SheLoves Magazine

How to Run Away. Or: What I Learned from the Wizard of Oz

“It was okay that I desired to run away; I just needed to figure out what exactly I was running away to.”

By Ashley Mandanici | Twitter: @ashleymandanici

Last weekend I ran away. I am not saying that figuratively; I actually ran away. I purchased a plane ticket, packed my cute little purple suitcase and ran as far as my feet could carry me. Apparently, my feet could only carry me as far as Winnipeg, Manitoba.

I’ll be honest; it had been a hard week. No, “hard week” sounds too mild … Last week sucker-punched me in the heart. Yeah, that’s more like it. I was forced to confront some issues at home and at work that I wasn’t really that eager to deal with—and of course, if things are going to happen, they’re all going to happen at the same time.

I felt like a failure. I felt frustrated. And I felt fed up. And when you feel like that many “F” words, you know you need to do something.

I began to identify with Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. I had this insatiable urge to throw all my belongings into a wicker basket, hop onto a bicycle and try and outrun the twister.

However, I couldn’t deny the nagging suspicion that by running away, I was behaving like a complete and utter coward.

“You are under the unfortunate impression that just because you run away you have no courage.”- The Wizard of Oz

On the night of my runaway, a rather wise friend called me up for a chat. As we were talking about our week (sucker punches and all) he made an off-the-cuff remark about how I had “run away” from my problems for the weekend, which followed with me confessing that that was exactly my intention.  This took us along a whole rabbit trail (or yellow brick road if you will) of thoughts ranging from Moses running away from Egypt, to Elijah feeling overwhelmed by leadership, to me trying to explain the entire story of the Wizard of Oz in less than a minute.

Meanwhile, my friend summed up our whole discussion with these simple words :

“Ashley, I guess it’s not about what you are running away from, but rather what you are running away to.”

Off to See the Wizard

I couldn’t help but think about Dorothy again and her quest to see the Wizard. I imagined her happily (and somewhat ignorantly) skipping down the yellow brick road towards the Emerald city. I thought about the characters she found along the way and how they all needed something—a brain, a heart, some courage … a home. I thought about how Dorothy’s problems still managed to find her—the only difference was that this time she was heading somewhere.

The more I thought about it, the more the whole “running away” idea began to appeal to me. It was okay that I desired to run away; I just needed to figure out what exactly I was running away to. I needed to figure out who exactly my Wizard was going to be. You know, just like the fictional movie character I had decided to base my life around.

Just click your heals three times …

The ending of the Wizard of Oz always got me a little angry for a couple different reasons. One, because Dorothy went through all that drama to be told that she had the power to get what she wanted the whole time, and because the movie ends as a dream sequence and I hate when movies end in a dream sequence.

I suppose my weekend ended pretty similarly though, well, apart from the dream sequence thing. (That didn’t happen.) However I needed to run away so I could begin to see “home” more clearly. My runaway put the colour back into my world when I was stuck seeing everything in black and white. My runaway gave my brain a much-needed rest, my heart some much-needed healing, and it also helped me grow a little courage. I was reunited with friends, drove around a new city and got lost a bunch of times. And I smiled so much my face started hurting.

I needed to run away to remind myself where I was going. I needed to run away to remind myself that God wasn’t some Wizard I could only find with the help of a magic formula. God had been with me the whole way. No heal clicking necessary.

And just like my friend Dorothy, I needed to run away to realize I already had everything I needed.

_____________________

My dear SheLoves friends:

• If you could run away to anything or anyone right now, what would you run away to?
• What do you need to find?
• Any other comments or thoughts?

About Ashley:

My name is Ashley and I am the Children’s Ministry Coordinator at Relate Church in Surrey, B.C. My mission is to develop the God-given potential in every child who crosses my path *Insert Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” here*. I love all things jazzy, particularly music, and I tend to break into song throughout the day for no apparent reason. I blog here and tweet @AshleyMandanici

Wellness Wednesday: The One Decision I Regret Most

“I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.”

By Tara Rodden Robinson |Twitter: @tararodden 

When I went to church this past Sunday, I grew a little tense. It was Mother’s Day and I usually avoid any public observances that include motherhood. It’s not that I have a bad relationship with my mom—in fact, quite the opposite. It’s that Mother’s Day reminds me of an inescapable fact: I am not a mom.

Just the other day, I got treated to big dose of all the mom-ness that I am not privy to. I had been invited to a mid-week happy hour–a drinks with the girls evening. I arrived at the bar early so I could sit and sip my wine in peace for a while, just to enjoy the sensation of having nothing to do and nowhere to go.

When my friend arrived, another woman rose from a table across the room to intercept her. I knew this was going to happen—my friend had told me that she’d invited others to join us—and I knew that probably all these other women were going to be complete strangers to me. No big deal: I’m good at meeting new people. What I didn’t know was that all the women at the table had kids in the same Montessori school. Yep, it was a Mommy’s Night Out.

