Crafting and controlling our image on the world wide web. My sister and I joke that we should start a site called realmom.com where we do weekly photo challenges like: “Go take a picture of your toilet seat. RIGHT NOW.”
It wouldn’t be pretty.
And much of life isn’t. But it is real.
And, like our friend Pam Hogeweide recently reminded us, as followers of Jesus, we should be the most human humans of all.
For 31 days I fasted the interwebs in all its forms. No google mapping. No email. No blogging, online news or Facebook. Each day I type-wrote a letter to my friend, Marisa, chronicling the journey.
I was seeking to …
enliven my real relationships and filter out the extra
open my ears to God’s voice and my eyes wide to the world around me, while the hum of my online life fell quiet
remove my go-to time-fillers: contextless information via newsfeeds, Facebook and Google Reader
challenge me to engage with new ideas, books, conversations, I’d tend to miss otherwise
There is something about the immediacy, the therapeutic clickity-clack of the typewriter that allows for a different kind of writing. The kind that spills from the heart rather than the head. The kind that’s intended for a single, known reader than a large, unknown audience.
Stepping off-line for 31 days got my hands moving, disciplined me to write every single day with or without a four-month-old and a two-year-old clambering about my knees. It was a luxury I could afford, being home with the kids and not bound to online work through an out-of-house job. But it was a sacrifice.
I had to say goodbye to my online comforts.
It made me feel small. It showed me I am small.
It taught me how to trust, that the world keeps on turning without my words, without my likes and dislikes.
It revealed the beauty of unplanned moments, reminding me that chance encounters beat out an online connection any day.
I learned that the smartphone check-ins I make multiple times a day are not actual time-savers but time-suckers. That if I, as a mama-of-two, want to engage with new ideas, read books, study, create — then I have to save up all of those two-minute, one-minute, ten-minute windows and bank them for things I really want to do. Like write poetry. Phone my Grandma. Skype my sister. Read The New Yorker.
I remembered that my children are watching and practicing every move I make. Word and deed. For better or worse.
I discovered the peace, the quietness of mind, I had been hungering for.
Christina is a Toronto-based writer whose articles on culture, religion and technology have appeared in Vancouver, UPPERCASE and Geez magazine. She, her husband and two young children attend Grace Toronto Church.
Repair: To restore by putting together what is torn or broken—to restore to a sound or healthy state.
2010 was a hard year. 2010 broke my heart several times over. 2010 left me in desperate need of repair. I walked into the New Year of 2011 with one request of God: fix me. If I learned one thing this year, I learned this: He’s working on it.
The most monumental moment of my repair year had to have been my trip to Uganda. Standing amidst 400 orphans singing “Call upon the name of the Lord and be saved” can really put a life into perspective. Uganda was a balm for my soul.
My year can be summed up with this blessing from the book, “In the Sanctuary of Women”:
From all that is broken let there be beauty
From what is torn, jagged, ripped, frayed
Let there be not just mending’s but meetings unimagined
May God in whom nothing is wasted gather up every scrap, every shred, every shard,
And make of them new paths, doorways, worlds.
–Jan L. Richardson
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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
Image credit: Girl pushes car, by Belovodchenko Anton
On Cleopatra,Bon Iver and taking a fearless moral inventory.
by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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It was Canadian Thanksgiving and I was getting a pedicure at the Korean nail salon ten minutes away from my house.
I love pedicures. Who doesn’t?
However, on the rare occasion that I get a pedicure, I ask myself, “Really, Tina? Is this kind of decadence necessary?” I feel an odd cocktail of guilt and pleasure. My overactive imagination conjures up an image of Queen Cleopatra perched on an opulent chaise longue, being fed seedless grapes and fanned with peacock feathers. Not to mention that there’s something oh-so vulnerable about handing someone your feet. (I would have been a hot mess if Jesus wanted to wash my feet! #worstdiscipleever)
In an attempt to ignore the guilt-induced contractions (incidentally, 30 seconds apart), I closed my eyes and leaned deep into the massage chair kneading into my sore lower back.
My brittle state of zen suddenly interrupted by the words:
“I don’t want to lose him. I love him.”
My eyes shot open. I sat up in my chair and tried to look discretely in the direction of the voice. Such a vulnerable confession, in such a public space.
The voice belonged to the nail technician across the room; let’s call her Nat. “Registration for my classes end soon,” Nat said looking up at her client, “If he wants me to move to Montreal, he has to give me an answer soon.”
“What did he say when you told him about your registration deadline?” the girl getting the pedicure inquired. Let’s call her Jen.
Nat: He hasn’t had a chance to reply to my emails yet. He is really busy at work. [Red flag #1] Jen: Oh … kay … Nat: It’s expensive for me to keep flying to Montreal. Jen: Does he visit you? Nat: He can’t leave work right now because he is trying to get a promotion. [Red flag #2] Jen: Well, can you share the price of the air ticket? Nat: He’d love to, but he is paying a big mortgage on his house. [Red flag #3]
Nat: I feel like I am losing him …
You neverhad him, I thought.
Nat: I just need to know if I should register for next semester’s classes. Please register for the classes, I thought.
Nat: I don’t want to be pushy … but I really need an answer.
You have an answer, I thought.
My heart broke for Nat.
“If he loved you …” Jen paused, “he would give you a proper answer.”
BOOM!
Truth bomb.
Jen knew what was going on. I knew what was going on. The guy sitting in the Starbucks across the street knew what was going on. “He doesn’t love you!” we wanted to yell.
The sobering truth was obvious to everyone but Nat.
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How many times have you looked at a friend and thought, “You have so much potential. I wish you would just open your eyes and stop making excuses.”
Crazy thought: What would happen if we took our own advice?
When I was in elementary school, my report card had a small section that graded things like punctuality, cleanliness and potential. Even if my report card was mostly peppered with A’s, I always got a B in Potential. “Room for improvement. Not operating at full potential.” My mom would always tap on the column and say, “Imagine if you really applied yourself, Tina?”
Nat was gambling her promising future for a boy who wouldn’t even respond to her emails. I couldn’t help but wonder what her life would look like if she broke up with Montreal-guy, registered for her classes, kicked butt at school, worked her dream job and waited for real love.
