A Deeper Story

We've been invited, as a Deeper Story family, to reflect on the passing of Nelson Mandela. Our reflection is hosted by Lisa-Jo Baker, the host of Five Minute Fridays (#FMFParty). This is my five-minute reflection... *** I am not South African. Nelson Mandela didn’t emancipate me. He didn’t change my day-to-day experience of life. But Mandela’s story captivated me as I read A Long Walk to Freedom many years ago. He stood out as a testimony to the otherwise, to…

[caption id="attachment_1280" align="aligncenter" width="500"] Celebrating with Emma (Photo by Tina Francis)[/caption] We brought her home when she was eighteen months old. It felt like we snatched her from death and disease, from a life defined by a hospice order and lived out in a small orphanage. Her homecoming was heavy-laden with healing. She entered our home as a celebrated and cherished child, my Emma. A few months into our shared life we sat in her room colored with lemon sorbet…

The news has been good. In the last four years of working alongside our Batwa friends each mother has safely delivered her child; each baby announced her arrival with a hearty cry into the Burundian sky, squinted his eyes at the glorious glow of the African sun. Not a single baby has been lost in childbirth. Until now… The call came early in the morning that the baby entered the world with uncharacteristic silence. Stillborn. The community of men carried…

We were hosting a garden party at our home in Burundi this summer – the kind with drummers, dancers, a d.j. and a chef. Most all the guests mingled outside, holding fanta bottles and balancing plates loaded with rice pilaf and skewered meats. But inside, seated around the high-top table, Claude and his merry men leaned in and laughed hard. The moment knocked the wind out of me… and I breathed in the Spirit. // I first visited Burundi in…

When I was young St. Nicholas was the only church I knew, a second home (but with more candles and rows of hardwood pews). Under this Catholic canopy I received the gift of tongues - I was not even six years old yet. Those days the small parish buzzed with talk of the charismatic renewal movement. Most likely I overheard the grown ups talking about tongues between Maranatha choruses and closing prayers spoken from the heart, not the prayer book.…

Her dreads sway around her shoulders as she walks – and when she twirls her headdress of black ropes spins like a merri-go-round, whipping through the air with whimsy. I’m often mesmerized by her hair, those thick strands of luster sheen yarn reaching down her back, framing her face, sometimes tangling with her long lashes. I gather the dreads up in my hands as I make a ponytail high atop her head and I marvel at their strength - chords…

I hated tattoos. Then I turned 40. And a friend got his first tattoo, one he designed. It was like looking at truth burnished into his skin, an embodied story he wore regardless of the day’s weather or wardrobe. Four years later I sat in the black leather chair surrounded by crimson walls. I heard the snap of the latex gloves, the click of the machine and then, “You ready to join the f---in’ club?” Holy crap! As Carl started…

One of the last tweets I remember before boarding my flight to Australia was about ‘being so over platform talk.’ I might have clicked ‘favorite.’ Then I powered down my phone for the long, long flight. // Bronze skinned women paraded like monks up to the front of the auditorium. They walked with measured steps, one limping and leaning on her friends. Standing on the raised stage in front of us, they looked up and then away, a few dodging…

Today my son asked me about his birth mother – again. Why couldn’t she keep him? When you adopt, you must be all kinds of strong, tender and honest. Best we can tell she abandoned him roadside, only days old, umbilical cord still in tact. She wanted him to be found, why else wrap him in her bright African block fabric skirt? I imagine her watching from the bush, waiting for someone to carry him to a better life. Another…

“I’ll pray for you.” We say it earnestly to convey solidarity. But sometimes, too many times, we simply say it and move on. The phrase becomes another cliché we keep on hand. But the promised prayer never happens. I’m prone to forget promised prayers if I don’t somehow incarnate the intention. If I want to be true, I must make my prayers tangible. Moving mysterious prayers into time and space with objects I can see, touch, even smell help me…