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

Senior Moments That Matter: Thank you, Connie

“I desperately needed a mother, but found myself living in a very small town in my aunt’s driveway, sharing a camper trailer with my father.”

By Daniela Schwartz | Twitter: @dannyschwartz
Today I want to tell you about Connie. Every month I lead a group of faithful moms on a visit to our local seniors home. We bring our young children and babies and the seniors love our little visits.

From our very first visit, I connected with the lovely Connie. She reminded me of my grandmother who passed away at a very tender time in my life.

Tender Years

My parents had just separated. I had moved away from my mother to follow my twin sister who felt obligated to take care of our father. My father was falling into a deep pit of alcoholism and drug addiction. It was a very lonely time in my life. We had moved to live with my aunt and her family. My grandma was the only maternal person in my life.

I was 10 years old. My body was changing; I was changing.

I desperately needed a mother, but found myself living in a very small town in my aunt’s driveway, sharing a camper trailer with my father. Not the big kind, but the kind you put on the back of a pick-up truck. My grandma and my sister felt like all I had left in the world.

Every night I sat with her in the living room. She told stories, tried to teach me French and had the most beautiful, pure white hair. She had brown freckles everywhere which she told me were liver spots. And she smelled like Oil of Olay.

She made me toast and coffee for breakfast every morning and filled my maternal void. She loved me and I loved her.

One morning I was up, getting ready for school when I heard her call out in fear. I ran to her room, but was brushed aside by my aunt. I peered in from the door. Something was wrong. My Grandma was crying, saying she couldn’t walk. She had had a stroke in her sleep that night.

About a month later my Grandma passed away. She was the first person I loved who died.

I felt shattered and misplaced.

At that point, I’d experienced more than one person should have to go through in a lifetime. Following her death, one of the most difficult things I had to do, was open my heart again. I had guarded my heart for years and it’s been quite the journey with God who continuously presents me with opportunities to love.

I didn’t expect our seniors visits to be one of those opportunities.

When I first met her, Connie seemed too sharp-minded to be in the home. She read widely and I even brought her books from home to add to her library. But as time went on, I could see the disease attacking her mind, started to win.

Connie started to fill a soft space in my heart, a place that stilled echoed with the loss of my beloved grandma. It was a place I had abandoned as a heartbroken ten-year-old, unable to cope with the amount of loss life had doled out.

This past Christmas we had our second Christmas visit with our seniors. We dressed in our best and brought special gifts for the kids to hand out. I had it on my list to pick up a book as a special gift for Connie. At my last visit, when saying goodbye, she mentioned how it had been a rough year for her healthwise and I wanted to do something special for her. Although I did not get around to picking up that book, I thought I could just pop in after our visit one day and drop it off.

On my arrival, the Recreation Coordinator quickly pulled me to the side. She knew I’d be looking for Connie and told me the news: Connie had passed away.

I tried to absorb the shock. Over the next hour, I bit back the flood of tears. I concentrated on decorating cookies, singing carols and looking intently into the faces of the seniors I had come to know … Suddenly I wanted to stop time.

When we came to the end of our visit, I pushed through the exit doors and let go of all the tears I’d been holding in. I cried off and on for the rest of that day. The grief was unexpected, but important.

I had been so afraid to open my heart again; to love and expose myself to the possibility of deep loss. But Connie awakened a part of me that was dormant and hurting, making me aware that maybe the things I instinctively avoid, may hold a key to unlocking the biggest miracles.

I now understand it is better to have loved and lost.

Visiting these seniors also opened my eyes to the treasure our elders are. I think maybe because of the loss of my grandmother, I used to resent old age and what it represented, but today, when I see a senior struggling with a bag or a door, I jump to help, not because they are helpless, but because it’s my honor to serve these treasures in our society.

For that I have to thank Connie.

____________________________

About Daniela:
Daniela is stepping into the role of stay-at-home mom. She loves Jesus, her husband and kids and jumps feet first into opportunities to serve in her community. Daniela lives by this statement, “Preach the gospel always, use words when necessary.” She loves to live life big and laughs a lot. She blogs with her twin sister Trinity at Lime in the coconuts.