Actually, what would my life look like:
If I cut my losses?
If I worked really hard?
If I stopped blaming my circumstances?
If I made (painfully hard) wise choices?
“The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
Earlier this week I was listening to a podcast by Andy Stanley called “Recovery Road: Taking Inventory” where he talks about the twelve-step program developed by Alcoholics Anonymous. He highlights Step 4 of the program: “Make a searching and fearless moral inventory.”
He talks about how only the whole truth can bring full recovery. The partial truth only achieves partial recovery.
I thought long and hard about the words “fearless moral inventory”. This would mean exposing all my shortcomings openly before God so that I could get to the root of the problem. Heck, I can’t overcome something I can’t spell out.
Andy asks to complete the sentence:
“The real reason I _________ is because ________.”
Here is a brief snippet from my fearless moral inventory:
The real reason I overeat is because … I’m numbing my pain.
The real reason I tell self-deprecating jokes is because … I don’t love myself.
The real reason I spend hours on the internet is because … I’m running away.
The real reason I don’t give hundred percent at work is because … I’m not doing what I love.
The answers are scary, but it is such a powerful exercise. Once I stop making excuses, I can start to make progress.
It dawned on me that I could take a “fearless moral inventory” because I am loved. Truly, madly, deeply loved. God loves me: emotional baggage, deep wounds, scars, flaws and all. I could stop kidding myself and just come clean. Stripping down the veneer of half-truths and looking at my ugly truth in the light of God’s unconditional love was liberating, healing and deeply transformative.
I can experience the full embrace of grace when I tell the full truth.
In honour of Nat’s tragic love story with “Montreal Guy,” here is Bon Iver’s rad (did I just say rad?) version of one of my all-time favourite songs, Bonnie Raitt’s classic “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” Enjoy!
Also, it’s not too late to buy SheLoves Christmas cards! All proceeds are sent to aid the famine relief in East Africa.
It all started when my friend Daniela (@DannySchwartz) was trying to get her son Owen to eat his dinner and the words, “There are starving children Africa” came tumbling out of her mouth. Her husband Ryan piped up, “Well, actually there is a famine.”
This SheLoves project was birthed out of the conviction of one mom sitting at a dinner table. One mom who wasn’t going to sit around waiting for the world to change. Or as she says, “We can’t do everything, but we can all do something.”
Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.
I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.
My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
On yellow submarines, high pressure washes and weathering life’s storms.
by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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My sister and I loved going to the car wash when we were kids. We would hold hands and squeal in anticipation as the tires slowly clicked onto the conveyor belt. For five minutes we could pretend that our car was a submarine. We’d even hum, “We all live in a yellow submarine” in a trance-like state as our dilated pupils soaked up the aquatic Cirque de Soleil production unfolding 360°around us.
“Again-Again!” I wanted to yell when we were done.
Now that I’m an adult, I find the exercise of washing a car in a rainy city like Vancouver utterly futile. You wash your muddy car, it’s shiny for twenty seconds, you take a right turn at the McDonalds and boom before you can say “Game on, Windex!”it starts to rain. Just like that, you’re back to square one. Muddy Car 2.0.
Having said that, I was meeting a new friend who I couldn’t afford to scare off (just yet), and since my car looked like it rolled off the set of Jurassic Park, I drove to the closest car wash.
I’m still not sure why, but that particular Saturday, I felt like a kid again. I let the soapy magic wash over my muddy car and myself as I documented the whole thing on my iPhone.
Strong chemical pre-soak ….
Blinding soft cloth wraparounds …
Low-hanging, ribboned cloth curtains …
High pressure wash …
Foggy … so foggy …
Pretty rivulets of water …
Finally, the forced air-dry …
Is it just me, or is the car wash a great analogy for life?
How many times have we gone through:
Strong chemical pre-soak – Harsh words, criticism, negativity, etc.
Blinding Wraparounds - Bad news, curve balls, unexpected disappointments, etc.
Low-hanging ribboned cloth curtains – Easily accessible distractions to numb the pain like food, TV, shopping, Facebook, etc.
High pressure wash – You think you’ve hit rock bottom and then it gets worse. Losing a loved one, job, health, etc.
Foggy … so foggy - Self-explanatory.
Pretty rivulets of water – Traces of hope: an encouraging phone call from a friend, getting approved for a loan, finding a part-time job until you get your dream job.
Forced air dry – Crossing the threshold, walking on fire and finally passing the test.
The fabulous news? There ‘s light at the end of the tunnel.
Here are three important lessons a car wash taught me about life:
1. Be still - The first instruction you receive at a car wash is:
“Put the vehicle into neutral, release brakes and refrain from steering. Failure to do so can cause an accident on the conveyor.”
I thought this was poignant. When chocolate pudding hits the fan, don’t we always do the opposite? We go into overdrive. We clench up. We swerve like maniacs. We fight the current. We spit into the wind. And it achieves absolutely nothing. “Failure to do so can cause an accident on the conveyor.” Hello, can I get an Amen?
This “being still” can be particularly difficult for those of us who are doers who need to cross things off to-do lists. The reason we are incapacitated in a crisis is because the old rules don’t apply. There are new variables and we don’t have a 10-step list that will take away the pain.
When nothing in life makes sense, we need to quieten down and listen for God’s voice. In other words, we need to breathe deeply (go into neutral), relax (release brakes) and give control to God (refrain from steering). *cue Carrie Underwood song “Jesus take the wheel.”* Ha-ha.
2. Move Forward: Okay, I know what you’re thinking, “How can I be still and move forward at the same time?” Wait, hear me out. One of the things that struck me about the car wash was the steady pace at which the car moved forward. The car didn’t accelerate during pre-soak or the high pressure wash or the forced air-dry. It simply stayed on course through each stage.
When I look back at the stormy seasons of my life, it was a slow and steady process of waking up, getting dressed and facing the day. There was never a quick-fix resolution. Regardless of how heavy-hearted and overwhelmed I felt, I put one foot in front of the other. I mastered the art of baby steps.
