - and that will help you to grow up in greater love for each other. -Mother Teresa

We Need St. Cat's Tree

2009-11-19T16:34:00.004-06:00

I received this from my dear friend Will and just love it! It's from a message written by Fr. Richard Rohr, and it really resonates with me:

St. Catherine of Siena in her Dialogues pictures the spiritual life as a large tree:
The trunk of the tree is love.
She says the core of the tree, that middle part that must be alive for the rest of the tree to be alive, is patience.
The roots of the tree are self-knowledge.
The many branches, reaching out into the air, are discernment.
(Note she recognizes much more subtlety is needed than mere black-and-white answers.)
In other words, says Catherine, love does not happen without patience, self-knowledge and discernment.
Today we have little encouragement toward honest self-knowledge or training in spiritual discernment from our churches. By nature, most of us are not very patient. All of which means, love is not going to be very common. We need St. Catherine's tree again."

Charter for Compassion

2009-11-17T22:33:00.003-06:00

Commit to nonviolence, peacemaking and cruelty-free living. Commit to compassion: Charter for Compassion. When Karen Armstrong won the Ted Prize in 2008, she was granted funding for "one wish to change the world." Her wish was for compassion, and the Charter for Compassion just launched Nov. 12 as a project to create a "cooperative effort to restore not only compassionate thinking but, more importantly, compassionate action to the center of religious, moral and political life."

Check out the site and join the list of people who affirm the charter.

If You're Happy and You Know It . . .

2009-11-07T13:39:00.013-06:00

If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.

A warm autumn sun overpowers the usual balmy breeze.
An excited smile. A quick wave. Then she turns and runs indoors.
They're here! They're here, I'm sure she says in Karen. I don't speak Karen.
But I know the language of excitement from waiting and anticipation, and it screams
They're here when my silver car parks in front of her apartment.

If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.

The others arrive in the First United Methodist Church bus.
Doors open, and they carry treasure boxes--plastic containers probably purchased at Wal-Mart. Thirty boxes of Crayola markers, a few pails of Crayola super chalk, bountiful supplies of beads of all colors and rolls of blue twine. A football. A soccer ball. Four hula hoops. A tall, slender pink jar filled with bubble juice and three lovely bubble blowing wands. These are the gifts they bring. Parumpapumpum.

If you're happy and you know it . . .

A boy with large almond eyes stands with his two sisters at the end of the sidewalk.
His eyebrows arch up as his face explodes with a smile. This is his question.
He does not speak Karen, either. And though his native Bengali tongue speaks enough English to ask me the question aloud, my heart is more than happy to join in this silent conversation with my little friend from Bangladesh.
I reply, beckoning to him with my hand, nodding my head and returning a smile explosion his way.

then your face will surely show it.

He walks up to me carrying a long yellow freshly dipped bubble wand. The bubble juice trickles down the wand and slides unto his tiny latte colored fingers. Blow these bubbles for me, he politely asks silently. I oblige. He watches as I slowly blow a bubble. He follows it as it bids farewell to the circle on the wand and takes flight. His smile breaks abruptly as the bubble he watches suddenly disappears to nothingness and air and memory. I blow another bubble quickly, before he has a chance to mourn the other one for too long. He falls deeply in love with this one, too. He doesn't say this. But I know from the way his hand reaches up to it as it soars into the sky. And from the return of that darling smile.

If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands.

We circle up. It's time for us to leave. We stand there together--different churches, different religions, teenagers and adults and children, multiple languages, citizens of the U.S. and Bangladesh and Burma and Thailand and Iraq and maybe other children whose names I did not catch and whose home countries I did not ask. Communicating sometimes with words, mostly with smiles. All refugees really. None of us belong here ultimately. We circle up to sing our prayer each time we visit these children at Turtle Creek apartments: three verses of a childhood tune that gets us all clapping our hands, stomping our feet and saying hooray! And though I don't hear Jesus audibly speak to us in that moment, I feel his smile on all of us. I take a deep breath and inhale this Saturday morning memory.

The kingdom of God is near. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.

**

"Everybody smiles in the same language. And for that, I am so thankful." Jena Lee, Executive Director of Blood:Water Mission

**Image by KatJo

People Like Me

2009-10-05T15:41:00.004-05:00

What I love about hip hop--real, pure hip hop--is that it puts music to storytelling. One of my favorite storytellers these past few years has been the dusty foot philosopher K'naan from Somalia (though he spent a significant part of his life in Canada when his family had to flee his war-torn homeland).

So many songs have spoken to me on different days since I've been listening his latest CD Troubadour almost obsessively the past few weeks. Today, though, his song "People Like Me" spoke most to me. I felt like the stories in this song were having a dialogue with the stories of people on our Pray With Africa prayer community. Specifically, this morning I was most moved by a prayer on our site from a woman named Monica:

I pray that I may find serenity and strength to overcome an addiction that I have had for many years to doing harm to myself. I cannot do this alone--only by the grace of God and the blood of Jesus Christ who has given and sacrificed all that I require for this life and the eternal. Help me to love myself that I may better love and serve others. Amen.

All around the world, there are hurting people surviving on hope and a prayer, and I like that K'naan writes his own prayer, asking God to open the doors of heaven for hurting people like all of us . . .

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Is it fair to say that I am stressing out
I'm stationed in Iraq, and they won't let me out
My homeys said I was stupid for even joining
My counselor said that my decision was disappointing
How she had good for good state colleges
and with my good grades it wouldn't have been a problem
but they don't understand the power of significance
more than brilliance and certainly more than dividends
and if you ask me now would I repeat it
Would I fight in a war I don't believe in
Well the answer is if not me where the cancer is
they been doing this before Jesus of Nazareth
and after all this time it is still deadly hazardous
and bush isn't really being all that inaccurate
When he says we're winning the war cos its staggering
but that's 'cause we're killing everybody that we see
and most of us soldiers we can barely fall asleep
and time and time again I'm feeling incompetent
cos my women back home, we're constantly arguing
and i must be crazy cos all I'm obsessing with is
her Myspace and Facebook and who's commenting
I swear to God if she's cheatin' I'm doin' her ass in
I can tell with one look and it came to me sounding
like something from a song hook

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Meet Sarah, the proud mother of young Sebastian
suburban professional went to college in Ashland
In self pity she suddenly cried,
would my life be important if I suddenly died?
Neighbors saying what a nice women she was
keeping mostly to herself ever since the divorce
and with the company downsizin' and the fall and all
she really shouldn't take it that personal at all
It wasn't her boss who had his eyes on her thighs
and got a rise from her risin' off the desk though
and despite rememberin' sayin' no plenty of times
it was still a damn surprise being let go
and now stuck with a mortgage she cant afford
and too educated to blame the corporate world
She got on welfare and hated it case work a power trippin'
and generally being degraded if,
nothing else she was treated sick
and ineffective which is the worst thing
that she'd been left with
Damn, no magic from David Blane,
no painter to pain this pain,
No Morgan Freeman to narrate the shame
So she took refuge and prayer
kinda like findin' God in the phone book
and it came to her sounding something like a song hook

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

I guess I told you about myself to a degree
just by telling you about people like me
but people like me they speak politely
they don't start no beef or piece of white meat
Everybody gotta eat but everybody doesn't
which is why i want to tell you about my favourite cousin
he and I grew up where the sun shines
and we both partook with the gun crimes
and we both liked American rap rhymes
even though we didn't understand one line
if you remember my line of notes in my last album
I talked about a close call with a grenade
I think we both must have been about 7th grade
But don't panic. We both survived without damage
But we developed a bond like we survived the Titanic
But when the country became frantic
my mother tried to get us out, planned it
to the last detail except the plan got derailed
'cause there wasn't enough money for the plane tickets
How bitter when my mother had to chose who to take with her
so my cousin got left in the war and that's just hard to recall
but now i take refuge in prayer,
kinda like finding God in the phone book
It came to me sounding kinda like something from a song hook.

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

[ K'naan Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]

allister ann

2009-10-03T01:11:00.003-05:00

Really dig my friend Allister's blog. Her photography is stellar, and so is her joie de vivre!

Consider digging her blog, too.

she whispers

2009-09-28T01:42:00.004-05:00

i do not dare ask for her number
but i long for her to be near
making me move
lengthening these tiny steps
i tremble to take

Wisdom whispers

still my soul
let me linger
in every ethereal locution
spilling from her lips

Like Breath and Water: Praying With Africa

2009-09-26T08:20:00.010-05:00

Well, someone reminded me this week that I have blogged a little about the book with great anticipation for its release, but I haven't said anything on here after it actually released. I have linked to the book on Facebook but nothing here.

So Like Breath and Water: Praying With Africa released Sept. 1, published by Upper Room Books. It was the featured book on their homepage for a couple of weeks. It's been picked up on Amazon where Jay Voorhees wrote a very beautiful review (along with a disclaimer for knowing me), and this is very exciting. It looks like Abingdon will pick up the book soon, as well, which means we'll get to be in their distribution at larger bookstores. We're going to possibly work on some book signings at Barnes & Noble in 2010. I'll keep you posted as this develops (I promise).