Launching Global Mothers: Finding My Purpose in Another’s Dream

” … what began as an invitation to orchestrate my dad’s dream, has turned into an opportunity to shape my own.”

By Katie Mogan Graham

I spent the first twenty odd years of my life thinking I was meant to be an artist. It didn’t really matter what kind, just someone who spent her days making things beautiful (and being allowed to make her living quarters messy as she did so). I loved to draw and design costumes as a child. This was followed by a brief love affair with pottery and then a longer relationship with photography in high school. At university I decided to major in Art History (aka studying other people who made the world beautiful) and I worked at a gallery until I graduated.

The heady, idealistic phase of believing my papers actually made an impact on the world around me, ended abruptly as I entered “the workforce.” Braced with my best imitation of an “office outfit,” I spent three years trying to add beauty to my cubicle-d surroundings (and sometimes their inhabitants). I organized events, decorated lunchrooms, styled photo shoots, made elaborate presents for my colleagues’ birthdays, but still felt that my nine-to-five beautification project fell short of what I could really do, if given the opportunity. Convinced that I could do more, I ended up leaving my steady salary to start my own business dedicated solely to my love of fashion, events and beauty.

I called myself “the urban stylist” and spent my days cruising stores on Robson Street in Vancouver for the latest trends. I spent nights attending fashion shows. I enjoyed the freedom to plan my days however I liked, and particularly loved writing for local fashion publications. Still, as the months progressed, I sensed something wasn’t quite right. It could be that I had recently met a really nice plaid-wearing guy from a small town “Up North,” or maybe the massive pile of credit card bills were finally starting to take their toll. There are probably many reasons why this latest incarnation of my artistic dream didn’t work out, but the deciding factor was being asked to help someone else live theirs.

A Dream

In 2010, my dad asked me to help him a launch an organization that had been his dream for over twenty years. He had the vision and the means to support it, but he wanted someone with an arts background to get it off the ground. The idea was to create market access for impoverished artisans around the world. We would partner with development organizations to ensure wages were fair and profits were split between the artisans and community development projects. In addition to increased demand for their products, we would also provide the artisans with design ideas to appeal to North American consumers. I would be in charge of designing and choosing the products and creating our brand, an artistic challenge too enticing to turn down.

In the last two years, what began as an invitation to orchestrate my dad’s dream, has turned into an opportunity to shape my own. It’s not what I ever would have envisioned for my life, and yet it satisfies my desire to create and find beauty. I don’t make things, but I help people make them, and somehow that is much more satisfying. The women may not step off the pages of Vogue, but they are far more beautiful than any model I have met.

So yes, I could do more–support more charities, volunteer for more events, tithe more, give more time. I could also spend less on lattes, watch fewer reruns on Netflix, gossip less, whine less. I could do these things, but I’ve decided that my purpose, what I was truly made to do is to take what I love and use it to connect with others. I can’t delete my past, so I intend to let it continue shaping my future.

 Launch

Tomorrow, Saturday May 12th, we (Global Mothers) are celebrating the last two years of research and preparation by throwing a big party!

The timing is actually quite perfect as it is both Mother’s Day weekend and World Fair Trade Day–basically our organization in a nutshell. We are inviting everyone to come and join us as we share information about our artisans, their products and the work that the NGOs are doing in their communities. There will be live music, interactive drum workshops, songs and stories for kids provided by Vancouver mom/songwriter Sheree Plett, a whole kids zone with face painting, crafts and a photo booth, as well as multiple screenings of our short film, “Buy Good”. Everyone who attends can enter our draw to win Global Mothers products, as well as munch on delicious food prepared by the amazing ladies who run The Banqueting Table. We’d love to share Global Mothers Day with you, so drop by on Saturday, May 12th anytime from 12pm-4pm. Regent College: 5800 University Blvd. on the UBC Campus. You can check out our facebook page here or download our GM launch event poster here.