Real life is the opposite of a movie trailer. There are no fast cuts with whooshing sounds and action packed scenes. Sometimes it feels like the same boring scene. Over and over again. Nothing changes. No new characters. No music. #worstmovieever #whofundedthis
Real life is like planting a seed, giving it sunlight, watering it every day and seeing nothing. Then on a random Tuesday when you’re rushing out the door to catch the bus, you spot a tiny blade of green peeking through the soil and your heart leaps, your blood flows, your face beams. Suddenly, it was all worth it.
3. Give Thanks –I smiled when I saw the green signal flashing “Thank you” at the end of the car wash. The year 2011 has been incredibly kind to me. I made beautiful friends, read life-changing books, fought hard for things I care about and had a deep sense of forward motion. It is easy to give thanks in a place of abundance, fruitfulness and joy.
A Different Time
Earlier this week in a conversation with a dear friend, I was reminded of a barren time in my life. The Job season of my life. The earth was spinning madly and I had nothing to hold onto. My heart had been betrayed, my bank account depleted, my career prospects were bleak, my loved ones were suffering physically and financially. I was angry, livid and furious with God. How do you dig up gratitude in a place of emotional fatigue and famine?
I remember a particularly embarrassing meltdown after helping a friend with a garage sale a couple of summers ago. She asked the question, “How is the job search going?” and I lost it. Maybe I was just exhausted from carrying boxes, or maybe it was the hot summer sun, but I spewed tears, mucous and swear words for 15 minutes straight. I was a hot mess. Once the emotional explosion (tantrum) subsided, I crawled onto a sunlit spot on her couch and closed my eyes. The warm sun on my face, felt like a kiss from heaven and I went into neutral, released brakes and stopped steering. Just before falling asleep I whispered the words, “I’m sorry, God. I know you haven’t forgotten about me. Thank you for loving me even when I am an idiot.”
My life was still a mess when I woke up from that nap, but there was something about giving thanks in the midst of the pain that gave me enough strength for the next day.
Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.
I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.
My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
Our TGIF Tina is enjoying a well-deserved break today … Yes, we’re finally beginning to understand the ideas of #self-care & sustainability around here. But so we can all still get our Friday fix, we are recycling this fabulous post. TGIF! –idelette xoxo
My sister and I shared everything: Secrets, sins and socks.
On a typical Friday night you’d find us in the kitchen. Dress code: Pajamas. The faint strains of TLC’s ‘What Not to Wear’ on TV. We ate, vented and laughed about the misfortunes and highlights of the week.
My sister is a high school teacher with a wealth of anecdotes and a penchant for long play-by-play descriptions. She can take a seemingly mundane daily event and turn it into an epic trilogy. I, on the hand, usually play the part of listener: gasping, laughing and “omg-ing” on cue.
We had it down to a science.
Then she found a boy…
At first, I’d leave my reading light on and my door slightly ajar, waiting to talk to her when she got home. Usually I would be asleep, so the odd time, she’d stick her head in my room, grin sheepishly and give me the cliff-notes version of her night. There were no more play-by-play descriptions anymore.
Like clockwork, five minutes into our conversation her phone would ring. She’d mouth a silent sorry, before slipping out the door, her eyes dancing wildly with the excitement of a school-girl crush. On Saturday mornings, I’d catch her hurrying out the door for a breakfast date or a bike ride. Our morning chats over coffee and toast (mine: buttered; hers: drizzled with honey) were a distant memory.
Who was I going to sit with at church?
I found myself alone. A lot.
I felt lonely.
So I did what any normal lonely person would do. I turned to the Internet.
It started with an innocent tweet …
A photographer I admire and “follow” tweeted about a useful resource for learning how to use an off-camera flash. Before I knew it, I found myself deeply entrenched in the world of photography. I wanted to learn everything there was to learn. I spent my weekends reading my camera manual, puttering on Photoshop and stalking the blogs of talented photogs for inspiration and technique. I reached out to a talented local wedding photographer and offered to assist her. On weekends I wasn’t assisting, I was out on shoots building my portfolio.
I was hooked.
At first it was incredible. I felt alive. I was awake, alert and in awe of the beauty that surrounded me. I was looking at the world through the rose-coloured lens of my camera. I’d found my happy place.
Then she got married …
Why doesn’t anyone tell you that, after the wedding: the hugs, the dancing and the pictures you feel a tidal wave of grief? It felt like a breakup.
She was “my lobster!” (click on the link for F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reference)
I satiated my feelings with cake and spent the day in bed. I sobbed in the shower, into my pillow and while brushing my teeth. (Serious choking hazard, I don’t recommend it.)
Eventually the fog lifted and I realized I had to define mynew normal.
Overdrive
To numb the grief of missing my sister, in addition to photography, I started reading voraciously, did writing practice, signed up for guitar classes, began writing a weekly column for SheLoves and made new friends. In short, I found a way to occupy every waking minute of my day.
By March, the cracks began to surface. I was getting sick often. I had too many bad moods. I was falling asleep on the skytrain and missed my stop one too many times. I was a zombie running on three hours’ sleep and starting to feel like a crazy person.
I’d lost my joy.
Difficult Confession
Here I was writing a column called TGIF: Tina’s “Glee”-Inducing Fridays and by Friday, I was so exhausted I could barely manage a smile. Let alone exude glee. *Cue Alanis Morisette’s Ironic*
I made a list of all my current commitments and crossed off the items that were non-negotiables like work, family, church, etc. I made another list of people I had to talk to in light of my new priorities. I went through the grueling process of contacting each person and explaining how I had bitten off more than I could chew. Talk about humbling!
And then something incredible happened: The universe didn’t implode. The satellites stayed on course. Life moved on without skipping a beat.
My New Normal
I’ve learned to be okay with the occasional sting of loneliness. I know that if I need one-on-one “sister time” I can just ask for it. Besides, some things never change. My sister would drop everything in a heartbeat if I need her. What more does a girl need?
“She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.”
- George Elliot (aka Mary Ann Evans)
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I’d love to hear your thoughts:
- When was the last time you had to define a “new normal”?
- How did you cope?
Love you more than a slice of a crunchy baguette with a lavish slather of herb and garlic cream cheese.
xoxo,
Teen.