It's humbling to see this all come together--not just the book but also everything with Pray With Africa. Our film is complete and packaged, and our Tribes are on the road sharing it with the world. Our web site is up (with a few kinks still), and the prayer community is starting to get some prayer requests from the U.S. and Africa (and hopefully from people all over the world soon). People are starting to hear our Learn. Pray. Act. philosophy and are getting excited about living it out in all aspects of their lives and not just our approach to humanitarian aid.

So much of what Cary, Austin and I have been dreaming and shaping for the past year is now out into the world. I've given this huge piece of my heart and the hearts of my friends in Africa through writing Like Breath and Water. We've all done the same with the other pieces of Pray With Africa, as well. I hope that it speaks to people and that God is able to use it to bring us all closer to the Kingdom.

I'm so grateful for family and friends who continue to lift us in prayer and support Pray With Africa all the way . . .

So that's where we are now!

Mary Oliver. Delight.

2009-09-17T21:35:00.010-05:00

As I washed my hands in my yoga instructor's bathroom Monday, I read a poem she had mounted next to the mirror on the wall. It's called "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver. I've read it before, and it was nice to be reminded of the beauty of her simple poetic style and to appreciate the questions this poem asks.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I said to my happy yogi, "First of all, I love everything about your house" (I do. Every inch of her house is like stepping into a creative haven. Everything about it represents her and her hubby so well. From the old naked books on the shelves [I love dust jacket-free books!] to the flowers in the cozy kitchen nook to the watercolor haiku hanging on the other side of the mirror in her bathroom]. A fabulous house helps tell your story.) "Secondly, I love that you have a Mary Oliver poem hanging in your bathroom."

Well, I'm grateful I added my "secondly" because I received an email from my yogi yesterday saying that Mary Oliver was reading her work tonight at Belmont University and that I should check it out if I was free.

Delight.

It seemed nearly indulgent to hear Ms. Oliver read and speak these words I've read before and know that this is the intended voice for every word. And I smiled, rejoicing that this is her heart's delight, and she gets to delight her heart for a living. All of the time. Shape words into tiny snapshots of life and travel the world sharing her amazing gallery.

I would envy Mary O if envy were in my bones.

It was a lovely evening.

I'll close with one my favorites that she read tonight (oh, there were so many!):

Mysteries, Yes

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Spiritual Prompting: Gandhi

2009-09-16T17:28:00.004-05:00

Each week my Covenant Discipleship group meets and discusses acts of compassion, devotion, justice and worship, and we also talk about any spiritual promptings we feel we need to obey or spiritual warnings we feel called to heed. I love this practice for so many reasons. I especially love recognizing spiritual promptings. I want to always be open to where God might be calling me.

This morning I recognized that I'm feeling a prompting towards Mahatma Gandhi. Oh, Gandhi . . . I've heard about him all my life, and I know he's an amazing man. I quote him every now and again. I listened in James Lawson's class as he talked about Gandhi and the nonviolence movement. I read about him at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. Ok . . . so Gandhi's a pretty cool dude, eh?

But I've never studied him. I've never dived into some of his writings. I've never even seen the 3-hour film of his life. For some reason, I feel very drawn to study more about the life, vision and practices of Gandhi right now. I'm excited about this urge, and I pray that God reveals to me what I'm supposed to learn from this amazing man who always stood on the righteous side of the indelible line between justice and oppression. I can hardly wait to share as I learn more.

Truth ampersand Reconciliation

2009-08-18T03:34:00.004-05:00

I'm reading poetry by Dennis Brutus, a South African poet and activist (thank you kindly, Will, for the introduction). His poetry, first of all, is beautiful. The few pieces I've read take me into his jail cell (he was imprisoned at Robben Island for 18 months) and strike my bones. It's honest, lyrical, haunting.

So as I've read more about him, I learned that he refused an induction in the South African Sports Hall of Fame at the end of last year. His activism played a major role in an international sports boycott of apartheid South Africa, which banned them from the Olympics starting in 1970 and ending with the fall of apartheid. I suppose they wanted to honor him for his commitment to bettering SA sports. But Brutus publicly declined the induction, stating that many of the people currently in the Hall of Fame are there at an "unfair advantage, as so many talented black athletes were excluded from sport opportunities." So he gracefully (much to the chagrin of the committee, I'm sure) declined, saying that "it is incompatible to have those who championed racist sport alongside its genuine victims. It's time--indeed long past time--for sports truth, apologies and reconciliation."

I find this story quite interesting to think of how brave it is to really call a people to real reconciliation. When South Africa became a new country, the waved a new flag, sang a new national anthem, adopted many new national languages. These are mostly symbolic, but they are the necessary symbols to begin saying, "we are truly going to live into something new." I love that Brutus is calling even the Sports Hall of Fame to the same kind of newness, even to simply recognize the fallacy of their work during the apartheid era. If a country is going to live into truth and reconciliation and even champion the cause, it must do it in all facets of its life.

My sister L and I have been discussing for years, "why hasn't the U.S. had our intentional process of truth and reconciliation?" We have certainly come a long way. I am a generation removed from any strange fruit dangling from southern trees. Our president is biracial. No doubt that we are in a far better place. And, yet, I still can't wrap my mind around Emmett Till's 1955 lynching and how his murderers actually confessed to the murder without any justice being served or any intentional moves toward reconciling their wrong.

And we have so many examples of where we never spoke the truths or really reconciled. In fact, my friend K and I were talking the other day about how taboo it still is to talk about race in the U.S. Having both spent time in South Africa, we were impressed with how freely the people we met speak of race (sometimes appropriately and sometimes offensively--but the taboo of addressing race doesn't seem as strong). Whereas here, I've heard people remark that President Obama's election has started to awaken bitter race relations in our country. This is not true. This divide has been alive and very much awake (just look at a photograph of a high school cafeteria in Greenville, SC); we just don't talk about it or acknowledge it or look it in the eye. The election placed a mirror in front of us and forced us to see the truth: we've never really intentionally reconciled. Our flag still looks the same. Our song still sounds the same. Some people boycott MLK's birthday celebration. I get followed at a three-letter clothing store because I'm a black woman of a certain age, while 14-year-old and white Johnny stuffs a baseball cap under his shirt. Hispanic people are consistent targets of racial profiling. I'm still an "other" in this nation that has been mine since birth, and I'm labeled "bitter" or an "angry black woman" whenever I mention this.

We have miles to go before we sleep, and I hope that we'll be so moved to practice truth and reconciliation in our future days. Only when we hear each others' stories and begin to hear/see each other can we move toward healing.

Shock and Awe!

2009-08-11T18:17:00.002-05:00

I saw this quotation today, and I liked it a lot:

"Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air - explode softly - and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth - boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn't go cheap, either - not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination." - Robert Fulghum

My Whole Life will be Ruined . . .

2009-07-30T08:35:00.004-05:00

I've been reading the blog No Such Thing as Silence lately, and I love all of the quotations its author Will shares. Since he's a far more faithful blogger than I, I'll just send you there today for a quotation he shares from Soren Kierkegaard, philosopher and theologian. I was quite challenged by it today and would love to hear your thoughts. Check it out here.

Thirty and Thriving! ;)

2009-07-26T09:40:00.009-05:00

I turned 30 yesterday, and it feels good! My friend Beth asked me last night (after my roller skating party, which was uber funtabulous!) what goals I have for the new year. I have several: organizing my room (which is not my forté, as you've read in previous entries), really nailing down a good eating plan (which I think will be easier once we move into the new house, and I can start gardening; more on the new house later) and working on poetry collections more. Specifically, I want to submit more poems to magazines and maybe submit a manuscript, too. This past year has been a slow poetry year for me with co-creating Pray With Africa and writing the book, so I'm itching to focus more on the poetry aspect of my craft this year.

But the biggest goal of the year will be promoting Like Breath and Water: Praying With Africa. It's gone to the presses, and we should get a proof back soon. I'm very excited about it and can't wait to share the stories with everyone. I hope they will be well received and will honor the lives of the people who so graciously shared their stories with me. And I want to really get the book out there. I mean, we're talking Oprah, friends! :) Any ideas you have for promoting it, please send them my way . . . it's all so new to me.

We received two endorsements that will be printed on the book. I'll leave you today with those:

"Like Breath and Water is an inspiring look at the reality of the African
continent, in both its beauty and tragedy.
This story is not only a challenge of our conceptions and apathy; but even
more so, it is a testament to the unbounded power of prayer."

-Jason Russell, Co-founder Invisible Children

"This book dances. It lets us taste the salt in the tears of Africa,
and lets us hear the children giggle. But it goes even deeper.
Like Breath and Water invites us to see these faces across the globe as our
own family. The reality of that should fill us with hope, for we have
much to learn from them. And it should keep us up at night, for we
are still a very dysfunctional Family."

-Shane Claiborne, author, activist, recovering sinner
www.thesimpleway.org

Thanks to my friends for loving me through this book process! I appreciate you so much! And hugs to everyone who has blessed my life with their presence, their encouragement, their beauty and their love to me since 1979! 30 is a good year . . .