To be honest, my non-mommyness didn’t phase me. At least not at first. The conversation didn’t revolve entirely around kids. We talked about other topics, like one woman’s impending divorce and her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s complete meltdown. And when they learned that I am a productivity coach, the group became positively enraptured, asking me all sorts of questions about time management and such. But then the dreaded moment arrived.

“How old are your kids?”

I paused. Swallowed.

“I don’t have any kids,” I replied.

Cue the crickets.

“Oh!” she said, finally.

I didn’t realize how truly awkward that moment was until a few days later when I received—no lie—a handwritten letter of apology from the person who’d invited me.

Damn.

Looking Back

It’s not that I never wanted children. I was just very ambivalent for a long time. Plus I was waiting for the right time: the time when we had a stable income and health insurance. When we finally got around to trying, I was 38 years old. It took me three years to get pregnant. And in my eighth week, I miscarried.

It felt as if my heart had been ripped from my body. I spent weeks doubled over with grief. And when I wasn’t howling in pain, I was in my office, working as usual, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. I didn’t (and still don’t) understand the shame that came with the sadness. Why should I be ashamed of myself? I hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet for the longest time, I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.

My aunt, one of my mom’s younger sisters, tried to comfort me. The little book she sent told me, “never doubt that you are a mother.” Of course, I know this is bull****. Mommies have actual children. For me, no child equalled not a mommy.

Do I sound bitter? I don’t mean to. There are many things about my life that I love. I have a lot of happiness, joy, abundance. There is only this one thing that is missing.

In Hindsight

I wish I could go back and talk to my still-ovulating younger self.

I’d tell her that there is never a right time to have a baby. I’d kick her butt and tell her to stop second-guessing her heart’s desire. And I would tell her to throw out her birth control pills and get herself pregnant.

When I look at my younger friends, the ones wrestling with the same ambivalence about being a mom, juggling the same timing issues and looking for that just-right moment, I want to take them by their shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle. I want to yell, “When you’re fifty and menopausal and highly accomplished, the only thing that will matter to you is your family. Please, for goodness sake, have one!” If they didn’t call the cops first, would they get the message?

I wonder how my cocky twenty-something self would have reacted to such a visit.

I hope with all my heart I would have listened to me.

______________________________

Dear SheLoves readers, take a few moments to consider these questions:

• If I got a visit from my twenty years older self, what would she most want me to know?
• The heart’s desire I am second-guessing right now is …

______________________________

About Tara:

Tara Rodden Robinson is an author, coach, and educator. Known as The Productivity Maven, she blogs at tararobinson and tweets @tararodden. She lives in Corvallis, Oregon, with her husband and their two dogs. She is working on mastering complex yoga poses and searching for the perfect gluten-free bread recipe. When she’s not writing, coaching, or teaching, she’s out in the wilderness hiking and watching birds.

Making Memories: When Small Moments are Cradled in a Mother’s Big Love

“When we grace a shared moment with our undivided attention and love, we create heartprints that can be carried with us, always.”

By Stefanie Thomas | Twitter: @stefanie_nicole

When I was a kid, it was always a bit of a thrill when the Avon Lady paid our home a visit. I’d study the glossy pages of the catalogues she delivered, making note of which treasures my heart desired. Strawberry-scented lip gloss! Bath powder, complete with a fluffy pink powder puff. A necklace with a pendant of a pigtailed girl on a swing. (She’s tucked away in a drawer somewhere, but this cute girl still swings on.) I especially appreciated when seasonal items were featured. Poring over pictures of Christmas ornaments made me excited for the coming holiday.

Mother’s Day was another occasion that seemed to be a big deal in the land of Avon. When I spotted this little plate in the catalogue, I knew I had to get it for my mom:

A Mother’s Beauty

What strikes me as funny today is (A) what does “Love is a Song for Mother” even mean? and (B) that I would have had to go through my mom to order the plate, so she couldn’t have been too surprised when she unwrapped it on Mother’s Day. But the beautiful thing about my mom is that she always seemed surprised, reacting as if whatever I’d given her was the best gift she could have received. Yes, even those fake red roses whose polyester petals we’d doused in Babe perfume (or was it Charlie?). You’d have thought we had given her the world.

To start from the beginning, my mom was an adorable baby:

Right? When she first learned to speak, she couldn’t pronounce her own name – Faye – so she called herself “Little Pay.” This, combined with the fact that, as a child, she tied a rope to a piece of wood and dragged it through the forest as her pet alligator, is, to me, heartbreakingly cute and only makes me love her more.

I remember my mom coming to my school when I was a kid and my classmates saying, “That’s your mom? She’s so pretty!” I felt proud that my mom was lovely on the outside, but what made me even more proud was how lovely she was on the inside.