About: My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen. I am drawn to all that is fresh, spontaneous and creative.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice. ha.ha. Everything about food makes my toes curl. The only thing that excites me more than eating food is beautiful pictures of food.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
On ginger tea, the ugly cry, sista-friends and a few good men.
by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“I’d like to see your sweet face today!” I chirped on Idelette’s Facebook wall early Monday morning. “We need to process, unpack and revel.”
Idelette or Idli (as I like to call her) came over a little past noon on a rainy Monday afternoon. Now this wasn’t your average Monday visit. It was the Monday after conquering this behemoth undertaking.
We reflected over our 14-week “SheLoves Half-Marathon,” journey sipping on steaming cups of ginger tea, freshly cut mangoes, a homemade plum torte and banana chips. I’d hoped that spending time with her would give me words to define the full range of emotions I was feeling. We murmured the word “wow” a lot and smiled. Sip. I looked at the carelessly-strewn blue ribbon medal on my desk. It said, “Half-Marathon Runner.” Wow. On what parallel universe was I a half-marathon runner? Words couldn’t give shape to the enormity of what we were both feeling.
Sip.
I can always find words to express what I’m feeling but …
This was different.
This was significant.
This was sacred.
We had trained, toiled and triumphed. Mission accomplished. It’s hard to put into words what we (38 women + Josh) accomplished on Sunday, but if a picture tells a thousand words, then I think my entire half-marathon experience can be summed up in this one picture:
This is me, sobbing in my sister’s arms seconds after crossing the finish line. This wasn’t a polite sniff. A sentimental misty-eye. A feel-good teardrop.
This was a raw heart cry that emerged gushed out of the most tender part of my soul. If I weren’t crying in my sister’s arms, I would’ve probably been on my hands and knees, forehead to the ground, rocking myself back and forth weeping. This was me: stripped naked, head-spinning, heart-pounding, pushed to the very edge of my physical capacity and emotional sanity.
I had listened to the still small voice in my heart.
I had finished what I set out to do.
I had given it all.
In talking with my friend Kelley over Skype this week, I realized that a part of why I crying was because I could feel God’s incredible pleasure wash over me in that moment. So many times in the past I’ve procrastinated, taken the easy road and given up. For once in my life I kept my word, followed through and finished strong.
While I could talk about a million different things from the experience, here are the top three a-ha moments in the aftermath of running my first half-marathon:
1. Go fierce (big) or go home.
Meet my friend Njoki. I love this picture of us hugging just as she crossed the finish line! I want you to take a moment to look at her face. Go on. Scroll up. I’ll wait.
Primal, raw andfierce.
What you don’t know about the picture is that Njoki’s knee popped out of its socket at the 14km mark. This hardcore woman ran seven kilometers on a bum knee! She is such a fighter. I’ve mentioned this quote on TGIF before: “The difference between try and triumph is a little umph.” Njoki, gave it her umph alright. She ran across that line Saving Private Ryan style. In order to live a great life, to write a grand story, to leave behind a legacy you have to be fiercely committed to unleash the ferocious lioness within. And hey … if you need a solid cry later? We can hug it out over Ben & Jerry’s and watch Grey’s.
Lukewarm, mellow and laid-back can’t change the world. Fierce, relentless and a touch of crazy, just might.
2. Sisterhood is powerful.
At the 17km mark my left leg started to seriously cramp up. My calves were rock hard like coconuts. Every step was excruciating and to be honest, I didn’t know how I was going to finish. Enter stage right, a mini battalion of sista-friends.
When the girls saw me struggling to reach the finish line they ran out to support me. This of course made me so emotional I started to do the ugly cry, which is incidentally why I’m covering my face. Hearing your friends say predictable things in times of distress is strangely comforting. Words like, “Go Tina”, “You’re almost there” and “You’re a rockstar!” were crucial to my finishing the race.
We all need someone in our corner. We need someone who believes in us. We need someone to chant, “You’re almost there.” We need to be the kind of girls who cheer each other across the finish line of life. Note to self: Show up for someone else today. *insert customary girl power anthem here: “We are a family, I’ve got all my sisters with me …” *
3. Good men are not an urban myth.
This is a picture of my friend Jenna’s mom and dad. I love that her dad is hugging his wife with one arm and documenting her victory with the other. Who says men can’t multi-task?
After race-day my Facebook newsfeed has had a steady stream of “likes,” comments and notifications regarding the half-marathon. My favourite status updates, however, have been from men bragging on their wives. Reading things like: “My wife is my hero;” “My wife just ran 21km. Boom!”; “I want to be just like my wife when I grow up,” make me want to break out into a tribal dance to the heavens.
While 38 women celebrated this physical and spiritual victory, about 38 men (give or take a few) took pictures, recorded video, watched babies, held jackets, carried towels, parked cars, distributed hugs and stood proudly on the sidelines. Giving my dad a hug before starting my last kilometer recharged me in a way that I can’t explain.
Husbands, sons and brothers rallied around their warrior womenfolk.
Isn’t this what God intended? Men who are strengthened, not intimidated, by women kicking butt at life. Men who cheer women across the finish line of life. Men who believe that women can shape culture, history and generations.
Men and women standing side by side, changing the world, one step at a time.
Sunday (bloody Sunday) was beautiful proof that it’s possible.
So my SheLoves peeps, I have three thoughts this week:
1. Have you had a “Go fierce or go home” moment? When was the last time you gave 100% to something?
2. Can you think of a difficult season in your life when a sister helped you across the “finish line” of life? Is there a girl in your world that you need to show up for? Dig deep.
3. What are your views on men and women working together to change the future? Are you encouraged or disheartened by the current state of gender wars? Are we making progress or losing ground, according to you? I’d be curious to hear your thoughts.
And if you have been following our journey and not yet given to this incredible cause, we’d love for you to be part of this beautiful story we are all writing together. It’s not too late to give! Donate: HERE!
Love you more than the bacon cheeseburger and yam fries I inhaled after the race,
xoxo,
Teen
Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.
I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.