Facebook: A Practice in Humility

2009-07-20T08:50:00.005-05:00

While Facebook is certainly a practice in gross narcissism and internet stalking, I'm also learning a little about humility from Facebook today.

Last night I quoted Nelson Mandela in my status in celebration of South Africa's recent Mandela Day efforts to eliminate poverty: "Like slavery and apartheid, poverty is not natural. It is man-made, and it can be overcome and eradicated by the actions of human beings." Several of my FB friends clicked "like," but my first comment came from a guy I know who quoted Matthew 26:11 to suggest that even Jesus believes we'll never eliminate poverty and that Mandela's "conclusion is unfortunately flawed."

My natural inclination was to delete said FB Commenter (known as FBC from this point forward) from my friends. I have been in circles with FBC in-person, but he was always more acquaintance than friend, and I never see him at all anymore since his move. We're not close; we're really only FB friends now. And I nearly yanked every strand of hair from my head during the presidential election whenever I read his status updates. I don't think FBC would be broken-hearted to lose me as a Facebook friend.

Alas, in the real world I cannot simply delete people to silence their voices. In fact, I'm against that very thing. I am reminded of how small and powerless I am. I'm reminded that God sees all of us the same--even those of us with bad theology. I'm humbly and gratefully reminded that my life is enriched by my friend Mary, who often disagrees politically and theologically with me. I would never delete her. My friends don't all have to think exactly like I do; I'm glad that they don't. Thank you FB, for helping me remember what grace and patience God has for all of us.

Of course, even after my moment of realization, I'm still considering deleting FBC. What can I say? I'm unfortunately flawed.

FYI:

I appreciate this blogger I discovered who addresses the same Matthew text in a recent post if you're interested in hearing another theological approach to what Jesus might have been saying about the poor being with us.: No Such Thing as Silence.

Carfree Days of Summer

2009-06-23T15:49:00.004-05:00

I’m contemplating getting rid of my car.

It’s an oversized storage bin, first of all. As I work towards decluttering my life, I can’t help but think about all of the unnecessary stuff I carry in my car. If I don’t have a car, I won’t stuff it with stuff.

Secondly, it drinks gasoline like a camel lapping water after a long Saharan caravan. I just don’t have enough money to feed its habit.

Thirdly, and most importantly, the Earth hates my car! Ok, ok . . . so maybe Mother Earth is far more loving than she is hateful. I have a mini SUV, though, and I think we’d all breathe a little better if any of us drove our cars a little less--especially mine. So the Earth will thank me for it.

Of course, other questions make me second-guess my contemplations. What will I do when I NEED a car? What about the rain? How will I ever be on time for anything if I have to walk/ride the bus?

So I’m giving my car a break for a few days just to practice this carfree way of life.

The Nashville Metro Transit Authority (MTA) has a pretty good bus. The driver I had this morning was friendly. It’s fairly simple to navigate the routes. It really stinks that they don’t offer transfers. A day pass is less than $5, though, so that’s nice. A bus stops right in front of my house, so that’s convenient if I have a day pass. If not, I’m close to lots of bus line stops, so I can walk less than half a mile to get to a more direct route so I don’t have to pay for a transfer only 4 blocks away.. The bus goes nearly everywhere I want to go. Of course, if I want to go anywhere outside of the downtown area, it seems I have to always go to Music City Central first and then switch to another line. Again, another major downside to the Nashville bus system, but the day pass will cover the cost of the extra, seemingly superfluous stop, and a lot of the outside of town lines offer an express. Still not entirely convinced that our bus system is superb enough to make being carfree absolutely convenient, but I enjoyed it today. And I love spending the entire day at the library without worrying about paying $20 for parking.

Cupcation: San Francisco

2009-06-17T23:02:00.009-05:00

On my recent voyage to San Francisco (thank you, Southwest for free tickets!), I had a mission to experience the city in the best, most revealing way: cupcaking. A city just isn't a city worth visiting if it doesn't have a good cupcakery. It doesn't matter that the Bay area has found its way on the map with bridges, prisons and Castro queens; a true test of a city's charm is in the frosting.

So prior to my arrival, I did a bit of online research and found a few cupcakery must-sees. Our first stop was in the Cow Hollow area on Union at That Takes the Cake. Now, there are several cute shops in this darling area of San Francisco, but the chocolate and powder blue awning of That Takes the Cake beckons, "Pick me! Choose me! Love me!" I had my eye on it from a block away.

The shop is tiny and delicious—even before you taste the goods. Everything is endearing—the cute little tables outside the store, the cupcake tea sets that greet you at the door, and the lovely catch phrase beneath their logo that says "hand frosted memories." I could not wait to taste these memories.

There were only a couple of people waiting for cupcakes in front of us, which I thought might be a sign of cupcake disaster. I can hardly think of a time of day in NYC when shiny happy people aren't wrapped around the corner waiting to get into Magnolia or when it isn't so packed at Billy's Bakery that it's nearly impossible to see the cupcake offerings. But the short line was also refreshing. We were at the counter in no time, facing Cupcake Salesman's friendly smile and rows upon rows of delectable delights in the display case, each with their own special name.

Our choices of the day included the blonde bombshell (a vanilla on vanilla cake), prom queen (strawberry on strawberry), gentlemen prefer reds (cream cheese on traditional red velvet), key lime-o-licious (delicious-looking with cream cheese frosting), chocolate raspberry (raspberry buttercream on buttermilk chocolate cake), elvis is in the building (peanut butter buttercream on banana cake filled with caramel) and samoa (yes, like the Girl Scout cookie--cream cheese frosting on chocolate devils food cake with chocolate chips and caramel topped with toasted coconut and caramel). They also offered miniature cupcakes of their red velvet, vanilla and chocolate cakes (which made the little girl in front of us very happy) and half-dozen boxes of day-old cupcakes (they sell them fresh daily).

Decisions, decisions! Our miniature cupcake choice was simple. I'm a firm believer that a cupcake shop without red velvet isn't worth it's weight in butter, so we decided it would be our main comparison cake at each shop, so we each ordered a mini red velvet.

Beth is a strawberry kind of girl, so she went straight for the prom queen. Pink debated her options before choosing the chocolate raspberry.

And anyone who knows me well can guess that I headed straight for the Girl Scout gold. Cupcake Salesman, whose sister owns the shop, gave us the mini cakes on the house. Score extra for That Takes the Cake!

At this point, any sensible conversation ended, and moaning and smiling and a few deep gruntings began. These cakes are all moist and committed to their flavors. The proportion of cake to frosting is ideal (not at all like Gigi's here in Nashville, whose cupcakes must be scraped before consuming). The strawberry cake was probably the best as far as moistness. It's strawberry buttercream frosting was just sweet enough for me and not too sweet for Beth. Perfect choice for her! The chocolate raspberry was also a homerun. Their chocolate cake is superb--with chocolate chips inside to add to the richness. The raspberry frosting didn't take over the cake and added just the right amount of raspberry accent to the chocolate. I was extremely pleased with the samoa cake. It was so rich with the caramel and chocolate. I recommend slicing this one in half and sharing it. Every bite, divine. They were all well presented and cute, which is essential to cupcakes. If you weren't attracted to cuteness, you would eat a regular ol' cake slice, right?

And their red velvet was so smooth and rich. It was almost like eating fudge. The cake is a fabulously beautiful red—not so bright that the cake thinks it's a Jolly Rancher but just red enough for the cake to know that it's not chocolate. Score again!

So day one of our cupcation was a success! We could not have been more pleased with our choice. Now that this review is insanely longer than I planned, I'll have to write about our other cupcakeries later. Until then, happy cupcaking!

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T10:00:00.004-05:00

It's Memorial Day, and I'm at Fido sipping on chocolat chaud with whipped cream and marshmallows, taking the holiday pretty easy (even though I'm technically still working). I listened to the radio this morning on my way to spin class, and I laughed aloud when the announcer suggested that we commercialize Memorial Day even more than Christmas and Easter. "You rarely hear the words 'Memorial Day' without the word 'sale,'" he said. Such a curious and false idea. I sure wish people stopped sending me Memorial Day baskets and started supporting the troops instead. I hate when we don't get the Memorial Day tree up in time for jolly old Sgt. Nicholas to come down the chimney. So funny that he said that . . .

I agree, however, that we hardly even reflect at all about soldiers of yore and today who deserve to be memorialized. Instead we celebrate a work-free day at the beginning of the summer and pray that the sky doesn't release a downpour, preventing our poolside grilling with family and friends. So today I pause to remember fallen soldiers and their bravery and commitment. And I pray for all of the families who wait for their soldiers to come home, hoping to never have to remember them on this day. I pray for the families who, despite their hopes, will face a very different, very difficult Memorial Day next year.

And I pray for peace.

Pray With Africa Book Update . . .