__________________________

About Katie:

I am that person who stays up late on Tuesday nights, watching kitten videos on Youtube. I am also the person who routinely eats milk duds and grape juice for dinner while watching said videos–information I don’t typically share with anyone. I am the happy newly wed wife of one lovely Northern BC fellow, who loves me despite my “endearing” quirks. When I am not tearing-up at the sight of kittens yawning in their sleep, I manage a non-profit, called Global Mothers. It takes me places I never thought I would go, introduces me to women I am honoured to have met, and challenges me to be more of who I was made to be.

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.

Can a Mother Forget the Child She Has Born?

“Just a few weeks ago we had to call the police, because a mother was prostituting her own daughter.”

By Danielle Strickland | Twitter: @djstrickland

Mothers are amazing. At least that’s what Hallmark says.

I’m always a bit conflicted around Mother’s Day. It’s not just the commercialism and sentimentalism and obvious manipulated emotionalism of the day in our culture–it’s also the fact that my own reality and the world of the people where I live and serve are so vastly different.

My mother is amazing.There’s no doubt about that. She’s the spitting image of  Hallmark propaganda–actually, thinking about it now makes me think she might have taken some kind of special training. Always kind and considerate, full of love, understanding and perseverance. Not too soft, not too hard. I mean, really, I’ve been extremely blessed.

On the other hand there are the people I serve and work with every day.They often have a different story: abandonment, neglect, abuse and almost every kind of unimaginable thing. Just a few weeks ago we had to call the police because a mother was prostituting her own daughter. It’s a sick world.

So, my conflict grows.

This must also be on God’s mind because He wrote an incredible verse in Isaiah 49:15 that explains this tension much better than I can. “Can a mother forget the child she has born?” The question is asked by a prophet as a rhetorical one, but it hangs in the air. What you want to do is respond with a big fat “No!” and you even want to believe it. But if we are honest, we know that the answer is “Yes”–tragically, through brokenness or sinfulness, a mother can forget the child she has born. But then the Scripture goes on: “ … even though she may forget–I will never forget you. I have engraved you on the palm of my hand.” God answers with the Truth.

This isn’t Hallmark, but it would make a great Mother’s Day card for a lot of people I know. Even though she may forget, I will never forget. The reality of the situation is that every person who is born, is not born by the will of a human alone. The willingness or goodness of the parent does not determine the value of the child. For GOD has planned and willed that people are born. His desire is to see life grow and prosper.

God is the ultimate Mother. We catch a glimpse of this through Jesus’ weeping over Jerusalem as he says out loud he longs to be like a mother hen who gathers her chicks into the nest (Matt. 23:37) … He longs for us like a mother. He has the ultimate Mother heart.

I first heard about this promise from Isaiah from my Dad. The most fascinating part about this tension in my life, is where my parents come from. They are both supposed to be statistics that reflect the world’s worst news. Both of them were discarded children–my Dad abandoned and my mother a casualty of addiction and violence; a ward of the court at ten years old. In adoption circles, she is a hard case–the kind people talk about with raised eyebrows … everyone knowing that the chances of her wholeness are almost nil because what life had dealt her.

But God intervened. Even though their mothers forgot, God didn’t. And this is true for everyone, everywhere. God will not forget–He cannot. The Bible tells us that He has knit us together in our mother’s womb … He has designed our lives before one day has come to be. This is incredible.

Catherine Booth (co-founder of The Salvation Army) used to tuck her kids into bed every night and tell them, “You were born to change the world.” And she was right. The psalmist says that the cry of an infant puts the enemy to flight–and he is right. Every yelp of life, every glimpse of hope, every small act of kindness and goodness in a dark world is evidence that God keeps his promises. Even though she may forget, I will never forget you. I have tattooed you on me. Forever.

Now take that, Hallmark.