My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
Some days I wake up feeling very confused. Who the heck am I and what am I supposed to be doing? Of course there is laundry, or sorting through all the papers that need to be filed and reorganized. And then there is the issue of weight and why have I been such a failure at it?
And of course there is the guilt I feel for not having connected with some friends that I love but haven’t made the time for, for whatever reason. The house wasn’t clean enough to invite them over; I didn’t know what to feed them. What would be the right day? Oh well, let’s not think about it right now. And then there is the blank canvas leaning against my sofa, waiting to have a transformation and be the latest “pop art” in my living room, but then again … What if I don’t like it when I am finished and then I will have wasted $60 on a canvas–that would be good for a little more guilt. Oh ya and back to the weight loss or lack of weight loss that keeps me in bondage to poor self esteem and a reminder of how undisciplined I really am.
There are so many things to do: social injustices to be involved in; visits to my 95-year-old Aunty; taking a dinner to my son and his family; taking time to pray and seek the Lord for all of the above … Why aren’t I praying more for my friend’s sister who is struggling with cancer in her body and the young boy who tried to take his life, but God spared it; but for sure there is a still a road of recovery. There are the people I know who are struggling in their marriage; with their children; mental illness that seems to be so rampant today.
Oh my brain gets so tired thinking of all these things and what am I to do?
But then …. there is God. Yes, yes, that’s it. I have left HIM out of the equation. Of course. What does God have to to say about all of this?
My quiet time this morning with Sarah Young’s book Jesus Calling:
Let my love enfold you in the radiance of My Glory. Sit still in the Light of My Presence, and receive my Peace. These quiet moments with Me transcend time, accomplishing far more than you can imagine. Bring Me the sacrifice of your time, and watch to see how abundantly I bless you and your loved ones.
Through the intimacy of our relationship, you are being transformed from the inside out. As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it nor trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold My hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.
Yes, my heart will rest in you, God.
About Donna:
My name is Donna. I am a mother of two sons and grandmother of two grandsons. I love all the roles I get to play in this space and time called “My Life”: Mom, gramma, daughter, sister, sister in law, mother-in-law, friend, colleague, etc. How each role is uniquely different yet so important.
I have worked in the health care field as an Administrative Assistant for most of my career. I love to travel and had an opportunity to work in the United Arab Emitrates for 3.5 years for InterHealth Canada. While there, I wrote a few articles in our company newletter of different travel experiences I had throughout the Emirates.
I have a passion to encourage women to be all they can be–to “Dream Big” and not be limited by fear of the unknown or fear of failure … Our wonderful Heavenly Father has given each of us gifts that He wants us to develop and share with others. Let’s get out and change our world!
On sobbing in bathroom stalls, 144 miles and the end of an era.
by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“Friends can be said to fall in like with as profound a thud,
as romantic partners fall in love.” – Letty Pogrebin
Letty was talking about me.
It was a dreary Saturday morning with an ash-grey hormonal sky. I’d left Vancouver at an ungodly hour, to drive 144 miles to Seattle, to squeeze in breakfast with her before my Food Photography workshop.
Our first stop: Cafe Besalu. Two cups of coffee, a buttery flaky Pear Galette, Leek Goat Cheese Quiche and a Ginger Biscuit “to-go.” Our destination? The floor of her cozy studio apartment.
Sitting on the carpet, looking at the artwork that adorned her semi-adult apartment walls, I was transported back to the dorm room in university where we first met. The comforting sound of the rain pelting against the windows and the soft music streaming from her laptop, providing the soundtrack for our maturing friendship. We communicated the way only old friends could, stopping mid-story to savour a bite of pastry with closed eyes to say, “SweetBabyJesus … this is delicious!” Savoring pregnant pauses, heart-warming stories, astute observations of the mundane and unplanned confessions.
Spending time with her was like getting a deep tissue massage for my head and heart. I left exhilarated and rested.
The Beginning
We met a decade ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. She, a blue-eyed honey blonde, who wanted to hear all of my “Indian girl-growing-up-in-the Middle-East” stories. In stark contrast, I, brown-eyed with raven-black hair, infatuated by the “colourful-singing-home-schooled-Von-Trapp-sized-farm-family.” This girl was awesome.
She climbed dumpsters.
Scaled rusty ladders outside desolate warehouses.
Technically I grew up in the Middle East, but she wears a gold necklace with her name spelled in Arabic.
Don’t even get me started on the awesome red dress and cowboy boots.
Meet my friend, sister-from-another-mister and kindred spirit, Adriel.
She is the perfect combination of: Strength + Soul + Sass.
And just when I thought I had figured her out…
She upped the ante!
On Monday, 22 August 2011 Adriel or Ale (as I call her) got married. Of all the scary things she’s ever done, this one affected me the most.
As the official wedding photographer, I was so busy running around taking pictures, the enormity of the day didn’t quite sink in. The whole day was a bit of a blur.
Until…
We ran into some rain during the ceremony on the beach. I could feel my hair bloom into a massive fro. In a last-ditch effort to wrangle my hair into a somewhat dignified “do” before the reception, I popped into the washroom to take a quick peek at the mirror.
Bad move.
a. I really wish I had not seen my hair.
b. I was not ready for what happened next.
I walked in on one of Adriel’s cousins crying. She was dabbing her tears with tissues in an effort to stop her makeup from smudging. Much like my hair, it was beyond rescue, because the tears were coming down at an alarming rate. I touched her arm and asked, “Hey… are you okay?”
She replied, “It’s just that… I love her so much…”
I’m pretty sure I broke every cardinal rule in Wedding Photographer’s Handbook, when I scooped the crying girl in my arms for a hug. I held her as tightly as I could and she broke down into heartbreaking sobs. I could feel her warm tears soaking the back of my shirt and she repeated the words, “I just love her so much …”
We hugged for what felt like half an hour but was probably more like five minutes. I shifted my weight from the left-to-the-right and back again, softly rocking her body in an effort to console her. Suddenly, I could feel the emotion welling up inside of me and now the rocking was more for me, than her. I realized I needed to hug someone too. When I felt her sobs subside I slowly pulled away.
What was wonderful was that, there was no awkwardness between us! It wasn’t embarrassing. It wasn’t “too much.” It wasn’t crazy.