2009-05-15T14:41:00.005-05:00

Well, I've finished writing the book! It seems that even after I finished the last word on the Pray With Africa book, there's still so much work to be done. This part has been new and very exciting, though. We decided to change the title, and I'm very excited about the new title. Cary and I both thought of it as a title separately, and so I felt like it was a real confirmation when he told me his title idea, and it was the same as mine. The new title of the book is Like Breath and Water: Praying with Africa. In Africa, I realized that prayer is a life force for the people I met in Africa. They value it and depend on it as much as they value and need every precious breath and every drop of clean water. I think the title captures the essence of what I learned about prayer in Africa.

David Uttley is working on designing the cover and the inside of the book--including the photographs. I look forward to seeing what he does with our photographs; he's so talented.

We sent the book to several people today, hoping to get their endorsements and opinions. I hope that they will give us valuable feedback and reviews. Is it too outrageous to think that maybe Bono would really dig this book? We'll see . . .

It's all very special, and I look forward to publication. I'll continue updating as more develops.

In the meantime, here's our latest Pray With Africa media. It will tell you a bit more about our vision.

Also, you can visit our web site (the temporary one, that is; the new one will be amazing but not until September) and help us recruit people for the fall road tour.

peace.

Health Journaling

2009-04-14T18:00:00.005-05:00

I'm starting a health journal. I write about it because I probably need a bit of accountability with it. I'm great at journaling when it's non-required. Knowing that I have a health journal to feed regularly feels a bit like an assignment.

But it's a much-needed assignment. I have chosen to manage my asthma without the daily medicine prescribed when I was diagnosed last April. It has gone fairly well. For the most part, I've used the prescribed rescue inhaler only a few times in the year . . . until the past two weeks. Just like last year at this time, these last two weeks have been difficult. I've had a mild asthma attack every day for the last week and have relied on my inhaler more than I would like. I need this health journal to help me remember a few things:

Triggers. I've learned that certain foods trigger asthma attacks. I tried some Chick-fil-A fries the other day, and I was wheezing within 10 minutes. Not fair! Bread an butter do this, as well. So does mile 6 of my hula-hooping. I don't need anything except my tight chest and coughing to let me know what mile I'm on when I'm on the journey. So there are some definite triggers, and I want to record all of them.

Asthma plan. I need to carry an asthma plan on me at all times and let the people I am with the most know that it's on me and in this nifty little book. That way, in case I'm having a hard time communicating, they will know exactly what to do. I realize that choosing to do this medicine-free may have a few risks, so I need to carry the plan.

Water. Water is a life force. And I can definitely tell that it helps my asthma, and I just feel better in general when I drink it. So I could use the book to make sure I'm getting my daily allotment (because I certainly don't choose to drink water naturally).

Exercise. I need to make sure I'm getting my good workouts at least 5 days a week. I believe that it will help my immune system build stronger. And, let's face it, I'm getting older. No time like the present to really care for this body of mine!

And so let the journaling (and accountability) begin! I have this cute 60-70% recycled journal made by greenroom, so I hope it will motivate me. I'll take a photo of it and add it later.

peace.

Facebook Tells All

2009-04-06T11:59:00.003-05:00

Kent and I started dating in October 2007. We ended things last Sunday. I've told a few good friends who will pray for us and offer support during this time. I had no desire to make a big announcement.

But Facebook makes it for me. "Ciona is no longer in a relationship," it says. Here's a wound; may I have some salt, please?

Kent and I went forever without listing a relationship status on Facebook; we didn't need Facebook to define our crazy/beautiful relationship. We did it about a month ago, though, partly as an inside joke. Oh, how the joke is now on us. Or on me, at least. Maybe Kent's ok with it announcing, "Kent is no longer in a relationship," but I need Facebook to let me announce things on my own terms. Why can't it be more like a status update instead?

If it were, I would have written one long run-on sentence: "Ciona is no longer in a relationship with an amazing man who was one of her best friends AND her boyfriend since October 2007, and it's been such a difficult decision for her to make because, while the good times were fantastic, the hard times made them wonder if they would be able to be together forever and have a family and be happy, but she wished so badly that they could make sense together and that she could have decided differently and that he could still be one of her best friends because some parts of life just make more sense with him than they do without him, and there are so many emotions involved that one short little sentence to define their relationship status just seems unfair to all that was, especially when it doesn't end in ellipses . . ."

Procrastination

2009-03-26T03:25:00.007-05:00

Dear old SARK recommended this book in one of her books: Procrastination : Why You Do it, What to Do about it. As a bit of a procrastinator, I thought I'd give it a read. As a freelance writer, I thought I should read it for free.

So instead of heading to Borders, I checked our online library catalog and saw that it was currently loaned to someone but was due the next day. I decided to put it on hold to make sure some other procrastinator didn't get to it before I did (and because I knew if I put it off until the next day, it could be two weeks before I made it to the library).

I put it on hold a month ago, and it still hasn't been returned. Classic. Either the reader is prolonging actually reading the book or has read it and is procrastinating in returning it. If it's the return, well, I'm not so sure about this book anymore.

Still Water

2009-03-11T06:54:00.005-05:00

We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us, that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.
~ W.B. Yeats

I read this poem this morning and decided it would be my Lenten prayer--that my mind, my soul and my spirit might be more like still waters this season. Sometimes I want to be wild and rushing and daring, but this season definitely calls for a stillness of my soul, a silence to my self-critiquing mind and a calm to my complaints.

Hopscotch & Hula Hoops: Praying in Color

2009-03-10T12:17:00.007-05:00

I discovered this book online a while ago and put it in my Amazon wish list. It's called Praying in Color. I was immediately fascinated by the idea of it, but I never physically saw a copy of it.

When I was in the office of one of my editors last week, however, I saw the book on her desk and got really excited. The author Sybil MacBeth had written for their magazine, so my editor had just finished looking at the book and was willing to let me borrow it. So I began diving into my childish ways and let coloring be a major part of my prayer life this past weekend.

It's been such a neat practice. Basically you doodle around someone's name like I mastered in middle school science class. But you doodle after reading scripture, lighting a candle and preparing your heart for prayer. When you finish a doodle for that one person, you write another name and begin doodling around theirs on the same piece of paper (or journal page, as is the case with me). Eventually, your doodles create one image, which serves as your prayer icon for the day. Then during the day, I remember this image, I remember the people and their prayer needs, and I'm faithfully offering intercessory prayers for my family and friends (and even for my own prayer needs). I love it. You don't have to know how to draw, and your icon doesn't have to be a coherent picture, though some of mine have been.

Sunday I colored a prayer that was kind of a coherent drawing when I decided to doodle flowers around people's names. I'm having a hard time with one of my housemates and her boyfriend. We were addressing some house issues on Sunday, so I decided to add his name to my doodled prayer. While it didn't fix the problem, it definitely calmed me tremendously to enter into conversation about him after I had prayed his name on a page filled with flowers.

Sunday's colorful prayer

Experiencing that with my prayer for him reminded me about one of my favorite quotes from Dawson's Creek (Hey! No snickering . . .) that said that prayer isn't about changing God's mind, it's about changing me. Even though the situation still stinks, my attitude about it became a bit more flowery--even if only for that day.

Praying in color . . . there's much joy to it.

Hopscotch & Hula Hoops

2009-03-08T11:36:00.005-05:00

When I was a child, I used to talk like a child, and see things as a child does and think like a child; but now that I have become an adult, I have finished with all childish ways.
- 1 Corinthians 13:11 (NJB)

Paul messed us up terribly. He's done a lot of good, sure. And I agree that we must mature in our faith and move on toward perfection. We would be foolish to remain in diapers when we have a big-girl panties kind of radical faith. He's done us a great disservice, however, with his metaphor suggesting that we should put aside all childish ways.

There are days I long to act like a child more. I want to do nothing but play "sister princesses" at Sevier Park all day with Emma Anne, the two of us ruling the world and playing in our fabulous "castle" (what the unimaginative call a jungle gym). I want to eat popsicles slowly, not caring that the sun will melt them because I'll just lick my fingers in the end anyway. Some days I want to see things as a child does. I want to believe that all children play games and can hardly sleep on Christmas Eve and hate broccoli instead of the reality that some hide from war lords, are molested in the night or wish they had anything at all to eat. I want to talk like a child more. I want to ask questions all of the time. I want to instinctively know that something is wrong and just crawl in my mother's or father's lap and give them hugs and kisses, rather than trying to fix marital bliss gone awry with words.

I love my childish ways and am happy that I can still find healing in hopscotch and hula hoops, remember how small I am and how big God is, be comforted with crayons and a a coloring book. I wish that I would always believe that, even in my smallness, I can put on super powers to run faster than any human being. I don't want to be naive or disobedient or living in a pile of crap for hours; there are some childish ways I happily put behind me. Unlike Paul, however, I have no desire to put away all of my childish ways. In fact, I'm committing to embracing them even more--practicing forgiveness like a child, drawing on more sidewalks, laughing in my hula hoop and coloring outside the lines. This month I plan to incorporate play into my daily routine and spiritual practices. I'll title any blogs I write about this "Hopscotch & Hula Hoops." I hope you'll play with me . . .

