famous.

while i sit reading at bongo java roasting co. on the east side of nashville yesterday, a tall silver-haired man in black walks up to me.

"are you a famous musician?" he asks.

dead serious.

i laugh. "no, sir, i'm not."

"well, you look like a musician or songwriter or something," he says to me. "and you," he directs to the young lady at the table next to mine who's wearing huge headphones over her hipster haircut and a short red pencil skirt, "look like a writer working on a great novel or something." she stops typing on her laptop and frees her ears.

"well, i am a writer," she says. "but not working on my novel right now."

"i'm a writer, too!" i say.

"ah-ha! well, of course you're a writer!" says the man in black to me. "that's just wonderful! what do you write?"

"well, i write poetry and several other things, depending on the day and the assignment"

"oh wow! you're a poet!" he exclaims. and as the woman he walked into the coffee shop with moseys closer to our table he shouts to her, "carolanne, you've gotta come meet her! she's a famous poet!"

he was dead serious. again.

"oh my! what's your name?" she asks as her hand extends to shake mine.

i laugh again and squirm and stumble to introduce myself. "well, i'm not . . . uhhh . . . famous, errr, i'm . . . uhhh . . . ciona. my name is ciona."

so we all chat for a bit, and i finally ask the man in black his name and if he's a musician.

"oh, my name is scott, and, actually, i'm a famous photographer."

of course he is.

and as we continue to chat the kind of chat of four mostly strangers, scott whips out his famous camera and starts taking photographs of me.

and i decide right then that i love this moment. it's taken me so long to even say, "i'm a poet." and while the goal of being well known and admired isn't a driving force in the soft focus of my future desires, i decide that i love not only being a poet but being an amazing poet, a famous poet just in that moment. and i love that scott--who may have spent his life flying around the world and sharing work in galleries and books or simply walked through his days taking snapshots of strangers in coffee shops--claims his art in a grandiose way. and i love that none of us asked each other what we had published or where our photographs were seen; we were just sitting together all being famous. as simply marvelous as that.

may you love your art, your work, your life in a grand way today! go ahead, be famous.

war & peace creation

Hitler was an artist. Now I have spent much more energy reading the stories of Holocaust victims than studying the life of the fuhrer, so this was news to me when I read it in my latest read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Hitler painted and moved to Vienna to pursue his artistic endeavor but was rejected by both the Academy of Fine Arts and the School of Architecture.

Pressfield suggests, "Resistance beat him. Call it overstatement but I'll say it anyway: it was easier for Hitler to start World War II than it was for him to face a blank square of canvas."

I don't pretend to be so wise to dare say that had he been accepted into the academy or admired as an artist, Hitler would never have authored a movement that murdered millions of people. I can't help but wonder, however, that when we give up on our dreams, when we don't overcome road blocks and live into the thing we love the most despite rejection, we have left this gaping hole of energy in our hearts that destroys us and often destroys others around us.

One of my favorite lines in one of my favorite songs of one of my favorite musicals RENT says, "the opposite of war isn't peace; it's creation" ("La Vie Boheme"). Jonathan Larson certainly had a good thought going there. And I'd like to also suggest that the opposite of creation is war.

Quite literally,the opposite of destroying life, buildings, countries, is giving birth, building, forming. Also literally, we land in physical battles when we lack the creativity to push toward creating more peaceful resolves. But metaphorically, we go into battle with the deepest parts of our souls when we fail to give life to the creations within us. We destroy ourselves, and that can play out in negative self-talk, being stuck in our careers, substance abuse, physical and emotional harm to others, self-hatred that becomes external, illness, the list goes on and on. We are created to create, and we perish when we do not.

Creating looks different for everyone: creating a new you, creating cures to diseases, creating microfinancing opportunities for those with low income and resources, creating a new health regimen, creating new ways to uniquely reach every child in your classroom, creating a science project, creating music, dance, paintings, poems, creating your ideal career, creating a healthy home for your children. Whatever creating is for us, whatever is our deepest heartsongs, we were made not to think of it or dream of it or ponder how much we like it; we were made to create it. And to create it every day. And to push ourselves beyond our imaginations and stare the challenges of creating it in the face. To refuse the easy route of not creating. Because that route will destroy.

May we turn our swords into plowshares, and create.

rooted & reaching.

i am a sunflower: rooted & reaching.

have you ever watched a sunflower reach its full potential? watched its seed break through the ground with its green fist opening only for the sun? observe as it studies its namesake, following it from east to west each day as it grows? and then finally felt its yellow lean over you, standing tall and firm in its full glory?

a sunflower can be massive and bright, reaching toward the sun and bringing joy and delight that feels bigger than life. and all the while it's grounded. rooted. deeply clinging to the earth, to its foundation.

i wonder how its stem feels in the tension of the in-between. how much work does it have to do to reach passionately both ways? or does it just come naturally? is this kind of stretching the only way it knows how to truly survive?

we are created too magnificently to only play it small. life naturally calls us to posture ourselves towards beauty and growth and light and love. and not in small ways alone; we are called to reach and stretch and live fully into our amazing potential.

and every step of this journey towards fully being our magnificent selves requires us to cling to our foundation. to remember that we are not great on our own. to know we are created too modestly to only play it big. a tiny seed, a tiny embryo. just as we are called to be great, we are also called to posture ourselves toward great humility, gratitude, groundedness. to point to our Creator in all things.

we are rooted. we are reaching. we are resting in the tension between being lifted and grounded, making neither greatness nor lowliness our goal. we are simply sunflowers, practicing life the only way we can truly survive.

may we all be beautiful sunflowers. rooted & reaching.

Sunflowers
Originally uploaded by cris.e

Forgive!!

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

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

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 . . .

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. 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 his or her 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.

UPDATE--and just so you know, I did leave my job just two or three weeks after writing this poem and, in fact, started writing for a living again! I also work at the lululemon store in Nashville and love my work every day. So when the fabulous Alessia at the lululemon headquarters put some graphics to this poem in October, I was terribly honored . . . so voila!

New web site

"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

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.

Searching for the poster-style variation of my poem? Find it here at lululemon.com.

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

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

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 . . .

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 . . .

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 . . .

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

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 . . .

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

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

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

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 . . .

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.