Her cousin was right. This wedding was huge deal. Adriel meant the world to so many people. Her village loved her. Her cousin was just brave enough to grieve openly.
As I drove back to Vancouver on Tuesday morning, I started to realize how monumental this wedding was. She was going to move to Reno after her honeymoon. It dawned on me that she wasn’t just 144 miles away.
Once I got home I was anxious to upload my pictures and get a second glance at the moments I wanted to savour.
Can we take a moment to admire her for a second?
What a beautiful bride! *sigh*
I thought about her beautiful sisters and how much they are going to miss her. I’m not even a blood relative for goodness’ sake and I was a mess.
This was one of my favourite moments of the whole day. Adriel was feeling a little anxious about the logistics of the ceremony in light of the rain. Her dad squatted beside her, kissed her shoulder and told her it was going to be okay. I loved witnessing the tenderness between them in this private moment.
Here is another favourite. I love how her mom is looking up into the sky as if to say, ” God, I just love her so much… Please take care of my baby girl.” I also, have to point out that I love-love-love how Adriel’s parents are holding hands in this picture. *sniff*
Leaving is a two-way street.
It just occurred to me that it’s not just Adriel who needs to leave, but her parents, sisters, friends and cousins who need to release her into her new destiny.
I honestly don’t know how parents do it. I’d be the psychotic parent sobbing in a fetal position in the parking lot after dropping off my kid at kindergarten. *shudder* [disturbing thought erased] I will cross that bridge later.
I’ve had two really important girls in my life get married and each time it feels like a fresh lesson in “letting go!” I’m reminded yet again that while I’m letting go of Adriel, I’m not loosing her, I’m just defining a new normal.
“Change is never easy, you fight to hold on, and you fight to let go.” – The Wonder Years
P.S. I took Adriel’s wedding pictures with the new camera gear!
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Steve Jobs + 29 Ways to Stay Creative + Man Cooking Dinner + Dutch Genius + Nelly Furtado= TGIF!
1. In light of Steve Jobs recent resignation as CEO for Apple, I re-watched his famous 2005 Stanford Commencement Speech. There is something about this speech that absolutely gets to me. Maybe it’s because Steve strips away all the fancy, impressive parts of his journey and talks about the things that are universally understood, i.e. how does one connect the dots in the midst of love, loss and death. My favourite quote: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.”
2. I found this video on Jon Acuff’s blog. Just simple truths, we’ve all heard before. That’s the thing about the truth, it stands the test of time. Although, I will say this, I’ve never tried #23 before. What’s your favourite?
3. Pretty French Music + Man Cooking Dinner + Duck Breast + Fingerling Potatoes + Butter Lettuce = Enough said. #heaven The only thing that bugs me about this video is all the dinner “guests” appear to be models. As if.
4. I love the Dutch! Dutch railway maintenance company ProRail, designed a slide to quickly reach the railway tracks for commuters in a hurry. Hello! Me. *puts hand up* I’m a commuter in a hurry. As someone who commutes for over 2.5 hours daily, I’m all over this. Only the official term is not “slide,” it’s “transfer accelerator.” Potato, Potah-to. Slide, Transfer Accelerator. Whatevs. Still awesome.
5. I listened to some old school Nelly Furtado this morning because it reminds me of Adriel, and that makes me smile!
- Is there somebody you need to let go of? A friend, an ex, a parent? What is holding you back?
- Maybe you have successfully let go and defined your new normal? Any advice?
Or…
- Perhaps, you are the one who is having to leave? New city, new job, new reality of some kind?
- What helps you make the bold step forward into the future, when what you really want to do is cling to what’s comfortable and familiar?
SheLoves Half-Marathon for Living Hope
- How it all got started? Read the story: HERE
- Donate: HERE
- Facebook Event Page: HERE
______________________________________________________ About: My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen. I am drawn to all that is fresh, spontaneous and creative.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice. ha.ha. Everything about food makes my toes curl. The only thing that excites me more than eating food is beautiful pictures of food.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
On ship wrecks, half-chicken/half-mermaids and the best Wednesday of my life.
by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“I need ten Pirate Paks now!” she yelled, “Birthday party. Section 6.”
The “Pirate Pak” was the restaurant’s version of a McDonald’s Happy Meal. Kids were served their burgers, fries, drink and ice cream in a paper boat. Pretty novel concept.
“Ten cardboard pirate ships coming right up!” I answered.
How hard could it be?
I’d only been working at the restaurant for a month. I’d left my cushy job as a TV Producer when I moved from Dubai to Vancouver. I spent my first three months back in Canada trying to find the ever-elusive “media gig.” I found myself stuck in a weird work purgatory, “overqualified” for entry level jobs and “under-qualified” for my dream job.
Full disclosure: I only got the job at the restaurant because my dad talked to a family friend, who put in a good word for me with his buddy, the manager of the restaurant.
Pathetic. I know.
After 6 years of school, countless sleepless nights of writing papers and preparing for presentations, thousands accumulated in student loans and a killer resume of substantial industry experience, I needed my dad to help me find a job. *face-palm* You can imagine the thoughts going through my head, as I wrestled with the nautical-themed cardboard.
Where did I go wrong? Maybe I should’ve studied Business like Dad insisted? Is this as good as it gets?
I had a distorted romantic notion of what working at a restaurant would look like. I thought that I would be the quintessential charming quirky server, who greeted her patrons by name, armed with a notepad and a yellow pencil tucked in her loosely tussled ponytail. Zooey Deschanel would play me in the movie.
Reality was far from it. I’d never felt this inept at anything before. I spilled coffee, couldn’t balance a tray to save my life and even messed up requests for water. Wait … was it extra ice and no lemon? Or was it no ice with extra lemon? I was a mess.
My thoughts were interrupted by the same voice who barked the order 5 mins earlier, “What?! You’ve only assembled two boxes?!” I wanted to say, “Well technically three … but the mast ripped when I tried to stick a straw through the hole…” She was furious. There was no way I was going to fess up now.
She grabbed the flaccid paper boat from my hands and said, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself. It’s not rocket science! How hard is it to fold cardboard? Cheezus!”