Friday Five

2009-03-06T16:15:00.006-06:00

Thought I'd give the RevGalBlogPals Friday fabulousness a go today. This week it's all about . . . pudding!

1) First of all, thumbs up? or thumbs down? Do you like pudding?
Thumbs sideways . . . I like my boyfriend's bread pudding a lot, a lot. It's so creamy and scrumptious, and it's so cute how he takes so much time making it just perfectly. Does bread pudding count? Otherwise, my thumb falls down quickly. Well, I have had a rice pudding that I enjoyed but not all rice pudding.

2) Instant or cooked? (Does anyone make pudding from scratch?)
Bread pudding homemade and cooked. Delicious.

3) If you had to choose, would you prefer corn pudding or figgy pudding?
I love creamed corn, popcorn, fried corn nuggets and corn on pizza, so I think I'd prefer a heaping helping of corn pudding. I'm not so keen on getting figgy with it!

4) Have you ever finger painted with pudding?
I suppose as a child when mom served banana pudding (which our entire family loved except for me) I probably painted on my high chair tray. But in my adult memory, I haven't tried that . . . yet.

5) Finally, what is the matter with Mary Jane?
She's quite disappointed that rice pudding isn't colorful enough to use as paint on her high chair tray!

Happy weekending!

Guilty pleasure du jour . . .

2009-03-06T14:42:00.005-06:00

My friend Amber mentioned Pacific Natural Foods' almond milk on her lovely Girl Healthy blog this week. Since I needed some groceries I thought I'd give it a go. I typically use rice milk since I cut out a lot of dairy to manage my asthma better, but I like almond milk and was interested in trying this affordable brand at Trader Joe's.

And this is how my love affair began. While looking for the milk, I passed the potato chip aisle. I don't know how it knew my name, but this plump, beautiful bag of sweet potato chips began calling to me. How can I ignore a calling, so I purchased a bag and tore into it in the car on the way home (one of many reasons why I should eat before shopping for groceries). Oh. My. Mercy. Each delicious chip makes my tongue sing. Trader Joe's claims on the bag that "they're made with fresh, vibrantly colored sweet potatoes, and they retain the sweet potato's delicately sweet flavor." They are divine! When I got home, I tried them with a bit of pineapple cream cheese. Now while this combination probably nulls and voids the low sodium, low sugar, good fiber qualities of the chip, your lips will want to kiss themselves for getting to savor such a treat. I hope I can refrain from finishing the bag this afternoon.

Kissing my new guilty pleasure, the love of my day . . .

Vote for More Than One Day!

2009-03-06T09:07:00.005-06:00

Hello! I volunteer with the youth group at my church and have the opportunity to serve with some of the neatest young people. They are more than your average teenages--their hearts for justice is inspiring! This summer the group is traveling to South Africa and Swaziland to serve alongside Come Back Mission--a local South African organization based in Jo'burg. This is going to be an incredible pilgrimage, and I'm excited that they will get to meet some of my good friends in South Africa.

Please take a minute to vote for Belmont United Methodist Church at Trevecca's More Than video competition. The winning group receives money towards their mission, and it will certainly go a long way with Belmont UMC. You can vote only once each day, but you can vote more than one day! Please do! Thanks!

Friday Five

2009-02-20T09:02:00.005-06:00

I never do the RevGalBlogPals group anymore because (1) I rarely blog regularly like they do, and (2) I don't know where my BlogPals links disappeared when I got a new background. But, thanks to the DogBlogger, I was reminded this morning to check out the Friday Five. I like it because it's all about how I would spend various breaks:

1. a 15 minute break . . . I would sit in front of the window sipping a cup of Earl Grey and staring at the steam and not out the window.
2. an afternoon off . . . I would have an artist date in a graveyard or in East Nashville, taking photographs.
3. an unexpected free day . . . I would sleep. Maybe all day. Or see if Kent wanted to hang out with me at the library. Unless this unexpected day was in the springtime; then I would spend most of it at Centennial Park hooping, writing poetry, napping, thanking God for my favorite season.
5. a sabbatical . . . I would go back to Africa for 6 months, collect more prayers and maybe feel more confident about this book I'm writing.

And while a break sounds lovely, I need to stop taking one right now and get back to writing this book o' mine!

Addition to My Confession

2009-02-20T08:43:00.002-06:00

So I'm attracted to the Target itso office and storage. It's flexible and cute. But what do I need to do BEFORE I start buying MORE things to organize my life?

Confession: This Cluttered Mess

2009-02-20T08:03:00.003-06:00

My name is Ciona, and I am unorganized.

I have enormous amounts of clutter in my room. I'm too embarrassed to take a picture and show it to you. I desire to not be late for everything, but I don't have a strong allegiance to being on time. Does that make sense? Confession is step one.

Somehow I manage. I always have, but I don't think managing somehow is an ideal way to get through life. I buy every bin for better organization in my office, hoping that this will be the purchase that puts my life back together. I read about getting organized. I've even practiced the whole open mail when it arrives and put it away thing. I've practiced folding my clothes each time I take them off--even if I'm putting them in the hamper. I've even tried using my hamper. I set alarms sometimes to be on time, and I still arrive late. I purchased calendars from Covey. I'm not a cluttered mess, but I live in a cluttered mess. And I live in this mess not because I haven't tried so many little steps.

I suppose I confess here as a prayer request. I would be an unhappy person if I lived entirely by lists, calendars and watches and a quest for perfection. But I'm not entirely happy or well functioning living like this.

These are my confessions.

Top 100 Books of All Time According to Time Magazine

2009-02-11T11:12:00.000-06:00

The Adventures of Augie March - Saul Bellow
All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren
American Pastoral - Philip Roth
An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser
Animal Farm - George Orwell
Appointment in Samarra - John O'Hara
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret - Judy Blume
The Assistant - Bernard Malamud
At Swim-Two-Birds - Flann O'Brien
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Beloved - Toni Morrison
The Berlin Stories - Christopher Isherwood
The Big Sleep - Raymond Chandler
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood
Blood Meridian - Cormac McCarthy
Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
The Bridge of San Luis Rey - Thornton Wilder
Call It Sleep - Henry Roth
Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
The Confessions of Nat Turner - William Styron
The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen
The Crying of Lot 49 - Thomas Pynchon
A Dance to the Music of Time - Anthony Powell
The Day of the Locust - Nathanael West
Death Comes for the Archbishop - Willa Cather
A Death in the Family - James Agee
The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen
Deliverance - James Dickey
Dog Soldiers - Robert Stone
Falconer - John Cheever
The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles
The Golden Notebook - Doris Lessing
Go Tell it on the Mountain - James Baldwin
Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene
Herzog - Saul Bellow
Housekeeping - Marilynne Robinson
A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul
I, Claudius - Robert Graves
Infinite Jest - David Foster Wallace
Invisible Man - Ralph Ellison
Light in August - William Faulkner
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis (but when I was much younger and did not like it)
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Lord of the Flies - William Golding
The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
Loving - Henry Green
Lucky Jim - Kingsley Amis
The Man Who Loved Children - Christina Stead
Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Money - Martin Amis
The Moviegoer - Walker Percy
Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
Naked Lunch - William Burroughs
Native Son - Richard Wright
Neuromancer - William Gibson
Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro
1984 - George Orwell
On the Road - Jack Kerouac
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
The Painted Bird - Jerzy Kosinski
Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov
A Passage to India - E.M. Forster
Play It As It Lays - Joan Didion
Portnoy's Complaint - Philip Roth
Possession - A.S. Byatt
The Power and the Glory - Graham Greene
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie - Muriel Spark
Rabbit, Run - John Updike
Ragtime - E.L. Doctorow
The Recognitions - William Gaddis
Red Harvest - Dashiell Hammett
Revolutionary Road - Richard Yates
The Sheltering Sky - Paul Bowles
Slaughterhouse-Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Snow Crash - Neal Stephenson
The Sot-Weed Factor - John Barth
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The Sportswriter - Richard Ford
The Spy Who Came in From the Cold - John le Carre
The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller
Ubik - Philip K. Dick
Under the Net - Iris Murdoch
Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry
Watchmen - Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons
White Noise - Don DeLillo
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys

The bolded titles are ones I've read before. The italicized titles are on my bookshelf or ones that I started to read and didn't complete. I have TONS more reading to do . . . miles to go before I sleep.

Breakfast

2009-02-11T08:07:00.000-06:00

I made grits, scrambled eggs and turkey bacon for breakfast this morning. It's a common Southern cuisine! And it's certainly not a foreign meal to me; I've been eating this meal since I was a little girl. I make it every few weeks. Today, however, I managed to make it exactly like my grandmother used to make them. I wasn't trying to do this, but I somehow mastered the taste of them and nostalgically journeyed to my grandmother's small kitchen on Calhoun St. in Cameden, SC. She died May 19 last year, so she doesn't live there anymore. Our memories do, though, and it felt good to taste good memories this morning.

