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The dark-soiled land was rich with promise. As they stood on the property line looking across the verdant valley carpeted with cabbage and hills of slim trees whispering with the breeze, the 30 Batwa families could scarcely believe this was their new home. Each man had a plastic grocery bag with the family’s belongings – a cooking pot, some salt, maybe the metal head of a rusted hoe or some cups. Other than that, they had only what hung on…

The Hebrews danced to the emphatic beating of the drums across the Red Sea, leaving behind the brickyards forever. They sang “The horse and rider YHWH has thrown into the sea!” as they moved beyond the reach of their taskmasters. Moses led the liberation parade as Miriam played her tambourine along the edge accompanied by a band of women. What a sight for sore, slave-weary eyes. I played a tambourine when I was young. It was small, made of chestnut…

We shuffled slowly into the sanctuary and between the pews. We, so young and squirrely, still uninitiated in hushed tones, moved in as much silence as we could muster from one station to the next. At each wood etching the somber procession would come to a stop. We’d look at the plaque, listen to the reflection given by the fresh-faced priest and then say a prayer more (but mostly less) together. We were learning to walk the Stations of the…

The week moved fast with controversy, but slow with grace. The magnanimous inched along like amber molasses, slowly shining, but outpaced by hot hostilities burning through my internet neighborhood. In the aftermath there’ve been a few cloistered conversations with thoughtful friends. These discussions about evangelicalism, ecumenicalism, art and faithful translation happened in the alleys behind the internet streets. In quiet hallways we huddled down for gentle conversations with one another. Maybe we were licking our wounds, too. Yesterday a friend…

[caption id="attachment_1374" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Photo Credit: Tina Francis[/caption] The Batwa people live on the edges of Burundian society, marginalized in their own country. Local humanitarian workers tell tales of these people who thwart good gifts and show little gratitude, making them notoriously difficult to work with. One organization generously gave corrugated metal roofs for the thatch-constructed homes. But soon after the installation, the aid workers discovered the metal was sold. Another religious-based agency gave these families window insets and doors…

[caption id="attachment_1366" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Girls in transit from Uganda to Burundi... books under discussion![/caption] The transit lounge has been rather empty lately, I confess. It’s not because I haven’t been traveling or reading. I’ve done a bit of both in recent months. But I’m also working on a book proposal (nearly done, thanks for asking) and so much of my energy and reading is connected to that one large project. However, I miss the hustle and bustle of reading on…

I want to see and hear rightly, to be found responsive to God’s work in the world and a ready collaborator. I don’t want to be caught flat-footed like the disciples, sitting in a boat with Jesus but unable to perceive the truth around me. Remember the story? Jesus had been out and about Galilee with the twelve, from one side of the lake to the other, extending compassion, teaching, serving up bread with baskets of leftovers. In both feeding…

He sits with women. When trouble comes, the mamas and widows gather at the edges of peril and my husband finds them. He joins them. Last week flood waters rushed in overnight killing some of the most vulnerable children and displacing over fifteen thousand families from their homes. Almost as fast the Red Cross erected at makeshift camp on a nearby soccer field. At the invitation of the director, my husband drove out on the first day to survey the…

This morning I'm sharing some reflections on my reading of Desmond Tutu's God Has A Dream, my most re-read book penned by this beloved African elder. The SheLoves Magazine book club, The Red Couch, embraced this book for the month of February. How wonderful to read with friends - I've enjoyed Twitter exchanges, Voxer conversations and more around the themes of transformation, hope, suffering, neighbor love and more. Here is a bit: In God Has A Dream the beloved South…

  My first encounter with the Spirit, as far as I know, happened at St. Nicholas Church. Spiritual songs surrounded me, people spoke in tongues quietly, and one night I joined the spirited cacophony, too. We gathered across the parking lot in the fellowship hall, trading candles for florescent overhead lighting and a pew-free space to circle up chairs. The Holy Spirit lit our hearts. We kept the fire to ourselves. When we crossed back to the altar we used…