The kitchen was quiet for a second. All eyes on me. I walked out of the kitchen, head down, tears of humiliation streaming down my face.
Life = 1, Tina = 0
What I didn’t know then, was that things were about to go downhill really fast. The next couple of years were a comedy of errors. I had been in three car accidents, lost two phones, my hard drive crashed, my “serious” long distance boyfriend cheated on me, a string of short-lived jobs where I was overworked and underpaid, my bank account hovered around the $10 to $100 mark and life looked bleak.
During this time, my close friends said what close friends are supposed to say:
- This too shall pass.
- Time will heal.
- There is light at the end of the tunnel.
I thought to myself, “Maybe resilient people with iron-will and decent self-worth will survive. But not me… no way. I was going to drown.”
Fast Forward: 5 years
Wednesday, August 17th 2011
10:00 am- Big fat check from the lawyer for my car accident.
11:00 am- Trip to the bank to deposit check and to pay off credit card, loans and all miscellaneous outstanding amounts.
12:00 am- My (fully paid for) brand new camera was ready for pick up!
12:30 am- Lunch with my gfs in the sunshine.
I want you to take a closer look at picture.
A Pirate Pak? Once a year White Spot sells their Pirate Paks to adults and $2 from every Pak goes to a summer camp for sick kids. My colleague heard about it and thought it would be a fun idea for lunch.
What are the odds that I would be eating out of the infamous paper boat that reduced me to tears, the very SAME day that all the madness from the last 5 years gets resolved?
I never thought that a half-chicken/half-mermaid on a cardboard ship would make my heart smile this big. This was one of my life’s tremendously intoxicating private-yippee moments!
Life had come full circle. Hallelujah!
I don’t remember the conversation from lunch or my burger. But I do remember, floating out of my body, looking down at myself and thinking, “Tina, you lucky schmuck, you’re finally out of the tunnel! And there’s glorious, blinding light all around you!”
My shipwrecked soul was finally safely back in the harbour.
Life = 0, Tina = 1.
For those who are caught up in the storm of life right now, I promise you…
- This too shall pass.
- Time will heal.
- There is light at the end of the tunnel.
Waving from the other side of the tunnel,
Teen
xox
“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists … it is real … it is possible … it’s yours.” -Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
The Help + A-frame Cabin + Rinah + Dennis Rodman + Jill Scott= TGIF!
1. I’d finished a conference call, long run and a photoshoot on Sunday when I got a well-timed text from my gf Ashley that read, “Whatcha doing?” Sharing buttery popcorn and watching the film adaptation of Kathryn Stockett’s book “The Help” was exactly what I needed before the start of another work week. Having said that, I have to admit there were tears. Lots of them. The whole issue of race really gets under my skin. Luckily, the movie ends on a positive note but I still left with a tender heart.
As the credits started rolling, I put my head on my Ashley’s shoulder and said, “I don’t have a bf, so you will have to do!” We both burst out laughing. You know the kind of laugh where your stomach and jaw hurt? Yeah, that kind.
2. Remember when you were a kid and your teacher would tell you to draw a house? My picture of a house always started with the letter ‘A.’ I adore A-frame houses. William O’Brien Jr. designed this beauty in 2009. I like the contrast of the contemporary style cabin against nature. High ceilings, light pouring in through large windows, books lining walls, minimalist furniture… What’s not to love? See more pictures here.
3. Andrew and Carissa who live in Arlington, Virgina are photographers who are in the process of adopting a little girl “Rinah” from Uganda. You can watch their adoption story here. Here is the cutest video of little Rinah and her friends dancing. I guarantee that this video will make you smile. If it doesn’t … I’ll give you $1.50 and a Tic-Tac.
4. I spend a lot of time over on The Good Men Project these days, and that’s how I stumbled on this video of Dennis Rodman’s emotional Hall of Fame acceptance speech. One word: Raw. It’s rare to see a man, any man, let alone a celebrity get this vulnerable before an audience. Rodman apologizes for not being a better father, son and husband. He also, thanks the men that “saved” his life. This next sentence absolutely wrecked me, “He’s the only man who’s ever cried for me.” Totally worth 10 minutes of your time. Highlights: 3:20, 5:25, 8:35, 10:10 and 11:42. So powerful.
5. We all have a song that puts an umph in our step, even on the crappiest day. Jill Scott’s ‘Golden’ has always had that effect on me.
I love the lyrics!
“I’m taking my freedom, pulling it off the shelf, Putting it on my chain, wear it around my neck, I’m taking my freedom, putting it in my car, Wherever I choose to go, it will take me far.”
- Is your heart shipwrecked at the moment? Are you struggling to see the light at the end of the tunnel? Talking about it always makes me feel better. I’m here if you need me to listen or pray. *squeezes hand*
Or…
- Perhaps your ship is safely back in it’s harbour? I’d love to hear about your “tremendously intoxicating private-yippee moment.” What got you through the tough times? What was your “Pirate Pak” moment?
SheLoves Half-Marathon for Living Hope
- How it all got started? Read the story: HERE
- Donate: HERE
- Facebook Event Page: HERE
______________________________________________________ About: My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen. I am drawn to all that is fresh, spontaneous and creative.
Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice. ha.ha. Everything about food makes my toes curl. The only thing that excites me more than eating food is beautiful pictures of food.
I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.
“Practice resurrection”–the final line of a poem by Wendell Berry ignites my imagination this morning. It is the final word after many good ones, like a benediction after a sermon that sends you into the world to act boldly. The preacher says, “Go and tell.” But the poet demands more, “Practice resurrection.”
How? This becomes the obvious question for one who is not standing graveside or involved in hospice care; one that is not in the regular proximity of death. Even if I were so close, would I know how to practice such resuscitation? Could I see life return to a corpse? Could I see a spark reactivate an ashen and abandoned bonfire of a burned out heart? Or hope surge afresh in a human soul, reactivating dreams long since buried beneath the hardship and hurt of years?
The truth is we don’t practice resurrection much–or ever. We think it was a great story, or a great metaphor or that it’s a great promise for the afterlife. But otherwise we don’t expect resurrection to be part of our daily living, much less something we practice. Who does that anyways–who dares to practice resurrection?