I wrote this a few years ago. Today feels like a great time to share it on here:

She called us out of bed, and immediately I smelled it—the fragrance of Grandma’s house. Butter sauntering through a pot of grits. Coffee weighted by sugar and cream. Simmering bacon tossing its scent around the house before resting on a plate, ready for 5 and 6-year-old hands to grab and crumble on top of our morning feast. My sister and I loved mornings with Grandma. Mama protested us drinking coffee at such a young age because, of course, it stunts your growth, she’d say. Grandma apparently believed that the taste of coffee-flavored sugar water far outweighed the need to grow. And we didn’t dare remind Grandma she was breaking Mom’s rule. We giggled, then squeezed Grandma’s soft hands as she asked God to bless our meal.

Grandma doesn’t see like she used to, she can’t walk like she once did. She waits in her bed now for Granddad to bring breakfast to her. And there are days I long for nothing more than to be a little girl again, tasting Grandma’s house in the bacon and sipping lifelong memories with our coffee.

It's a Beautiful Day!

2009-01-20T18:18:00.001-06:00

I hugged a stranger today.
I felt warm in 28-degree weather.
The frozen corners of my lips could not help but lean toward the sky.
I cried.

Barack Obama's election night win was terribly anticlimactic for me in the wee hour of 3 am on Nov. 5 in Mali. I was excited, for sure, but we had been traveling from the U.S. to Africa for nearly 24 hours. I expended all of my emotional excitement stepping off of the plane into the dusty Malian night. We slept for a few hours and then got up to hear the results. Since we didn’t find a television, we listened to a BBC broadcast of McCain's full concession speech on a tiny radio only to have the BBC station abruptly interrupted to return to a French broadcast of who knows what because my French abilities barely go beyond bonjour and viva la vie boheme. I heard Obama’s speech for the first time six weeks later. C'est la vie!

So today was my moment.

Lanecia and I walked to Nashville's historic Belcourt Theater to meet our friend Ingrid and watch an amazing day in history with my neighbors in Nashville. We have a new President and First Lady--a moment I've desired for 8 long years! We have our first bi-racial leader of the United States! We have the first First Family of African descent living in the White House--a building constructed, in part, by African slaves in America. And it's all happening on the heels of celebrating Martin Luther King's prophetic dream. Oh my God! It is a new day in the United States, and I am happy to live it.

***

I was six years old and starting my first day at a new elementary school. I met Jungle Gym Guard at recess. She was a six-year-old white girl who told me that I could not play on the jungle gym because of something the last black kid who played on it had done. Like a good first-grader, I ran to the teacher and told on Jungle Gym Guard. The teacher happened to be a member of the church where my father was appointed the new associate pastor. As it turns out, Jungle Gym Guard was a member there, too. The teacher told my classmate, "We don’t keep don’t make rules like that. Be nice to Ciona. She's going to be in your Sunday school class. Remember the new pastor who is coming to our church? This is his daughter."

See, my father was the first black pastor in South Carolina United Methodism to serve in a predominantly white congregation since Reconstruction (and by predominantly white I mean that we were one of two black families in the entire 2500-member church. The other black family had the last name White). Eventually the girl formerly known as Jungle Gym Guard became one of my best friends. I learned more of her story. Her grandparents had stopped coming to the church after my father was appointed there. So many members stayed and loved us and supported us for nearly 6 wonderful years. Others left like her grandparents, though. And some who stayed even requested my father not enter the room when he did regular pastoral hospital visits. This was less than 25 years ago.

Even in my lifetime of integrated schools, inclusive water fountains and school cafeterias where the “sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners” sit at the same table, I’ve still experienced jungle gym guards in various parts of my life in the U.S. I thank God that in this same lifetime I’ve been able to experience today. I especially thank God that my parents, and my 97-year-old great-grandmother got to see today, too.

So I walked to Belcourt in the cold. Smiling. Feeling warm from my excitement. Hugged a stranger after the inauguration. And cried.

It’s a beautiful day!

Images by Lanecia in the Belcourt

Photo Tag

2009-01-19T11:15:00.000-06:00

I was tagged by my dear friend Mary.

Here are the rules:
1. Choose the 4th folder where you store pictures on the computer.
2. Select the 4th picture in the folder.
3. Explain the picture.
4. Tag 4 people to do the same.
5. No cheating (cropping, editing, etc.)

So I'm not extremely organized with my photographs. So I have only 3 folders and then a bunch of folder-less images. So here is the fourth photo from the third folder. I was taking bellydance photographs one Saturday. I needed dramatic eyes, so I called the MAC makeup artists. My photographs were supposed to be at 8 am, so I had to get them to design my dramatic eyes the Friday before my photographs and teach me how to do it myself. I took this photograph on my sister's camera on Friday so that I'd have a reference look for Saturday morning. I didn't quite perfect the look when I did my own makeup, but I like my photographs all the same. Here's one of the professional photographs from Saturday afternoon's shoot (I actually had to reschedule at the last minute for later in the day because I couldn't find my dance veils, and a bellydancer can't take professional photographs without a veil in some of them. Turns out my roommate had my veils at her church after she and my sister needed to use fabric for a youth event and grabbed my veils while I was hula-hooping a half-marathon instead of thinking, "This fabric isn't mine, and it seems as if it's hemmed. Maybe I shouldn't use it to throw on a table at a youth art show." I was livid, and they witnessed the Rouse Wrath. ARGH! But it all worked out fine in the end):

Now, I tag Heather, Falguni, Melissa and Lane if you happen to ever read my rarely updated blog at all (and if you've not done this before).

Marriage Water

2009-01-15T20:23:00.000-06:00

A few years ago I was taking a friend of mine to the airport for her flight back to Burundi. We were on a team together that had just finished a meeting in Myrtle Beach. Before arriving at the airport she asked a question that must have been brewing in her mind for several days (or at least several minutes while sitting next to each other in the car).

"What's the matter with your face," she asked.

Well.

There was Ron in 3rd grade who used to so eloquently say to me, "You look like a burnt piece of toe jam." Then there was Freddie in 5th grade whose favorite little zinger was, "I think I'll watch [insert preferred television show of the moment here] on your big forehead." Back then I sought consolation in the wise grade school proverb: "Boys pick on the girls they like the most."

But this time—some 15 years since I heard the last cruel references to my appearance—I was stunned. I mean, even the disgusting reference to dirt and sock debris between toes was better than someone flat-out asking me why I am an ugly cow!

I gained my composure. This time seeking consolation in knowing that her English, while far superior to my Swahili, still kept her from properly asking the question I thought she must really be pondering (which was, of course, "How do you stay so beautiful and youthful?").

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Your face," she said, now gesturing towards me in a circular motion that outlined my vulnerable visage. "What's wrong with it? Why do you have so many bumps? Do you not drink water?"

I thought: So I have some acne. It's improving! I mean, it's not as bad as it was in high school! But . . . genuine concern for acne is still no excuse for asking someone what's wrong with her face!

"Oh. No. I don't really drink much water. Never been a big fan. I guess I need to, though," I said.

"Ohhhh . . .," she said, "Yes, you need to drink more water, or you're not going to get married."

Now, my closest friends know that getting married is not enough incentive for me to stock my house with bottles of Fiji. But this lovely moment did give birth to the infamous day my girlfriends and I dubbed H2O with a more fabulous name: marriage water. A glass of agua was once a source of hydration but is now a source of nuptial bliss. Who knew?

So I chuckled today when my friend Jennifer sent me a link for bona fide marriage water from a company in the UK.

So all the single ladies, if you drink it then he's sure to put a ring on it!

*And for you curious readers: I did incorporate more water in my diet (for hydration purposes, of course). I'm still not a huge fan. And nobody has asked for my hand in marriage. But no one has ever asked what's wrong with my face ever again, either.*

Pray With Gulu

2009-01-13T11:34:00.000-06:00

Austin, Cary and I met a woman they call “Mama Shekinah” in Gulu. Her spirit mesmerizes you like the Pied Piper.

Hedwig is from Paraguay, and she married Colin, a minister from Bermuda. Together they followed a call to serve the people of East Africa. While crossing the border of Sudan and Uganda a couple of years ago, their car was ambushed by child soldiers of the LRA. The soldiers barely spared her life and the life of the child she carried in her womb, but they mercilessly murdered Colin while she watched. As she held him, wearing his blood all over her body, she looked into the faces of the soldiers and noticed one was a girl.

In that moment Hedwig decided to forgive these soldiers. Two years later she and her daughter moved to that very region of Uganda so that she could be with and love the young girls who were abducted as LRA soldiers. She wanted them to feel the healing she received from forgiveness. So she lives in a home with and shares her life with a handful of young women—former child soldiers--and their children. Everyone affectionately calls her “Mama Shekinah” after the beautiful little girl in her womb when Colin died. She and Colin had already decided to name her Shekinah, which means “the settling presence of God” in Hebrew. Amen.

So I was thrilled this morning to receive an e-mail from Sarita, a young woman from the U.S. who lives and works with Mama Shekinah in a ministry called Zion Project. Her house and Mama Shekinah’s house work together to move towards healing. After our Pray With Africa visit to Mama Shekinah’s house, Serita decided to start asking the ladies for their prayer requests. They now have a sheet of paper on their wall to list their prayer requests and their answered prayers. They created a prayer schedule, also, for one of them to spend 30 minutes to one hour in prayer each day for their home and for each other.