_____________________________________

About Danielle
Danielle serves Jesus as the Corps Officer of Crossroads Community in Edmonton, Canada. Her passion is social justice, including establishing human trafficking response teams in local situations and giving leadership to the global team for the Stop The Traffik campaign. Danielle speaks and teaches around the world and has written several books: Just Imagine: the social justice agenda, Challenging Evil and The Liberating Truth: How Jesus Empowers Women. Danielle is married and has two sons.

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.

_________________________

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?

________________________

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.

Down We Go: Cultivating Creativity

It’s time to quit measuring creativity as talent and celebrate the act of creating, instead.

By Kathy Escobar | Twitter: @kathyescobar

“God is heaven and art.” — 5-year old girl at a Refuge art event

Everyone’s an artist.

God, the most brilliant creative artist of all time, put his image in us from the very beginning.

Creativity often gets buried beneath life, brokenness, circumstance and negative messages. Eventually, if we fail to cultivate it, we lose connection with it.

One purpose of the body of Christ is to help uncover God’s image in each other—to draw out the good, to call people to be who they are created to be, and to restore dignity, beauty, and purpose in others’ lives. 

On the downward path of Jesus, this becomes even more critical because of the amount of brokenness that’s present in people; a central part of our role in relationship with each other is to become dignity-restorers, people who call out God’s image in others.

I love that Jesus embodied dignity-restoration and empowers us to do the same.

As we become women who extend love mercy and compassion, welcome pain, honor doubt, diffuse power, practice equality, and pursue justice as Jesus-followers, others’ (and our own) dignity is restored.

There is also another beautiful and important way we can fan dignity into flame—through helping people draw out and express their natural creativity.

To create is to directly connect with the image of God within. 

The Sufi poet Rumi says, “Inside you is an artist you don’t know about.”

The creativity that is in each person is a natural reflection of God’s creative image inside of us. When it’s stifled, buried, stuck, or ignored, not only do we miss out, but the world misses out, too.

When we have a space for creativity to flourish, we become more and more complete. Through creative expression, we are participating in God’s ongoing work of redemption in this world.

Subtly or directly many have been taught, “We’re not artists,” or “We’re not that good at creative things.” This usually isn’t the original message we were taught as kids. For most of us, when we were younger, we probably didn’t think twice about creating, making, trying, risking and participating. Watching my kids is so inspiring because I see slivers of how free I used to be creatively.

Over time, though, many of us grew older and began to edit ourselves, hold back instead of participate, evaluate and critique ourselves instead of freely sharing. Slowly, many of us became closed to creativity.

We began to take ourselves too seriously.

We began to lose our freedom.

And we get a lot of messages that say creativity is only for “artists” (as in ones who are trained in it) and that we don’t have anything to offer.

Unfortunately, many church systems we’ve been part of have directly perpetuated this kind of closed-door policy to creativity because they’ve adopted a professional, “only the good ones get to play” mentality. Often, average musicians don’t get a chance. Pretty people are the ones who sing on stage. Art shows are reserved for the talented and screened for submissions.

We’ve forgotten that the beauty that’s in each other–whether it’s deemed good enough, or not, by a man-made measuring stick–needs a place to be nurtured, a forum in which to be revealed.

Part of the downward journey is becoming people who cultivate creativity—our own and also the creativity in others.

It seems like one of the most helpful ways we can begin to cultivate creativity is to quit measuring creativity as talent. We have all kinds of imaginary rules about what makes someone an artist and what doesn’t.

Here’s what I keep learning: We’re all artists. Every single human being on the planet. It just looks different for each of us. The way to call it out is to stop comparing ourselves or assume that only the best and the brightest can play.

Most of us default toward self-criticism. When challenged to do something that requires creativity, many of us tend to put a disclaimer on it—”This isn’t that good; I am not that good of an artist; mine is not nearly as good as his or hers.” You name it and we can find a way to self-deprecate! I tested this theory recently at a group experience facilitated by a friend. When she asked everyone to share their very simple pieces, the majority found ways to minimize, compare or somehow put down their work.

It’s so telling!