Fond Memories

When kids at school got picked on, my mom encouraged us to reach out to them with kindness. She could often be heard reminding us, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” While some kids on the playground were echoing narrow-minded or racist beliefs, my mom taught my sisters and me to be loving and inclusive. I am so grateful she never tolerated prejudice or hatred.

Ours was the mom who let us blow through straws into a mixing bowl full of milk to make bubbles. When my friend’s mom arrived to find us at the kitchen table in all our bubble-blowing glory, she scoffed at what a waste of milk it was and asked my mom, “How could you let them do this?!” (This woman was a little on the stern side–she made her kids wear slippers in the house at all times–and to this day, if I get a whiff of Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew perfume, I am immediately reminded of her.)

Not all of our friends came from happy homes, but my parents created an environment in which others felt safe, comfortable and taken care of. Our friends knew they were welcome at our house, that they would be allowed to stay for dinner, play loudly and make a mess. More than once we took in friends, teens who had it so rough at home that they lived with us for a while. I am so glad our house was that house.

My mom is patient, gentle, wise and loving. She inspires me with her spiritual practice and offers reminders of God when I need it most. My mom has blessed my life in countless ways, but as I give thanks for her today, I’m remembering some sweet simple moments we shared when I was about five years old.

Just Mom and Me

Our home was usually busy with activity, but once in a while I’d get my mom all to myself. It didn’t matter what we did, getting one-on-one time with her was a treat. I have fond memories of sitting on the bathroom counter, watching mom apply the face mask she’d made from whipped egg whites. Then it would be my turn. We’d let our masks dry and then carefully peel them off, marvelling at how smooth and clean our skin felt. Mom had her hands full raising three little girls, so I don’t imagine she got much time to pamper herself. Having a few minutes to give herself an inexpensive, homemade facial might have been my mom’s attempt at squeezing in some overdue self-care, but for me, it was memory-making material.

It felt special.

Another experience I often recall took place one winter’s day when mom and I had the house to ourselves. We munched on popcorn and sang along to Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits Volume 2 as we watched snowflakes fall outside. And then we cleaned out the fireplace. My mom folded over the top few inches of a brown grocery bag, and together we used the wrought-iron broom and shovel to carefully fill the bag with delicate black ashes. It was the most menial and mundane of tasks, probably something my mom was happy to cross off of her never-ending To Do List, but several decades later, I still fondly remember how special it felt to take on this job together on that quiet, snowy afternoon.

Once, when I was unable to sleep because I was sick with the flu, my mom scooped me up in my favourite pink blanket and together we retreated to the family room couch. She fixed me a little snack, and together in the early morning darkness, we watched The Flintstones. I was sick and I could have been miserable, but something about having my mom’s undivided care for me, being up together when everyone else was sleeping, made it feel all better. I still have that pink blanket, and my mom is still there with TLC when I need it.

How Love is Felt

Years ago on The Oprah Winfrey Show, author Toni Morrison raised the question, “When your child walks into the room, does your face light up?” More than parents’ words, it’s the love children can see that makes them feel special. For me, it wasn’t just sharing these experiences with my mom that propelled me to deposit them in my Good Memories Bank. What made these simple moments special was that my mom’s face did light up. I could feel that she was as delighted to be in my company as I was to be in hers.

Life can get busy, and perhaps at times we feel the pressure of having to divide ourselves among many people and demands. Writing this post reminded me that it’s not always the big events and gestures that have the most impact.

A sliver of a day devoted to homemade facials, or cleaning out the fireplace, or even cuddling through the flu can become a treasured memory.

- When we’re present with the ones we’re with, when our faces reflect the love we feel, the ordinary can become extraordinary.

- When we grace a shared moment with our undivided attention and love, we create heartprints that can be carried with us, always.

Happy Mother’s Day, to my own beautiful mom and to my beautiful SheLoves sisters–whether you are a mom or long to be one, whether you’re celebrating your mom today or missing and remembering her.

Thank you for making the world go ’round.

This one goes out to YOU!

_________________________________

My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What are your favourite mother memories?

__________________________

About Stefanie:

Stefanie is a Registered Clinical Counsellor living in Vancouver, BC. She feels blessed to work in a helping profession and is grateful that her work requires her to show up not in a power suit but with listening ears and a compassionate heart. Stefanie enjoys spending time with family and friends and has never met a kid or baby she doesn’t like. She is a noticer and appreciator of birds (chickadees, herons, eagles) and many a beach rock has come home in her pocket. Stefanie is a lover of music, tv and movies, and she is gifted at absorbing and retaining useless pop culture trivia. She loves walking, fresh air, the smell of dirt, and anything of the salt and vinegar persuasion. She can often be found puttering.

Mercy: The Flowering of a Girl

“She came into the home with her arms crossed, defiantly gloomy, intimidatingly unfriendly.”

By Musu Taylor-Lewis | Twitter: @mercycanada

Have you ever watched a flower bloom? No, really watched a rosebud as it slowly opens up to reveal the majesty of its creation?