But I think the poet is on to something. I would guess he’s been reading John’s gospel and his imagination has been set ablaze by Jesus and, what’s more, his own understanding of discipleship has been shaped by this story.
Resurrection Story
John begins by telling us that a certain man was ill. Well, his name is Lazarus and he comes from Bethany, you know – the village of Martha and Mary? Actually, you remember Mary who wiped the feet of Jesus with her hair; it is her brother Lazarus I’m talking about. The story is already quite thick – this is not just any family we are dealing with here.
The sisters send word to Jesus: “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” Like an ancient telegram–their message gets right to the heart of the matter.
Bethany
Bethany was known as a village for those who were sick and dispossessed. It literally means “poor house” and the gospels tell of lepers and other unfortunates there. So that someone in Bethany is ill, well, that is just not news. What is noteworthy is that it is Lazarus … the one Jesus loves. This begs the question–who do we love? Who is it that you love, whose pain and misery stands out among all the other sick ones of Bethany?
When my husband looks at Burundi–his Bethany–it is the Batwa people that stand out above all others. Their plight as invisible people pushed off their own land with no rights or basic human dignity, capture his heart. They are the ones who he loves. For Idelette, it is clearly the women of this globe suffering from the sicknesses caused by injustice–they are the ones whom she loves. Women trampled by commercial sex trafficking are the ones Trisha loves.
Who, in a place riddled with sickness, do you love? This is where the practice of resurrection begins.
Jesus decides, after two days, to return to Bethany. But the village is located in Judea … where they had previously tried to stone Jesus. The disciples are not eager to return so soon. But Jesus is not dissuaded, it is time to go to Lazarus, he says. So with a palpable fear of the potential stone dodging to come, they followed him to Bethany. (Thomas assumes they will be dead on arrival … joining Lazarus, literally.)
Dangerous
I find it interesting not only that Jesus did not rush to Bethany immediately; but that, when it was time to go, he had to navigate under threat of stoning. We are often upset that Jesus waited for two days before heading out, but it seems the disciples did not want him to go at all! When they learned that Lazarus was sleeping (or dead), they told Jesus that there was really no rush now. What’s done is done, right? But this is Lazarus–the one Jesus loved. Getting there might be dangerous–but he was not deterred. So the road to resurrection just might be a bit precarious, but you are compelled to go because of love.
I have seen the road. Living in a third-world (or two-thirds world) country with some lack of security and infrastructure, traveling to Berlin to stand with victimized women when a family holiday to the lake might have been preferred, picketing the court house and advocating for society’s stigmatized women … not easy. But when you love someone, there is no limit to the stones you are willing to dodge to get there.
But when Jesus gets where he is going–Lazarus is already dead. He has been dead four days. The sisters both, in their own way and time, ask Jesus why he took so long. If he had hurried he could have prevented this death; the illness did not have to be terminal. You can imagine them both loving and hating Jesus in that moment. Death is not easy to accept. But death is always the precursor to resurrection.
Jesus asks: “Where have you laid him?” And so they told him to come and see. Jesus stood there, tomb-side, and wept for his beloved friend. (The crowd of mourners took notice, “See how he loved Lazarus.” Such love often gets noticed.) Jesus walked right to the place of death and felt its full force. Lament, too, is a prequel to resurrection.
Then Jesus tells them to take away the stone. Martha steps in, the consummate hostess even at the tomb’s edge, and advises against the move. She reminds Jesus that with four days of death there will be a severe stench if they open the tomb. Resurrection is messy, friends. Jesus knew it would be, but he was undaunted. So they rolled aside the stone …
“Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man came out, his hands and feet still bound, his face still covered.
Last Word
“Unbind him, and let him go,” Jesus said. Resurrection was actually not the final word–unbinding was the last command. Let Lazarus reclaim his life, and then help him–unbind him. It is like we are to bring people back to life and help them take the next steps into a new kind of life.
I have witnessed this in Burundi. We want to see Batwa families with land, a rural resurrection to be sure. But we must unbind them, too. See to it that they have identity cards to be full members of society, see to it that their children are in school and setting the trajectory for the next generation, teach them to love their neighbors so they can live in peace. Rescue women from the streets and brothels. But unbind them with trauma counseling, restorative surgeries when necessary, with job skills training … We all get to help in the unbinding, it seems.
You could say that in this story Jesus did the resurrecting and the by-standers were invited into the unbinding. Maybe that is the deeper truth–Jesus resurrects lives, hearts, dreams, passion and hope. And we are part of the on-going work of unbinding. But … the poet seems to press us still … practice resurrection.The words both haunt me and give me hope – that we are called into these “greater things.”
I called through your door,
“They mystics are gathering in the street.
Come out!”
“Leave me alone. I’m sick.”
“I don’t care if you’re dead! Jesus is here,
and he wants to resurrect somebody!”
- Rumi
Beginning
The road to resurrection begins with surveying the places of sickness in our world and answering this question: whom do we love? Then we move toward Bethany, toward Lazarus, toward the one we love. The road may be dangerous, but never mind–love draws us past peril for the sake of the other. We stand by the tomb, always feeling like we have arrived too late. But we go and partake of the sadness and offer our lament. Then – with a deep breath and loud voice – we call for resurrection. We shout for life to come back – we make some noise and demand that death not be the last word. We call for the stone to be rolled away; we roll up our sleeves and kick off our high heels and help. Then, when the ones whom we love appear, we unbind them. This is how we practice resurrection.
And, upon reflection, I have seen people practice resurrection in Burundi, Berlin and British Colombia.
Let us breathe in the Spirit this morning and contemplate the poetry and practice of resurrection.
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.
There is something about the immediacy, the therapeutic clickity-clack of the typewriter that allows for a different kind of writing. The kind that spills from the heart rather than the head. The kind that’s intended for a single, known reader than a large, unknown audience.
Christina is a Toronto-based writer whose articles on culture, religion and technology have appeared in Vancouver, UPPERCASE and Geez magazine. She, her husband and two young children attend Grace Toronto Church.
SheLoves Half-Marathon for Living Hope