Shame, fear and lack of confidence invade so many our lives. It robs us of so much freedom.

The Kingdom of God is a place to break the bonds of shame, fear and lack of confidence. 

At The Refuge, our faith community, we try to cultivate a spirit of creativity in all kinds of little and big ways. We encourage people to try things they’ve wanted to try. We host open share creative nights where anyone can play. We call each other out of our creative comfort zones. Each and every time, I see the bonds of shame, fear, and low self-confidence break and God’s image reflected. Not only in others, but in me, too.

In the words of a five-year-old at one of our open share evenings, God really is heaven and art.

_____________________________

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

• What are you learning about the healing power of creativity these days?
• How can you cultivate it in your own life and draw out God’s image in others, too?

About Kathy:

Kathy Escobar co-pastors The Refuge, an eclectic faith community in North Denver dedicated to those on the margins of life and faith. She blogs regularly about life and faith at www.kathyescobar.com and just released a new book called, Down We Go–Living out the Wild Ways of Jesus in Action. She lives in Arvada, Colorado with her husband, Jose, and five kids.

Image credit: bhollar

Reaching Through the Crowd for Holy: The Power of Tenacity

“Like a stranger in a crowd, she reached through life’s thick noise and laid finger on my skin, asking …”

By Idelette McVicker | Twitter: @idelette

vi. Reach: to move toward something in order to touch or grasp it

Girl gets on a bus and travels three days across the country to reach a place where she’s heard she may find Freedom.

Swiss girl ignores noise and naysayers, pushes through red tape and bureaucratic objections and gets on a plane for the country where she believes she’s meant to live.

Woman thinks doors have closed, but listens to the still, small voice in her heart and tries the one more thing. She pushes in, pushes through and the holy doors finally–finally!–swing open wide and welcome.

It would have been easy not to. Easy to give up. Easy to stop for a latte, instead. Not to push and reach and stretch and lean in to touch the skin of the Holy One.

The crowds were so thick.

It would have been fully understandable not to.

It would have been easy to stay right where she’s at.

But what would she have missed?

______________________________

My phone beeped with a Twitter text. Direct Message (Twitterspeak) on a Saturday night from a girl in another city who is both facebook and Twitter friend—enquiring if perhaps we could Skype sometime? Voice to voice. Heart to heart.

Like a stranger in a crowd, she reached through life’s thick noise and laid finger on my skin, asking for an hour of my attention.

I already had to postphone once, so this–her second ask–compels me to look at my calendar. The seven times 24-hours of the week brimming with the demands and joys of life.

Monday. Booking a birthday party for the seven-year-old. Buying invitation cards. Writing invitations. Driving kidlets to and from school. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Same Monday–pushing through the details of booking a three-city trip to Africa. Arrangements and travel plans and emails and phone calls.

Tuesday. Mom, far away, going in for surgery. Calling South Africa on the other side of our day to be “with,” somehow.

Wednesday. One meeting in the morning. Two meetings out in the evening.

Thursday. Hosting ten bookclub darlings at my home with papaya salsa and shiraz and connecting over written words.

All week: Spiritual mom fighting her own fight, a little closer.

And through this life-that-is-a whole-lotta-life, I also make dinner and school lunches and pour Rice Crispies into three blue porcelain bowls and squeeze in a hug for husband on his way to work.

But she asked. And there was something in the asking, the persisting—the reaching through the crowd—that crystallized into an appointment on my calendar.

Friday. 11am.

Speak to the Bones

When Friday morning came, my four-year-old had a playdate. The house fell quiet and I opened my pink Message–time feeling so much like the most delicious luxury–to a favourite passage in Ezekiel. The 37^th chapter.

“Breath of Life,” the heading. About dry bones: a picture of death, finality, impossibility. A story of God and prophet, standing side by side and the Divine directing the human to speak Life to the already-past-hope emptiness.

And as prophet spoke, the bones started to rattle and stretch and move and come together. Until prophet-man saw that the bones had no breath in them and he’s instructed this time: “Prophesy to the breath.”