Here is part of the message she sent to me today:

Answered Prayers

Janet and Stella both got offered jobs at the best hotel in town. Stella got offered a position as a head cook, even though she's only been working there about a month and a half. :) Praise God for favor!

Janet stood up to her ex boyfriend and has not been tempted to go back to him. She is spiritually hungry and growing every day.

Two of my girls got to go to a counseling retreat for a week, this week. One for free. It will be hugely transformative for them.

All my girls will be going to vocational school for free starting this month. Huge answer to prayer.

Requests

Our house: More relationship with God and being filled with the holy spirit. More kingdom living. Expecting miracles. More peace unity and love between us....an end to ridiculous conflicts.

Janet: that her ex-boyfriend will stop harassing her at work, for a bible, for her to perform well at her job.

Florence Ayet--that she can finish her vocational studies well

Stella---pray against anger and for more spiritual growth

Florence--peace and love in the house as well as her studies

Pauline--Patience, money for her classes and that she will study well

Pamela--that her baby Maria will recover quickly from the illness she has had for two months

Irene--patience, and her studies

Josephine---for health for her and her baby so she can study well

Sarita--more time with God, wisdom on how to handle house issues, patience and more abounding love of God; God's strategy for the future

And for Gulu: We long to see more miracles here and to see the pastors come together in love and unity and in relationship.

Also pray for the safety of the innocent abductees in the bush who are being targeted through the military offensive Operation Lightning Thunder which is supposed to force Kony to surrender but thus far has claimed the lives of over half a million people since December 14th. Read more.

Today I'm praying with these amazing women in Gulu. Pray with me.

When I met Pamela, one of the women with Sarita and Mama Shekinah, she asked me to pray that she might forgive the LRA soldier who raped her. Her daughter Maria is a real example of beauty from ashes; her "father" is the rapist.

Add Your Voice!

2008-10-28T17:20:00.001-05:00

Hoop-a-Thon!

2008-10-16T20:51:00.001-05:00

Doctors predict that my friend Will Boyd may be dying from heart failure as a result of his Lupus. But we still have hope and want to do all we can to help Will be well.

So my friend Erin has organized an event to get us hula-hooping for healing! Come join us at a Hoop-a-Thon for Will Boyd!

when: Friday, October 24

time: Registration and opening at 3:30
60-minute timed hooping 4:00-5:00

where: Gather at Belmont United Methodist Church in Hillsboro Village
2007 Acklen Avenue

Hooping at 4 pm will be in the field across the street on the corner of 21st and Magnolia.

who: YOU and all of your friends!!!

how: Pay an entry fee of $28 or get a sponsor to commit to pay per minute you hoop (sponsors may choose how much they are willing to give per minute)

why:If you ask Will Boyd to describe himself, he will say, “I am nothing but the work that God creates through me. I just try to love God and love people.” And he has certainly loved people well in many ways, including through his passion for his former work with Invisible Children the last few years. In the last year, he was diagnosed with pneumonia, which turned chronic in concert with lupus. Ten months later his lungs have suffered, his heart is failing, and his body continues to be attacked by the lupus plaguing his body. He has amassed $50,000 in medical debt. Now, the same bacteria that caused his pneumonia has created an ulcer in his stomach, keeping him in almost unbearable pain.

Will Boyd has inspired thousands and been a catalyst for social revolutions worldwide. He is blessed with countless friends and family across the globe that have become his light and kept his focus on God. And it is of no surprise that through it all, Will continues to unite us even now. We invite you to join Will, our ambassador of love, in his quest to show the world while we may not have all of the answers, we know Love Is One of them.

goal: $1000 for Will Boyd!

Hooprama hoops will be on sale at the event with all proceeds going towards Erin's fundraising efforts for Will Boyd! We will also have extra hoops if you don't have your own to bring!

Hope to see you hooping!

Update!
My friend Will is actually not dying. His illness is of a different kind, and he needs continued prayers and support that he will receive healing and hope with his bipolar disorder and all of the damage it does to Will and the people who love him.

Nashville AIDS Walk

2008-10-03T08:37:00.001-05:00

One of my dear friends and many people who I have met and love are HIV+. So I have joined a team for Saturday's AIDS Walk for Nashville. I have been a volunteer at Nashville CARES, and they do some major work for people in the city who are HIV+. Any small donation you give will go a long way as they feed someone who is sick and needs nutrition, drive someone to the doctor, counsel someone who is recently diagnosed, bless children of HIV+ parents during Christmas, test people for the disease, educate about HIV/AIDS prevention, and the list goes on . . .

I would love for you to go to the site and donate whatever you can--$1 or $10 or more--to sponsor me as a participant (click the red "sponsor participant" button on the page and enter my name). Or if you want to sign up to be a virtual walker on our team, you can do this, as well by clicking the "register here" button and joining the team called "Affected." It's only $30.

ThAnKs for your support!

Smile Loudly

2008-10-01T10:48:00.000-05:00

As I walked into Kroger on Charlotte Ave. yesterday, I saw a tall man in the parking lot. His face wore wrinkles like a shar pei. His body wore Carolina blue pants that hugged his waist right above his belly button, a white pullover and a baseball cap to match his pants. In his hand, which was worn by age, he carried a rectangular old school cassette player—the kind with 5 black push buttons and one red one. The player blared a Cher tune while Tall Old Man stepped in time, bobbling his head like a baseball player figurine taped to the dashboard of a car. His movements were small and almost arthritic, but he danced through the parking lot each step of the way.

“Do you believe in life after love? I can feel something inside me say . . .”

I laughed. I wasn’t making fun of him with my laugh. I laughed to participate in his joy.

He heard my laugh. And creating my all-time favorite grocery store moment, Tall Old Man responded to my laughter, “I love to hear you smile!” as he continued to let the music move him.

May your day be filled with special moments that move you to dance to the rhythm of life. May you find a moment to participate in someone else’s joy. And may you always smile loudly enough for the world to hear.

Pray With Africa

2008-09-29T21:27:00.000-05:00

My friend Will says, "My life is stupid!" when he thinks about how amazing and unbelievable some parts of his life seem. In Will's definition of "stupid," then, I must thank God for just how stupid my life is becoming.

In five weeks I'm going to Africa! I'll be there for six weeks, visiting six countries. I'm traveling the continent with my friends Cary and Austin, carrying our clothes, our camera and our pens and paper. We're collecting prayers of the people in each of the countries we're visiting and then bringing these prayers back to the United States, encouraging the world to stop praying for the people of Africa and, instead, join the the prayers they are already praying.

six beautiful countries
meeting hundreds of beautiful people
listening to hundreds of amazing prayers
for six amazing weeks

Yes, my life is stupid!

Here's our Pray With Africa video (featuring music by none other than k.s. Rhoads):

Pray With Africa

As I prepare for this journey--this pilgrimage of sorts--I invite you to pray with me.

Summer Stroll on Belmont Hill

2008-07-30T10:20:00.004-05:00

I step in time with the symphony
crickets on their instruments
cicadas singing summer songs
birds competing for the lead
air condition units all around
hum
hum

the bell tolls

window fans rise to a crescendo
with each step

I pretend the summer cares which beat
Makes me march to its sound & fury
I wave my arms—a pseudo-conductor—
Wishing I could take it all to a pianissimo
So the Honeysuckle—horn-shaped but silent—
could solo
A sweet scent, which plays louder memories
Than all the sections combined
of late-night strolls
young loves
warm days on the lake
grandma’s house
running outdoors
with childhood tunes on my mind

Golden Grins

2008-07-15T14:53:00.003-05:00

Before church Sunday I walked into the bathroom and was greeted by three grinning faces yelling, "Heeeyyyy!!! Ciona!!!!" I quickly responded back to them with the same amount of enthusiasm! Some of the world's most beautiful little girls were standing in the bathroom. It's been a couple of weeks since we held the camp for the Golden Triangle children of our church; I have missed these girls every day.

My friends are from Burma (Myanmar) in the Golden Triangle region of Southeast Asia. They have found their way to Nashville because their home is no longer safe for the Karen people. The oppression and annihilation is so fierce that a Burmese official once said you will have to go to a museum if you want to see a Karen person in the future. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

General Than Shwe, the military junta leader who heads the government of Burma has been oppressing his people in atrocious ways for years. His government is not sparing the Karen people at all. My dear friends--these precious grinning girls--have looked death in the face many times until they made it through the forests, across the border into a refugee camp in Thailand and eventually to the U.S.

Some of the children at our church have come with their entire family, and they have made a new home together in Nashville. Some of them come with only parts of their family and pray faithfully for their other family members to escape, as well. All of them are refugees, forced away from what they know as home to the safety of the unknown. More than anything, most of them desire peace.