It’s incredible to see how much beauty is shut up into a rather small bud. Nothing of the vibrant colour is visible until the bud begins to open up; and yet all the beauty and all the radiant colour is already present within the bud. What that bud needs is the right conditions for it to blossom.

Over the last year at Mercy Ministries, I’ve had the incredible opportunity of watching a flower bloom: not a rose, not a lily, but one young woman who graduated from Mercy Ministries this week and is going out into the world with a colour and beauty that was not visible when she first arrived.

You had to be there … She came into the home with her arms crossed, defiantly gloomy, intimidatingly unfriendly. In my role, I mostly watch our residents from a distance and from that perspective, her manner made me wonder why she even bothered coming to Mercy Ministries, and whether she would stay. Residents come of their own free will and are free to go if they choose to.

But she stayed … and now, whenever I look at her, all I see is a flower in full bloom. She is friendly, straightforward, intelligent and thoughtful. Today she seems more shy than defiant, more curious than challenging and open to fellowship and friendship. I cannot describe just how much her whole demeanor has changed, in response to the word of God and the love of God’s people.

Watching her today reminds me of how the apostle Paul describes working with his friend Apollos to bring about change to people’s lives.

“I planted the seed in your hearts, and Apollos watered it, but it was God who made it grow. It’s not important who does the planting, or who does the watering. What’s important is that God makes the seed grow.”

I know for sure that God has done this remarkable work of blossoming in a young woman’s life. Mercy Ministries was the soil in which she was planted and God used different persons to bring her to full bloom: One person counseled and another planned. One person led worship and another gave. One person challenged and another was gentle. One person prayed and another raised money.

What is important is that this flower bloomed.

_____________________________

About Musu:

My life is lived out of the calling “to advance Christ-centred work.” I am currently Director of Marketing and Development at Mercy Ministries, working to get the word out about the life-transforming work that takes place here. Prior to my work at Mercy, I directed a Crisis Pregnancy Centre, studied Christianity and Culture at Regent College and co-led women’s programs at my local church. I have four great children and am married to Steven, a gift to me from the Creator.

Image credit: Girl in Garden, by Sean Carpenter

Wellness Wednesday: Finding My Resting Place, No Guilt Added

Taking time to rest may just be the most spiritual thing I do all week.

By Claire De Boer | Twitter: @Britchic19

Last weekend I attended a conference called LifeWomen at my home church here in Surrey, Canada. The concept of LifeWomen couldn’t have been more inspiring—this conference really did breathe life into me.

One of the speakers, Dr. Robi Sonderegger, is a clinical psychologist and humanitarian activist—an amazing speaker who has an innate ability to speak to the very heart of women and seemingly understand our deepest needs.

Dr. Robi said many profound things over the three-day conference, but the phrase that really took route in my brain was perhaps one of the most simplistic:

“Taking time to rest may just be the most spiritual thing you do all week.”

I never take rests.

To me my rest time is when I put my head on my pillow at night and close my eyes. Even then, my brain is often swimming with a multitude of thoughts.

God has been tapping me on my shoulder and telling me to rest for some time now. It’s therefore no surprise to me that this particular phrase from Dr. Robi is the one that sticks in my mind.

A Moment of Rest

I took a trip with my family earlier this spring down to Florida. Part of me didn’t even want to go because it meant leaving a heavy workload. At the same time, I relished the thought of an opportunity to unwind.

It ended up being one of the most relaxing two weeks I’ve ever had. It wasn’t until I found myself out of my usual environment that I realized how much I needed the break. I felt calm; I could breathe deeply again and enjoy the life around me. On this trip I promised myself that when I returned home, I would take more time to relax.

It didn’t last. The memories of my relaxing trip soon faded into the background and within a couple of weeks I was back to my old routine—soccer mum one minute, crazy writer the next.

Resting in Him

Dr. Robi’s words are taking me on a journey. On this journey I’m pondering why and how God needs me to rest. The answer is transparent: If I don’t take time to rest, when do I connect with Him? How can I let Him take center place in my life if I’m too busy to let God in?

God’s message is clear: we need rest in order to have strength when we are working.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” –Matthew 11:28-29 The Message)

What good am I to my family, friends and work if I don’t rest? I become irritable, my mind often fogging over, and I go through the day in a state of heightened anxiety, which could eventually lead to illness. It’s quite clear why God requires me to rest.

But sometimes I’m a little like a petulant child, you see. I know what I need to do and why it’s good for me, but I keep running along in my own world, ignoring what’s best and just focusing on “getting things done.”

What would it be like if I spent a day focusing on NOT getting things done? What if I just rested in God for that day—took long walks on the beach, listened to music, wrote in my journal and prayed? It’s so easy! As a mother it would take a little logistical finagling, but it is do-able. So why don’t I ever do it?

