SheLoves Magazine

Growing up hope was a whispy dandelion. Hold its tender stem, blow, and watch all the florets move with the breeze, small against the bright sun and blue sky. One gentle puff and I’d send my wish off into the wind. Most of my wishes felt fragile against the wild landscape. I assumed they’d melt in the noonday heat. But they were all I had – handfuls of hope to throw to the wind. Then I read Isaiah and discovered…

I wanted to read so many more books this year – I had a great strategy to guide my efforts and I knew there’d be some serendipitous additions along the way. I trusted in the long summer months in Burundi to give me time to dive deep into the weightier texts, the time in transit for lighter fare and lots of good reads in the intervening months. But my weeks in Burundi were fewer and fuller than usual and my…

Four hundred years of waiting for a Messiah who never came. Malachi said the day is coming… but no one arrived to save Israel. The prophets were quiet in those long years, as if the Spirit had nothing more to say. But wars raged in and around Israel’s borders. Revolts, martyrs, bloodletting in the streets. Screams marked the days; lament for the lost ones left the countryside limp. Jerusalem cried herself to sleep. So maybe the years weren’t so silent…

We’ve seen life on the margins in Burundi. It looks like this: A cluster of grass huts, low to the ground, on the side of the road on dead land and no one ever stopping. Countrymen ride their bikes by without looking over their shoulder, westerners in shiny NGO vehicles drive by with the windows rolled up. Getting stopped by the local police because you dared to walk to town for some cassava and beans. Your accent and short stature…

[caption id="attachment_1265" align="aligncenter" width="4288"] The first one to leave Matara for the land of Milk & Honey.[/caption] Last year I posted this reflection on All Saint's Day over at SheLoves Magazine. I thought it was worth resurrecting from the archives for today, as I remember those who've gone before me. I add to the list of those remembered Dallas Willard and Brennan Manning and my beloved friend Richard Twiss. You served well and I follow in your wake hoping to…

“Vulnerability is the seedbed of creativity.” Brene Brown said so in her TED talk and I know it to be true. As a matter of fact, I’ve experienced it just this week as I’ve been trying to write a book proposal. I create, and therefore I cry…or something like that. The First Cry I enjoyed a great conversation with a dear friend. We spoke about our community development work, her work, our families and all of the things friends chat…

[caption id="attachment_1194" align="aligncenter" width="500"] Laughing as we wrote... photo by Tina Francis[/caption] I am from an immaculate house, heady with ammonia and lemon. I am from a room with eyelet bed skirts, piles of ruffled pillows and the daily expectation of a perfectly made bed. I am from books and a chalkboard, dance recitals and satin ballet shoes, straight As and honor roll.   I am from Saturday chores inside and out, father’s forehead covered in sawdust, mom elbow-deep in…

I scribbled the word abortion with my teen-age cursive in my Study Bible. My youth pastor told us that Psalm 139 proved that God made us, knew us and determined that we each should live. Proof positive that abortion is a sin, he declared. And so I marked the margin of my Bible, determining to never forget where God stood on this issue. Maybe as an adopted child I grew up with the acute awareness that I was a candidate…

This isn’t the first time I felt scared for my son. I remember when I first learned that dark-skinned men are more likely to be incarcerated. Or young men of color are more likely to be falsely accused of crimes. Or black boys are more likely to be victims of violent crime… When I learned of the verdict sadness revisited my mama’s heart. My son might not be so safe walking in our suburban neighborhood – especially if it’s a…

I am from the company of the adopted, once relinquished but swiftly redeemed and daily resurrected by the care of a father and compassion of a mother. I want my own children to feel that redemptive energy running through their veins, fortifying their sense of self, the adoptive sacrament sweet on their tongues. I feel responsible to impart blessing on each of their days so they, too, will taste and see the goodness – not the abandonment. I wonder sometimes,…