I opened my exercise book with the blue cover. Black pen moved to curve out sentences of scripture … a quiet practice to calm the rush within and let Spirit speak. Copying, like ancient scribe. I slow down and watch my pen move, writing these holy words on such ordinary paper.

Then it’s time. We Skype and in I hear about a past threaded with both filling hunger and denying hunger.

Moments of decision I know so very well in my own bones: whether I would choose good for my body because I have a body worthy of good things. Or whether I would give in to the inner battle, that wanting to deny deny deny self.

I have heard those words shouting from within: You are not worthy of a good feeding. You are not worthy of the nutrition and the time and the effort of feeding your body of what is good.

I have fought that voice over many feedings—including hasty Mommy days when I would chop veggies for the kids, but would neglect to set a plate for me. Who has time to sit and eat when you’re serving and feeding hungry mouths?

We talked about Jairus’ daughter and she shared how different it was to sit with this story in a room of women who struggled with denying self of good food. And how Jesus specifically instructed those around the awakened daughter to feed her.

“ … he told them to give her something to eat.” –Mark 5:43

With the words from a holy hungry Friday post one week earlier still echoing powerfully in my spirit, I finally asked: May I pray for you?

Yes, please, she said.

We prayed and invocation streamed from lips and heart.

Speak to the Hunger, I heard.

And I thought about Jairus’ daughter and girls everywhere who need to rise up and eat, eat, eat and so I prayed more, all the while doing my best to listen from Above  …  Praying:

That she would eat from the goodness of God

and the feast of friendship

Eat eat eat

from the gift of community.

Eat from a table of purpose and know what she is to do in this world.

Eat from unconditional Love.

Eat, girl, from Value. Even swallow Worth whole, if you like.

Eat from Heaven and be nourished, satisfied, full …

Amen.

Talitha Koum

I dolloped it out in words as best I could from a heart so hungry for more girls to awaken and rise and eat and get well.

The words flowed strong and when I looked up, she was wiping tears.

What gift, I thought. For me as much as her. What gift that we could meet and she could find nourishment in these prayer words. What gift that I could find such inspiration in her faith–this woman-girl reaching through the crowd, asking for what she needed. 

That holy holy holy moment on a Friday morning reminded me:

- What power in this faith-stretched Asking for what we need.

- What power in sharing stories and bending hearts together before Heaven.

- What power, so readily available when we are willing to sink our teeth into the knowing-that-we-know and push through the crowd to find Holy right there at the end of our reach.

______________________________________

My dear SheLoves friends:

• I would love to hear a story of when your tenacity led to a Holy touch.
• What do you need or want to push through the crowd for in this season? Today?
• Who or what represents the crowd keeping you from where you want to go?
• O, so many days I need to eat from patience. Some days I need to eat from forgiveness. Today I need to eat from quiet confidence. What do you need to eat from today?
• Any other comments or thoughts?

_________________________________

About Idelette:
I like soggy cereal and I would like to go to every spot on the map of the earth to meet our world’s women.

I dream of a world where no women or girls are for sale. I dream of a world where women and men are partners in doing the work that brings down a new Heaven on earth.

My word for the year is “Roar,” but I have learned it’s not about my voice rising as much as it is about our collective voices rising in unison to bring down walls of injustice.

I have three children and this place–right here, called shelovesmagazine.com–is my fourth baby. I am African, although my skin colour doesn’t tell you that story. I am also a little bit Chinese, because my heart lives there amongst the tall skyscrapers of Taipei and the mountains of Chiufen. Give me sweet chai and I think I’m in heaven. I live in Vancouver, Canada and I pledged my heart to Scott 11 years ago.

I believe in kindness and calling out the song in each other’s hearts. I also believe that Love covers–my gaps, my mistakes and the distances between us. I blog at idelette.com and tweet@idelette.

Down We Go: Why Prepositions Matter

FROM THE ARCHIVES:

When it comes to serving Jesus in the trenches, there’s a huge difference between “to,” “for” and “with.”