Valuing my Time

As a child there was nothing I enjoyed more than singing or painting while listening to music. These things brought me peace, connection with myself and allowed my mind to rest. I valued this time to myself.

As I’ve grown older and added more tasks to my plate, including motherhood, taking care of a home and working, I’ve placed increasingly less value on my “alone time.” I like to accomplish tasks and feel anxious if I can’t.

Laying Aside Guilt

Until I really pondered the concept of rest and why I don’t make time for it in my life, I had no idea guilt was a factor.

When I rest, I feel guilty.

When I think of the times I’ve made the decision to put my feet up on the couch and read for half an hour, I have been unable to shake the thought that I could and should be doing something more useful.

It’s as though I feel I have to fill every second of my life doing something that will have some kind of productive outcome. But the irony is that without rest, everything else I do becomes unproductive. I can’t give all of myself to anything if I’m discounting my own needs.

What would my life look like if I took the time to really rest—self-condemnation aside—every day?

________________________

My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Do you take time to rest? If not, why?
• Does resting bring you closer to God?
• How could you incorporate a few minutes of rest into your daily life?

__________________________

About Claire:

Born and raised in the UK, Claire De Boer is the SheLoves Wellness Editor. She is a creative writer, woman of God, mother and wife. She is currently working on her first women’s fiction novel and a collection of short stories.

Claire is also a graduate of The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University and currently mentors in the Southbank creative writing program at the university.

You Are Capable of Greatness

“I know there is a Da Vinci in Rwanda and an Einstein in Mozambique waiting to burst free.”

By Desiree Adaway | Twitter: @desireeadaway
________________________________

“You are capable of greatness.”

I have heard my grandma say it a million times: God does not create junk. When I was a child, those words fill me with such warmth. Especially when I was feeling shame for having told a white lie or feeling vulnerable during my ugly teen age years when I found myself lacking in almost every way.

I would hear her voice: You are capable of greatness.

The truth is, we all are capable of greatness. There’s a power in you, in all of us that can do for us that which we cannot do for ourself. THAT spirit lives in you. It is in you but not of YOU.

You are great and you know it. YOU know it. God does not create junk. We act like we do not know, but we do know.

We are capable of greatness.

We KNOW that voice deep within us the one that some days we have a hard time connecting to or hearing clearly. The voice that has guided us so far through valleys of despair and mountain tops of triumph–and always will. We act like we do not know.

Today I want you to own that you do know. You have known all along.

Rest in the knowing and in the anointing of your power.

Think of how much talent has been wasted among women and oppressed people throughout history because social conditions made it impossible for some rise and shine–for some to hear that voice.

I know there is a Da Vinci in Rwanda and an Einstein in Mozambique waiting to burst free. What would our communities be like if we allowed everyone to rise and shine. If we allowed everyone to shine, be beautiful, noble and true.

If we owned the wisdom deep within us.

I wake up every day and ask myself how can I be the woman that God would have me be today?Something and Someone lives within me who is powerful beyond measure. How can I tap into that Source, that sanctuary so I can believe in MY greatness and live and act from that place. The power that was in Moses when he parted the Red Sea lives within you.

So, do not doubt your ability to liberate and free others; to liberate and free yourself.

You are capable of greatness. My granny and my God told me so.

________________________________

About Desiree:

Desiree is a consultant, strategist, coach, speaker, storyteller and explorer.  She uses her superpowers–her voice, sense of adventure and belief in the transformative power of community–to help organizations design programs that create unrestricted revenue, volunteers and advocates.

You can find out more about her at www.desireeadaway.com, or follow her on Twitter at @desireeadaway

The Sound of One Girl Crying

“Ramona says the sadness inside is unbearable. Her childhood made her afraid of white people.”

By Kisa MacDonald | Twitter: @kisamac

 You know what it’s like, when a little girl cries. She sobs uncontrollably.

Tears overflow. Cheeks get soaked. Shoulders get all scrunched up. Her little gasps for air get bigger and bigger. But eventually, she starts breathing again. She remembers that somebody loves her. Tears stop. Life goes on.

Red-cheeked with fear, this one little girl asked quietly for her mother. Tears began to fall down her cheeks. Her teacher responded quickly. The little girl could not stop crying.  In a fit of anger, the teacher suddenly kicked her. She fell backwards, down a flight of stairs, and died.

Her mother came back to the school. The teacher told her: “We do not know where your daughter went; she ran away.”

Nobody knows where she is buried.

Sacred Story

Ramona tells me this story: a complete stranger, waiting to be picked up from the ferry arrivals lounge. She tells me that she saw the little girl fall, and die.  She was always terrified to cry in school, after that.

The dusky waves come into Departure Bay. While we wait, Ramona tells me a few more stories. It is hard to realize how this happened. Here. On the gorgeous island that always feels like home to me. Her words linger in the atmosphere, dancing between us like lights.