So on this beautiful Sunday morning, I felt incredible joy seeing my young friends. We shared big smiles with one another. Then one girl named Bru Shee said, "Ciona! I have your picture!" Then like a proud parent showing off her children, Bru Shee pulled out her wallet. Tucked securely in the little plastic insert was a photograph, which Bru Shee had cut out of the church directory. She pulled out other photographs of some of our youth who are also a part of her journey here.

In this special moment, I knew I was a part of Bru Shee's story in the most special of ways; I was now a part of her wallet gallery. We continued to share grins that didn't just mean we were happy to see each other anymore. These grins now meant that we--with our language, age, race and cultural differences--were happy to be sisters on this unknown journey.

10 Days

2008-07-13T09:39:00.001-05:00

The past ten days of my life have been a magical, mystical delight. I've been covered in the Holy Spirit. I've spent my days with people who believe in the joy of a purple tree and the hope of radically changing the world. We've had epic conversations until the moonlight nearly turned to sunrise. We've been inspired by each other over green tea and sushi. We've lied on blankets under a starry ceiling listening to beautiful people creating beautiful music. I've been moved by stories of Congolese boys and their falling whistles. I've been touched by talking with some high school-aged pilgrims, exploring the way. We spun in circles, dancing with 5-year-old Selby to music that expressed God's greatness. I've hooped with children whose names I don't know but whose smiles have found a home in my memory. I've inhaled God's glory and felt grace in my lungs.

May I breathe like this forever, Lord?

Exhausted . . .

2008-07-01T11:20:00.001-05:00

I've been tired all of the time lately. I desire a nap more than usual. We had a camp for the Golden Triangle children of our church last week. I feel like I'm still catching up on sleep from the week. But maybe I'm just tired all of time from something else.

Despite my exhaustion, I'm at peace. I'm journeying with Julian of Norwich this month in my daily devotions, so my theme for life right now is, "All is well." And truly, even though life's highs and lows can find ways to tire us, all manner of things will be well in the end. Amen!

Borders on a Wednesday Morning

2008-05-28T12:33:00.001-05:00

My first writing assignment in college for English 101 asked us to visit a local library branch or a bookstore. You can tell a lot about a city by their library or bookstore, our professor claimed. Ever since then, the library is one of my first stops when I move to a new city, and I frequent bookstores often for discovering—mostly discovering the stories with no words and no binding.

So I’m at Borders right now, thinking about how difficult it is to learn a lot about a city in a pre-packaged bookstore where the shelves and carpet and coloring in San Diego have twins in Charleston. It’s best to discover a city at Ma and Pa bookstores. I walked into Bookman/Bookwoman, a used bookstore in Hillsboro Village, shortly after moving here. You smell Nashville when you go inside. It’s on all of the pages of books that used to live on the shelf or in an attic of a Nashville home, soaking in the scents of their owners’ food, animals, perfumes. The store’s owners share Nashville’s secrets with flyers and announcements for local book groups, bands and neighborhood events. They greet you and welcome you like a neighbor, not a customer.

It’s not impossible, however, to discover a city at Borders. Here, you have to be even more silent and listen closely to the tales the book browsers share. I watch the woman who picks up Food Politics as soon as she walks into the store. She walks strolls around the entire store—even the music section—checking out all of her options while clutching Food Politics beneath her arm. She finally settles down on one of the benches and reads her first and only choice.

Or there’s the woman with 7 Colorado travel books sitting in front of the tall glass windows overlooking Centennial Park. With a pen tucked behind her ear in case she wants to take notes, she carefully turns the pages of each book with her wrinkled fingers, pausing at the maps and photographs and lists that tell of Colorado’s unexpected or hidden treasures. She tells me that she’s going to buy one of the books, but she wants to be sure to get the right book. She’ll narrow it down to “the ones that are worth drinking a cup of coffee on,” she says.

Then there’s Grandma who carries several pop-up books and holds the hand of Grandson, who squeezes a fuzzy Elmo doll (50% off its original price). The future Colorado traveler graciously offers her prime seating to Grandmother and Grandson so that they can have a cozy place to read. Grandmother opts for the table behind us and says to the toddler, “Come on, let Grandma read to you.” She goes through the books, altering her voice to show the excitement of each character. All the while, Grandson stands in the chair, whining, “I wanna play with my car. Let me play with my car.” He pauses every few minutes when a picture catches his attention just enough to give him 20-second amnesia about his toy car.

There’s the teenage overachiever browsing the local schools required reading section. Summer break began for Nashville students last week.

A crowd grows around the new books and magazine sections, where browsers stand and read excerpts from each book or periodical that tickles their fancy.

A woman with a giraffe-patterned oversized bag sits on the floor of the arts book section looking through books featuring symbols, signs and borders. I wonder what beautiful pattern she dreams of creating.

A man in black wears his shades indoors by the Seattle’s Best coffee area. He lounges in the comfy chair, no coffee in hand. His guitar, in its black cloth case, leans against the chair next to him. Waiting. It’s Music City, after all.

Images of God . . .

2008-05-01T23:27:00.000-05:00

So the General Commission on Religion and Race for The United Methodist Church sponsored an exhibit about race and gender in the denomination. It is a fascinating exhibit, and I'm glad the commission had it as an offering at General Conference. The exhibit ends with the Human Race Machine, a computer imaging machine that morphs your face to show what you might look like if you were a different ethnicity. I morphed myself, so check out "me" in 5 different hues (sorry for the cell phone quality photographs; I don't have a digital camera).

I've discovered that it's far more lovely to think about their similarities than their differences . . .

White "Ciona"

Hispanic/Latino "Ciona"

Indian "Ciona"

Middle Eastern "Ciona"

Asian "Ciona"

Could it be how God looks at us? All of us images of one Creator who sees us and is far more obsessed with what makes us one than what makes us different . . .

The pain in their eyes . . .

2008-05-01T00:51:00.000-05:00

I noticed something in some eyes again today. It did not fill my soul with daffodil smiles like yesterday.

They were parents this time, not orphans. They had black veils over their faces. They wore rainbow mosaic stoles around their necks. Their ears had just heard, once again (but stronger this time), that their lesbian or gay child did not really belong in The United Methodist Church. Their eyes dropped tears.

I don't care what you believe or how your politics, theology or ideology inform your thoughts on homosexuality. How can anyone pass these eyes and not drop tears, too?

Their eyes held a pain I do not wish to see in their eyes forever.

*A UMNS photo by Paul Jeffrey

The light in their eyes . . .

2008-04-29T22:56:00.001-05:00

*

I believe the glitter in their eyes was hope. Maybe it was just good old-fashioned excitement, but it shined like hope to me.

The Hope for Africa Children's Choir from East Africa sat along the front row of The United Methodist Church General Conference session, listening to the leader of Liberia share words about reviving a broken country. I’m sure they did not understand all she said about eradicating poverty, providing education for all children—especially young girls—or healing the wounds of war. They did not have to understand it. Their eyes captured every ounce of the hope she wished for her country.

They are mostly orphaned children who know, all too well, the stories of despair from their part of the continent. They were little girls and little boys who know war and AIDS and child soldiers. They may not have understand all she said, but they held her in their eyes. And the little girls whispered through their smiles, “You inspire me.”

President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf—a glimpse of hope for young girls worldwide—moves me in so many ways. Her passion and compassion match her intelligence and drive. She is transforming a nation, inspiring a continent and exemplifying resurrection in a world where death seems to be the victor. And my favorite moment of my entire experience listening to President Johnson Sirleaf today was the bright gleam in these children’s eyes. You could just feel it.

I pray they hold it forever.

*A UMNS photo by Paul Jeffrey

Sick Days

2008-03-04T13:34:00.000-06:00

I am guilty, I must confess, of wasting some of my time doing nothing. There are days where I sit at home, watch television and think about the deadlines I have instead of living into them. These are days that I sometimes even welcome.

So why do I feel like a loon stuck in my house since Sunday, doing nothing but sleeping, eating, drinking water, and occasionally getting enough energy to watch television on the couch or check Facebook? Being sick for the past three days is driving me crazy! I just want to do something, go somewhere, complete 10 projects! Hmmm . . . maybe my editors will be really glad that I'm sick because I'll be uber-motivated when I'm back to life (tomorrow, I hope)!

A Deeper Desire for Something

2008-02-26T10:42:00.000-06:00

I cannot discern what it is yet, but something stirs within me. Something new or challenging and faithful is on my horizon. I want to be still and quiet so that I might hear what it is and follow where I'm being called.

I believe it's something in my writing. I feel a tugging to take my writing to another level, to change what I'm writing, to better focus my writing or to embark on a journey that will enhance my writing. I just can't put my finger on it. Does that happen to anyone else? You know there's a calling--a deep spiritual tugging--but you can't quite see what it is?

I'll remain patient, though I need something fresh and challenging now. I'll wait and keep discerning.

It should be an exciting year.

Food Stamp Challenge

2008-02-15T20:04:00.000-06:00

Our church is embarking on a Lenten practice this year, which seeks to be somewhat in solidarity with our nation's poor. I'm managing our Food Stamp Challenge blog for the next few weeks. You can catch me there more than here. But maybe managing that blog will get me more consistent on this one again.

But I don't recommend holding your breath.

;)