By Kathy Escobar | Twitter: @kathyescobar
________________________________________________________________

Many people I know are tired of just talking about theology or participating in yet another Bible Study that increases knowledge but not practice. They are hopping off the “upwardly mobile” path that’s focused on bigger, better, and more successful and choosing instead the slow, scary path of descent–into the trenches, the margins of life and faith … the places where Jesus seemed to go.

But where do we start? What does it mean to live out the wild ways of Jesus in practice, not theory? To me, it means cultivating a life of extending love, mercy and compassion, welcoming pain, honoring doubt, diffusing power, practicing equality, pursuing justice, expressing creativity, and celebrating freedom. These eight core practices are explored deeply throughout Down We Go: Living Into the Wild Ways of Jesus.

But first, before diving in, we need to continually consider the importance of three prepositions that matter when it comes to a downwardly mobile life–the difference between “to”, “for” and “with.”

Power Shift

I was first exposed to this idea through my friends at the Center for Transforming Mission (www.ctmnet.org). They are dedicated to equipping grassroots leaders who are journeying with people in hard places around the world. Their work is built upon the premise that authentic transformational relationships cannot be built upon power or inequality. Even though many of us would nod and say “of course!” the reality is that many of the missional models we’ve been taught perpetuate a divide between “us” and “them” that is sometimes conscious, sometimes unconscious.

Considering these three prepositions has really shaken up so much of what I believe about living in the trenches with people.

• The Preposition “To” is Paternal and Creates Oppression

In most Christian and typical mission-oriented circles, the most prevalent preposition has become the word “to.”   The style of the preposition “to” is paternal. This idea is built on principles like:

“I have something I need to give to you.”

“I have wisdom I need to impart to you.”

“Here’s the advice, biblical truth or kernel of life-changing knowledge I have to give to you.” 

The problem with the preposition ”to” is that it begins with an “I’m up and you’re down” perspective of power that is patronizing and disempowering. Someone has more resources, knowledge and put-togetherness than the other.  This posture often ends up making the one on the receiving end feel like a project or even a loser.

• The Preposition “For” is Maternal and Creates Codependence

The preposition “for” is another easy reflex for most of us.  The style of the preposition “for” is maternal.  It’s when we want to do things for a hurting person.

“Let me makes these calls for you.”

“I don’t want you to hurt, so let me fix this part for you.”

“Your anxiety is giving me anxiety, so let me do what I can to take care of this anxiety for you.”

This is my reflex and the one I continually have to guard against in the work I do. The problem with this kind of approach to others is that it creates codependence. Helpers get sucked into helping and end in a one-up role where we need to take care of the person, make things happen for them, or remain in a position where we are always “serving.” It stays on those terms and remains a one-way relationship.

• The Preposition “With” is Incarnational and Creates Transformation

The preposition “with” changes everything. It means:

“I am with you in this moment, will stand alongside you, and am not walking ahead of you but alongside you.”

“I am in the same boat; I struggle, too, but my struggle may just look different.”

“I want to share life with you, not just take care of you or tell you what to do.”

“You have some things I need to learn from you, too. Let’s learn from each other.”

“With” removes imbalanced power from the relationship. It recognizes the fundamental dignity of the person and says, “I am here with you.”  It begins with listening for the deeper story that informs the suffering. It waits patiently for the person to ask for help, if needed, because sometimes people aren’t ready for help–sometimes people just need people to sit “with” as they work it out on their own.

Authentic

There is no question—”with” is scarier.  It means I let others know me instead of hiding behind doing good works at a protective distance. I make myself vulnerable and let others into my life, experience and heart, instead of just taking care of them to feel like I’m “helping.” Within the professional, clinical culture, as it is customarily taught, these kinds of “with” relationships may look like bad boundaries.

I understand how easy it is to stick with “to” and “for” modes of relationship. They protect us because they keep us in a place of power. They keep the focus off of us and on the other person. In the end, we don’t need “them;” they just need “us.” Even though that’s easier, I believe that “with each other” relationships create true transformation and are core to a life of downward mobility where there is no divide between “us and them.” 