Ramona says the sadness inside is unbearable. Her childhood made her afraid of white people. Her voice shakes. She tells me of more rapes and beatings. I watch her, reflecting the pain and reality of it. She asks how healing is possible.

She wants her spirit to be free.

I feel a deep sense of awe at the tenacity of her life. Her courage outshines the sun.

Truth and Reconciliation

I know that her story is true. I have researched and wept over many stories just like hers. I have seen the black and white photographs. I have heard similar words, from different voices. Ramona told me her story, simply because it needed to be told. But her story echoes the stories of others. The Canadian Truth and Reconciliation Commission is providing a unique opportunity to speak and hear the truth about the experiences of aboriginal children in residential schools, and to seek healing.

Dusk comes, and it’s time to go. I lean forward and tell her how her words have touched me, deeply. I will not forget them.  I tell her it is time for her healing, and that her words have meant a lot to me.

When I look at her, the deep-setting sadness in her eyes hits me like a wave. Tears begin to stream down her face.

I cannot stop them from falling.

__________________________________

About Kisa:

Kisa completed her law degree earlier this year and is currently finishing her articling year at a non-profit that focuses on law reform, legal research and outreach. She grew up on Vancouver Island but has lived all over: North America, Southeast Asia and Europe. In this next season of life, she hopes to see creative community and access to justice established in Vancouver.

RELATE with Helen: Pathways of Friendship

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” Anais Nin

By Helen Burns | Twitter: @helenburns

Last night, John and I returned home from a trip to Germany where we ministered at a relationship conference and spoke in several awesome churches in the very quaint and beautiful city of Detmold.

The time I spent there was so extraordinarily special to me because I was able to share it with my husband, John. It fed my soul in ways that perhaps only a girl like me, who grew up Mennonite, could truly appreciate.

The Language of Hearts

Something awakens and stirs me so deeply when I can connect with my Mennonite Russian/German roots in such a palpable way. We may live across oceans, but the language of our hearts and heritage connects us deeply.

I’ll never forget my initial introduction to this small, but remarkable group of people…

I had just finished teaching my session at Charlotte Scanlon-Gambill’s women’s conference in Bradford, England, when a group of seven rather tender and teary-eyed women approached me and said,

“I think we are your people.”

At first those words seemed strange to be hearing in England, but very soon it all made sense. Their ears had tuned in to certain words and customs that I had brought up during my teaching—things that would be unique to someone raised in a Mennonite church and home. We shared a common history, a common faith, a common language, common customs within our community, as well as common food.

Sharing Community

It was a ‘moment’ I’ll never forget. Time stopped as we shared our stories and our journeys to “here and now”. Suddenly I was lost in a world of beautiful familiarity, speaking German and found myself longing for a delicious feast of my favourite dishes that my Oma, Mom and aunties would make like Borscht, Perishky, Kotletten or a yummy helping of Rollkuchen, served with a juicy slice of watermelon. My mouth is watering as I write.

Following our encounter in England, we continued to stay in touch with each other. I became especially connected to my friend Vera. We were so very aware that our relationship was divinely orchestrated by God for a greater purpose than we could understand at the moment.

This recent trip was my third visit to Detmold and this stunning community of friends that God so graciously introduced into my world. The opportunity to minister there astounds me and blesses me beyond what I could express in words. It simply makes my heart and soul sing ridiculously loud!

Building Family

I am continuously in awe of how lavishly and thoughtfully God knits His big, magnificent family together. He is the divine connector-of-the-dots, and not one detail ever escapes His notice.

Over 25 years ago, God asked John to lay down his dental practice to plant a church. I knew it was a clear directive from the Spirit of God and I willingly released the security of the financial stability that dentistry afforded us as a family. I admit however that I struggled laying down a deep desire to travel and explore the world. I couldn’t imagine there would ever be enough money in our budget to do that ever again.

I love how God puts His desires in our hearts and then uses them as a cord of connection to His heart. He is an extravagant Father who loves to lavish His children.

I have traveled to more countries than I would have ever imagined in my wildest dreams and it has been with the greatest purpose imaginable—to grow and build the family of God. It has all happened so beautifully and organically. I have been learning to leave the details to God. He knows what He is doing.

It was just a few short years ago that I found myself in Bradford, England, where I met so many people with whom my heart will forever be connected, and in the midst of this glorious opportunity walked seven more friends—friends of my history and friends of my destiny.

These gorgeous Mennonite sisters were so hungry for God that they dared to step out into an unfamiliar place, get on an airplane and head to a conference that they had seen advertised on Christian Television. It was there that our lives collided and we have never been the same since.

God is always up to something! He has created pathways for us to walk on that will supernaturally align our destiny with others. Much fruit has come from that one encounter—there are always multitudes on the other side of our obedience to God.

