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

Fear vs Love: My Power to Choose

I believe when we choose to function in love, we choose to step out in courage and break walls of ignorance and indifference …

By Stephanie Motz Skinner | Twitter: @stephmotz

Sometimes, even the most ordinary task can lead to panic. I try to focus on the recipe in front of me and drown out the thoughts swirling around in my mind: “What if I fail?”

From the archives of my brain I pull a memory from the past that has imprinted Fear on my mind. The smell of burnt supper and the image of my husband’s brave face as the beads of sweat form on his brow and he labours through every bite.

I pour some milk into the mixture.

“Was that supposed to be half a cup? Uh-oh.” I messed up the measurements.

As I attempt to juggle tasks, turning from the frying pan to the cutting board, I continue to draw out these fears in my mind. I begin to believe that if I fail at making this meal, I’ve failed as a person, as a woman and as a wife … again.

“What is that smell?”

It’s all downhill from here.

Not only do my thoughts get the best of me, I become an emotional mess, and it starts to show in the way I respond to other people, and the way I hold the knife in my hands.

The thought that my efforts will only disappoint plants itself in my brain, and I begin to feel at first inadequate, then irritated and finally angry. By the time I’m done trying to salvage what I hoped would be an edible meal, I collapse into tears.

“Forget it. You’ll never be good enough,” I tell myself. I’m left feeling hopeless and my evening is ruined.

Thoughts Have Power

Hi, my name is Stephanie and I’m often afraid.

Fear and thoughts of ridicule and rejection, have paralysed me many times in my life. They have kept me from taking risks, reaching out, sharing my heart and even building relationships.

But, I’m learning that God has given us the gift of controlling our thoughts and choosing to function in love, so our lives are not ruled by fear.

In her book The Gift in You, Dr Caroline Leaf explains that our thoughts have emotions attached to them and that all emotions are derived from two root emotions: fear and love. Dr Leaf’s studies have led her to conclude that, because these two emotions cannot function at the same time, at any given moment we are functioning in either fear or in love. And it is our thoughts and emotions that determine our attitude.

“Fear is not a natural part of how we were created … We were created for love and all that goes with it, but we have learned to fear,” says Dr. Leaf.

However, God has equipped us to deal with fear, because we were created with the ability to choose between fear and love. Dr. Leaf explains that this choice happens in the frontal lobe of our brain. She says the frontal lobe allows us to stand outside ourselves and observe our own thinking, helping us make decisions about our thoughts and evaluate information. I imagine this as the part of the brain where I talk to myself.

Making Better Choices

Through my work as a photographer and a writer, I have learned to ask questions in order to understand people and social issues better. I’m finding that it’s also a great way to learn more about myself, so I can make better choices. When I ask myself questions like, “Why are you reacting to making a mistake in this way?” “What are you afraid of?” or “What is stopping you?” the answers lead me to an awareness that can help me choose to operate in love. Obviously, I don’t always make that choice, but I’ve found that asking questions always creates bridges of understanding, whether I’m trying to understand a story, another person, myself, my circumstances or social problems.

As I analyse and understand information, people and circumstances, I can then choose how I am going to react to them. And by controlling my thoughts, I determine my attitude.

I’ve seen how this works in my own life, and the more I practice, the more I find myself analysing situations and choosing to function in love. It’s not easy, because even when I try and perform a simple task, like making a good meal, if I’m not careful, I can let my fears overwhelm, even control me.

I’ve also seen what transformation happens when people learn to realign their thinking. The women at Living Hope in Uganda, have experienced some of the most horrible traumas–abuse, rejection, betrayal. Experiences in their life taught them that they were unwanted, unworthy and incapable. Through discipleship and trauma rehabilitation, they learn to process their traumas and confront their past. They forgive and let go of the toxic elements in their lives. They learn to see themselves and understand their value through God’s lens. Where they once saw brokenness and fear, they begin to see beauty and love. As they realign their thoughts and begin to function in love, their lives, health and relationships improve.

When I hear their stories and try to imagine what it’s like to have travelled their journeys, I sometimes wonder if I could have found the courage to choose to heal in the same way they did.

But they are examples to me that God has given us the key to a great life–one full of purpose–and it all begins with the ability to choose. I believe that when we choose to function in love, we choose to step out in courage, break walls of ignorance and indifference, as well as burst bubbles of isolation. When we choose Love, we become better people and we make our world a better place.

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About Stephanie:

I believe in the power of storytelling. I’m a photographer and writer for Fakeleft. Together with my husband, we love sharing stories of courage, of strength in the face of adversity, of triumph and hope. I truly believe that by partnering with others who want to bring change and justice to our world, we can actually make a difference.  I’m learning to walk in my nascent faith, but it’s not always easy. It’s an interesting journey.

I am currently living in Uganda, but my heart is everywhere. I’m a proud Latina from Choluteca, Honduras. I wish I had a Latino accent. My favourite meal is dessert and my favourite sport is tanning. I blog at fakeleft.com and tweet at @stephmotz.

Wellness Wednesday: The One Decision I Regret Most

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

By Tara Rodden Robinson |Twitter: @tararodden 

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

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

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

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

“How old are your kids?”

I paused. Swallowed.

“I don’t have any kids,” I replied.

Cue the crickets.

“Oh!” she said, finally.

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

Damn.

Looking Back

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

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

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

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

In Hindsight

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

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

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

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

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

______________________________

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

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

______________________________

About Tara:

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

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.

You Are Capable of Greatness

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

By Desiree Adaway | Twitter: @desireeadaway
________________________________

“You are capable of greatness.”

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

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

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

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

We are capable of greatness.

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

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

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

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

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

If we owned the wisdom deep within us.

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

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

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

________________________________

About Desiree:

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

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

The Sound of One Girl Crying

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

By Kisa MacDonald | Twitter: @kisamac

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

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

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

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

Nobody knows where she is buried.

Sacred Story

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

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

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

She wants her spirit to be free.

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

Truth and Reconciliation

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

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

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

I cannot stop them from falling.

__________________________________

About Kisa:

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

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.