_______________________________________________________

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What do you think about the difference between “to, for, and with” relationships?
• Which one is easiest for you to default toward?

_______________________________________________________

About Kathy:

Kathy Escobar co-pastors The Refuge, an eclectic faith community in North Denver dedicated to those on the margins of life and faith. She blogs regularly about life and faith at www.kathyescobar.com and just released a new book called, Down We Go–Living out the Wild Ways of Jesus in Action. She lives in Arvada, Colorado with her husband, Jose, and five kids.

Image credit: Chairs, by Peter Hellebrand

Between Isaacs and Samuels: The Space Where God Disappoints

“What is the name of the space where God disappoints?”

By Enuma Okoro | Twitter: @TweetEnuma

God keeps tripping over my beggar bowl and spilling its meager contents.

So I am going to stop begging.

My heart is weary from begging.

I know why Sarah did what she did with Hagar and Abraham. I know how Eli found Hannah, drunk with the pain of prayer. Right or wrong, God disappoints. Me. You. All of us at some time.

Yes. God is faithful. I know of Isaac and Samuel. God Laughs. God Hears.

But what of the space between laughter and hearing, between Isaacs and Samuels? What is the name of the space where God disappoints?

That space is the place where many people dwell, where temporary settlements and makeshift camps start to take on the permanency of home. So what is the name of that place? I want to validate the reality of that place with a name. I want us to learn to speak openly about that place and to remember the people who live there.

Where God disappoints.

Where children are not born.

Where men and women walk one-by-one instead of two-by-two.

Where loaves and fishes do not multiply.

Where the poor in spirit or body do not seem blessed.

Where the faithfulness of God seems to be just a rumor.

Who are the priests that dwell with the people between God’s laughter and God’s hearing? What are the sacraments in the nameless place where God disappoints? If nothing else, I want the bread and the wine, the faint reminder that when the body of God was broken and the blood of God was shed, and the Son of God cried out words of forsakenness, that at one time God even disappointed God.

So maybe that is the name of the place–the long sad sing-song name of “Eli Eli lama sabachthani?”

I can live with that naming because it comes from the very mouth of God. Have you heard of that place? Do you know people who live in that place? Can you serve from that place? Can you love from that place? Maybe it is possible to set up camp in that place because I know that God has been there and whatever spaces God has been in, God somehow still remains.

And I know what happens after the Golgatha cry, after Sarah’s scheming and Hannah’s weeping. God moves from disappointing and invites us to new realities, new places where we shuffle our feet reluctantly, tiptoe carefully, uncertain if we can trust the ground, if we can move from pain to healing. Uncertain if we can trust the  God who Rises, who laughs, who listens.

__________________________

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

• Have you ever found yourself in that space where God disappoints?
• How have you met (or are you meeting) God in that place?
• What do you name that place?
• Any other thoughts or comments?

________________________________

About Enuma

Enuma was born in the United States and raised in Nigeria, Ivory Coast and England. She holds a Master of Divinity degree from Duke University Divinity School where she served as Director for the Center for Theological Writing. She is an author, speaker, spiritual director and continues to lead workshops and retreats on varied topics engaging the literary and visual arts, and spiritual disciplines.

Her spiritual memoir, Reluctant Pilgrim: A Moody Somewhat Self-Indulgent Introvert’s Search for Spiritual Community (Fresh Air Books, 2010) was a winning finalist in the 2010 USA Best Books Award and received the 2011 National Indie Excellent Book Awards Winning Finalist in “Spirituality and African-American Non-Fiction.” She is co-author with Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove of Common Prayer: Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals

Okoro’s new forthcoming book, “Silence,” will be released in Summer/Fall 2012

She blogs at Reluctant Pilgrim on Patheos about women’s ways of knowing and engaging the holy. You can find her online at www.enumaokoro.com

Image credit: Woman with bowl, by Justin Hubbard