My heart so resonates with these words from Romans 8:12-16…

“So don’t you see that we don’t owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There’s nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike “What’s next, Papa?” God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us—an unbelievable inheritance! (Message)

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• How has God aligned your life and purpose with others’?
• Which friendships in your life have come as a result of obedience to God?

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About Helen:

Helen Burns and her husband, John, speak around the world on the topic of relationships. They host the popular TV show “Relate with John and Helen.”

ShePonders: Vulnerability

“My tenderness, rawness, weakness and my vulnerability are, in fact, the birthplace of resurrection.”

By Kelley Johnson-Nikondeha | Twitter: @kelljnik

It all began as a normal visit, my parents coming over for dinner (bringing a pizza and some hot wings) to enjoy an evening with the grandkids. But at some point my son did not get his way and launched into an explosive tantrum, the like of which I had never experienced before.

I managed to push him down the hallway and into his room. His arms were flailing, legs kicking and ugly words were streaming out of his mouth at full volume. I pinned him on the bed, trying to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else. I whispered soothing words in his ear to try and calm him. I prayed for a volume button to activate and, as if by divine remote control, lower the sound of his shouting.

He was out of control. I was out of control. Let’s face it–control had left the building. And then I looked up and saw my mother standing in the threshold of the doorway staring. “We are leaving,” she announced. Enter that “warm wash of shame” that Brene Brown speaks of in her TED talk.

Exposed

It was a painful moment of utter vulnerability–excruciating exposure, utter weakness and taunting embarrassment. I was out of my depth. I would learn in coming days as I consulted friends and professionals that I did everything wrong in that initial moment. What I did, escalated the tantrum. What I did was wrong. What I did, was seared in my mind (and the mind of my mother). It would be months before I could find the courage to talk to her about that night.

In the last 18 months I’ve come to recognize that my greatest moments of vulnerability all center in the vortex of motherhood. I remember when confronted with the reality of discrimination my brown-skinned children will face in this world, I wept uncontrollably on the convention center floor. Or when my son recently asked about his “other mother” and why she did not keep him and if he could meet her, I seized up inside and immediately corrected: “I am your mother, she is your birth mother.”

Or when he told me that he does not like “the way my love feels” after another consequence meted out for bad behavior. As I daily attempt to protect, discipline and form identity in my children, I feel stretched taut on a cross and I feel the nails pinning me in place. I am raw and losing blood rapidly. Vulnerability has never been so real for me before.

With Good Friday not that far behind us, I have continued to ponder the cross and crucifixion. Just the other day I came across a poem by Mary Karr entitled Descending Theology: The Crucifixion.

This portion riveted me:

To be crucified is first to lie down

on a shaved tree, and then to have oafs stretch you out

on a crossbar as if for flight, then thick spikes

fix you into place.

Once the cross props up and the pole stob

sinks vertically in an earth hole, perhaps

at an awkward list, what then can you blame for hurt

but your own self’s burden?

Your not the figurehead on a ship.  You’re not

         flying anywhere, and no one’s coming to hug you.

You hang like that, a sack of flesh on the hard

trinity of nails holding you into place.

The description of hanging with no hug forthcoming, touches something deep in me as a mother.  There are these moments where I am stretched, nailed and hung. I am excruciatingly exposed, my raw mama-heart tender and bruised and soon-to-be-expiring. Like Jesus, I am headed in the right direction but must suffer this pain nonetheless. For me it is the pain between a son’s tantrum and his one-day transformation into peacemaker. (Forgive him, because he does not mean what he is saying; he does not yet know who he is becoming.)

Leaning In

My vulnerability is experiencing weakness and lack of control.  But leaning into vulnerability also is asking for the help I need, confessing that I don’t know what to do.  So I ask for coaching on how to manage tantrums.  I take a risk and approach an African American teacher and ask for her to unpack discrimination for me and teach me how to help my kids.  I gather up some courage and share with my parents what I’m learning about how to raise my children. All this is naked vulnerability.

Then while retreating to my reading chair, this sentence by Walter Brueggemann found me, “The victory of resurrection requires the vulnerability of crucifixion.” I was pierced. My tenderness, rawness, weakness and my vulnerability are, in fact, the birthplace of resurrection. My vulnerability, most-oft experienced in mothering but also in other moments, has a redemptive arc.

Jesus endured the vulnerability of the cross, we are told, for a joy that was set before Him. He knew there was more ahead, something beyond the hug-less hanging of crucifixion. As He experienced excruciating exposure He was also making ready for resurrection. Paul says that is the divine mystery … the cross that appears as scandal, utter foolishness, is actually a deeper kind of wisdom. Brene Brown, no theologian but a wise woman just the same, describes how we feel weak when we are vulnerable, yet others see that very vulnerability as pure courage.  So this week I am seeing that place of vulnerability as cross–foolishness–weakness yet leading to courage – wisdom – resurrection. Vulnerability will lead to transformation … as cross leads to resurrection.

