Smile . . .

"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

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

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

Hopscotch & Hula Hoops

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 . . .

Golden Grins

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

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?

Borders on a Wednesday Morning

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.

The light in their eyes . . .

*

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

Remembering Sweet Lisa (Part 2)

(Lisa moved in closer as I took a photograph of her. It's all out of focus except her earlobe now, but I still love this photograph)

I must admit that I helped the team very little the days they built the soup kitchen for Concordia Methodist Church on top of the hill in Knysna, South Africa. Instead, I played with Lisa.

She is a sweet girl, eager for me to hold her and hug her. Many people asked if she was my daughter, which I loved. The maternal being in me has been dormant, and I’ve never desired to be a mom anytime in the near future. I shocked myself with my instinct to be with her. We fit each other. She did not speak much, but she smiled and laughed and played. She clenched my hand as we prayed. And she listened as I talked, talked, talked in English. She would nod her head in agreement or sometimes giggle and shake her head furiously to inform me that I was asking a silly, silly question. She cried as we said goodbye at the end of the day. And she ran to me with an incredible glow when we saw each other again.

Lisa lives on the hill where she and the other Xhosa-speaking South Africans can look down upon their gorgeous town, which really doesn’t belong to them at all. They have the most beautiful view of Knysna, overlooking the Knysna Lagoon and the Indian Ocean. They see the gorgeous homes on Leisure Isle where the British, U.S., Australian citizens and people from other wealthy countries in the world own vacation homes they occupy a few months of the year. They see the extravagant homes and beautiful living of the white South Africans. They see this from their homes, which look like mere shacks, have no heat and often no running water or electricity.

The so-called 3rd and 1st worlds co-existing . . . sadly, the people on the hill always had to acknowledge what was down below. The people below could live life without ever looking up.

I met a young lady named Noxee who showed me her home on the hill, and she said, “We have such a beautiful view! I love it!” She didn’t complain about the disparity. Some children asked me to climb higher on a hill with them because they wanted to show me their great view. They didn’t mention the amazing homes below or the boats lining the lagoon. They showed me the ocean and marveled at its beauty.

As I remember Lisa I wish for her to go to school, grow in her dreams and get down off the hill. I want her to have the opportunities of her country that all the rich white kids have. I want her to keep the spirit of the hill, though, as she captures these other things. It is a spirit of love. It is a spirit I love.

This felt like home. This made sense to me. It helped me see the people from whom I come . . . and they are loving, giving, proud people. Passionate, musical, moving people. Hopeful, strong, persevering people. People who lean on hope in the midst of obvious trials. People, like Noxee, who appreciate their beautiful view instead of envying other’s possessions. I am very proud to come from Africa. From my journal entry 5 June 2005 after my first day on the hill
(Noxee and me)

Remembering Sweet Lisa (Part 1)

I stared at some children beyond the wire fence. They journeyed back-and-forth several yards between a home and a tiny store, settling every once in a while on a patch of grass between the two places. This was their career.

I began taking photographs of them eating their apples on the patch of grass. I watched them walk back-and-forth. I wondered who they were. And I wanted to play.

When my lens would not zoom any further, I drew closer to them, stood on their grass and said hello.

“Auggghhhh! Auggghhh! Auggghhhh!”

They hiccupped their screams as tiny feet ran quickly across gravel and dirt road into the house. The back-and-forth ceased. They moved inside-and-out from inside the house to just enough out of the door to see if the weird talker was still usurping their office space.

I laughed and played our little game of peek-a-boo, wishing I hadn’t scared them. I wanted to think they were intrigued by me and wanted to play, as well. They were genuinely frightened, though, and disturbed that I had taken their grass.

A little disappointed by their not wanting to play with me, I considered walking back to the church inside the fence and taking more photographs of the Belmont UMC youth laying foundation for the soup kitchen we were building in this South African community in Knysna. My head turned towards the church, and I saw a cow . . . in the middle of the road.

And even more beautiful, my eyes caught a tiny little girl in front of the cow checking out what was going on in the church yard. Then she turned and looked at me with every bit of my intrigue reciprocated. I patted the grass next to me, and she accepted my invitation.

I spoke. No screams, no running away. She simply looked at me and inched closer. I asked her name.

“Lisa,” she said.

Externally I smiled, and I’m sure more words fell from my mouth even though Lisa primarily spoke Xhosa. My internal smiles were far louder. Sweet Lisa, traveling with a cow, captured me immediately. My soul beamed. And it still does as I recall this first memory of Sweet Lisa.