Last night my parents were over for dinner, bringing the traditional pizza and wings. Someone did not get his way and I had to step in to offer discipline. But now I have learned how. And soon he returned to the table in time for the last bursts of laughter.

And my mother hugged me before she left.

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• How has vulnerability been a birthplace of resurrection for you?
• Where have you been surprized by your courage?

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AUDIO

Audio: Vulnerability

Click on the link above for an audio experience of Kelley’s post.

About Kelley:

Kelley Johnson Nikondeha is co-director of Amahoro Africa and international staff member of Community of Faith with her husband Claude. She’s a thinker, connector, advocate, avid reader and mother of two beautiful children. Kelley lives between Arizona and Burundi. She loves handwritten letters, homemade pesto and anything written by Walter Brueggemann.

Swimming Lessons with Auntie Ashley. Or: When to Step Out of the Boat

Do I want to spend my life guarding towels or walking on water?

By Ashley Mandanici | Twitter: @ashleymandanici

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Life Confession: I cannot swim.

Do not get me wrong, I have tried! I have tried, and failed miserably. Seriously! Never have so many swimming teachers at the YMCA been so disappointed with a pupil than they have been with me. “Back when I was a kid” (which is how I’ll start this story when I later explain to my children why we can’t go to the pool), they used to break the swimming class levels into colours, yellow being the first level. I failed yellow three times.

I say all this to say: even though the thought of swimming makes me want to throw up in my mouth, I love being on a boat! Few friends believe this because they know how pathetic I am when faced with even the possibility of having to swim. However, the truth remains: being on a boat is awesome.

I have compiled my own list of reasons why I prefer being on a boat, rather than actually swimming in the water:

-       Sitting on a boat requires no skill level or effort.

-       For me, the likeliness of drowning gets cut at least in half.

-       You can feel like you’re “experiencing” the sea without taking in the reality of it.

-       I have yet to hear about a person getting attacked by a shark while on a boat.

-       I do not have to wear my bathing suit, but am instead encouraged to wear a large vest that makes even the skinniest people look chunky.

These reasonings only work assuming I do not get myself into some sort of “Titanic” situation. In which case, I would succumb to the power of the seas, and wait for Jesus.

I regret to inform you that the number of friends I have who swim, outweighs the number of friends I have with a boat. This often means that as soon as the sun comes out, I resort to sitting on the sidelines during many social events. I have paid many an admission fee to water parks where I spent the day reading and guarding everyone’s towels.

“You were there?”

The other day I was remembering back on one of these adventures with a friend when she responded, “You were there?”

Um, yeah I was, friend. Don’t you remember coming back to your towel and your purse perfectly intact? Yeah, that was all me.

Apparently my involvement in our adventures has not been as memorable as I imagined it to be. This means one of two things: I need to learn how to swim, or I need to start acquiring friends with memberships to yacht clubs.

Shark-free and story-less

Apart from my literal need to “get out of the boat” and learn how to swim, there are many areas in life I need to take the leap off my comfortable, shark-free boat and start flailing around in the uncharted waters of Risk! I do not love the idea. What if I sink to my death? What if I look ridiculous (like a dog with two legs that can only swim in a circle)? What if I look chubby in my water wings?

I started thinking about the story of Peter walking on water with Jesus. You know the one—where Peter walked on the water with Jesus? (I know. I have a gift of making the Bible come alive!) I have read this passage of scripture many times, but this last time I had one looming question at the end of the story—what about the other guys in the boat?

I wonder if they were choked they did not even try to walk on water. I wonder if they knew that at the end of the day their part of the story would be as interesting as me guarding towels at the water park.

Sure Peter could have drowned, or been eaten by a large whale (it has happened) but he got his part in the story—an honorable mention at the very least.

Abandoning Ship

Matthew 14:28 “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”

In a little under four months, I am embarking on a rather exciting/frightening adventure—I am going to Uganda for five months to serve at Watoto Childcare Ministry. I am abandoning all of my ships—the financial security of my job, the safety of my country, the comfort of my familiar friends—and I am jumping into the water. I am kind of over being the girl on the sidelines holding everyone’s towels. I am going to show up … and people are going to remember I was there!

I cannot give you a timeline on the swimming thing yet. Hey Tina Francis, what do you say to taking up water ballet with me? You’ll learn how to dance, I’ll learn how to swim—two birds, one stone.

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So, my SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• What are some of the ships you need to abandon?
• Are you finding yourself on the sidelines or in the center of the action?
•  What is one skill you don’t have that you wish you did?

About Ashley:

My name is Ashley and I am the Children’s Ministry Coordinator at Relate Church in Surrey, B.C. My mission is to develop the God-given potential in every child who crosses my path *Insert Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” here*. I love all things jazzy, particularly music, and I tend to break into song throughout the day for no apparent reason. I blog here and tweet @AshleyMandanici