idelette

eighteen for 18

December 14, 2012 By idelette 4 Comments

“But perhaps God can take their sacrifice and also lay it on an altar in Connecticut today …”

At 18:30pm last night, my nine-year-old started an 18-hour famine. “Eighteen for eighteen” they call it. All week, she’s been walking around with her little donation sheet, hitting up friends and family, asking for money, so kids in Honduras can go to school.

That number–18–has been on our hearts all this week. We’ve said it in the kitchen and the living room. Eighteen for 18. We’ve said it in the car and at bedtime.

Eighteen. Eighteen. Eighteen.

Students at her school are participating, joining in, sacrificing, so others may have.

Eighteen students. Eighteen hours. $18.

Fasting on behalf of 18 kids in Honduras, so they can go to school.

Then the news breaks this morning. Twenty-six people killed at a shooting in Connecticut, 18 of them kids.

My heart rips as I hear that number–18, 18, 18.

My mother heart rips because just this morning, while Gabrielle was filling her water bottle and packing her backpack, I said to her: You know, when we fast, God loves it when we pray about the issue we’re fasting for.

There was something there … I remember the air was thick for a moment. But the other two were eating rice crispies and I was packing their lunches and we didn’t pause.

Kids and schools and lost opportunities and now my heart aches so much.

At 12:30pm today, their famine will end. They will celebrate with a barbecue, but the news has changed the meaning for me now.

18 kids. 18 children. 18 lives lost.

And all I know is that my little girl, my eldest, has been fasting for almost 18 hours for something … We thought it was for kids in Honduras, so they can go to school and it’s for that too, yes. But perhaps God can take their sacrifice and also lay it on an altar in Connecticut today …

For Light. For Healing. For a different world.

For safe schools and whole hearts.

For some more peace on earth.

Lord, may you hear the prayers of your children today.

____________________

UPDATE: The latest report just came in and said the number of students who died are now 20.

Filed Under: Global Life, Inspiration, Prayer Tagged With: 18, 18 for 18, Children, connecticut, eighteen, famine, fasting, killed, lives, news, Prayer, school, shooting, shot, Surrey Christian School

Circling Silence Seven Times

November 14, 2012 By idelette 13 Comments

“Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” – Mark 16:8

I woke up yesterday morning after a lovely, vivid dream. I dreamt a whole bunch of us were having dinner—a feast, I might say—over at Sarah Bessey’s house with Rachel Held Evans as a special guest from out of town. (If you read this and hope you could have been there, you were. It was that kind of feast.)

Just imagine the conversation, the laughter, the good food, the soft candles, the generosity of spirits, the meeting of hearts. Communion, truly.

It was a big night, even in my dream. One of those nights that would be marked in memory. But I woke up frustrated, because in my dream, I didn’t know how to write about it. I hadn’t tweeted about it or shared it on facebook. My frustration lay in my struggle to share the big, beautiful moment.

My dream revealed that layer of my frustration of how I struggle to write out my life—the ordinary moments, but especially the big moments. I sensed there was something for me there. Somewhere for me to go stand.

I stopped at Starbucks after dropping the kids off and tried to write it out in my journal.

What is the block between the experience and the communicating? Between the living and the sharing? Lord, please speak to me.

Not that everything needs to be shared. Sometimes beautiful moments are just that. Beautiful moments. Tables lingered over. Conversations shared. Sacred.

My struggle is not in the experiencing of beautiful, holy moments. I am grateful for the learned ability to slow down and pause, to breathe in the holy when it comes visiting in my daily. I know how to fling open my arms and embrace Heaven on an ordinary walk through the fall trees and the rain. I know how to chase after beauty … The ones who linger on my couches and sit at our table will probably tell you that. I know how to be silent. I actually crave it.

But how do I go from in to out?

How do I move from silence to words?

In his classic book “Can you drink the cup?” Henri Nouwen writes about the discipline of the word–the second discipline in drinking our whole cup and living fully.

He moves through it this way: silence -> the word -> action.

It’s on the second discipline where I am pausing right now. Circling slowly.

“It is not enough to claim our sorrow and joy in silence,” writes Nouwen. “We also must claim them in a trusted circle of friends. To do so we need to speak about what is in our cup. As long as we live our deepest truth in secret, isolated from a community of love, its burden is too heavy to carry. The fear of being known can make us split off our true inner selves from our public selves and make us despise ourselves even when we are acclaimed and praised by many.”

The silence–the place where we stare our core self in the face–contains both sorrows and joys. Both need to be shared.

“Silence without speaking is as dangerous as solitude without community. They belong together,” Nouwen adds.

It’s not everyone who needs to hear about what is in our cup. Nouwen says, it would be “tactless, unwise, and even dangerous to expose our innermost being to people who cannot offer us safety and trust. That does not create community; it only causes mutual embarrassment and deepens our shame and guilt.”

We are also not made to remain in the silence.

As a writer, maybe as a woman, I struggle with this. Ideas are shaped and formed in my head, but it would be easy for them to remain there. Like eggs never hatched.

Perhaps this expression is simply my individual struggle, but then I read that passage in Mark 16 again and I wonder if this is something greater we as a womanhood struggle with?

In Mark 16, we encounter the story of the women meeting the angel who tells them of a risen Christ. It’s big news. Glorious news. He even gives them an assignment—to go and tell his disciples and Peter that they’ll see Jesus in Galilee.

But the women have this response:

“Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.” Mark 16:8

They said nothing to anyone. They kept quiet. Kept it to themselves. Didn’t say a thing. Zilch.

There’s a paralysis in the silence. An unformed maturity. A flower that remains in the bud. Good news not shared.

When we remain silent, we don’t grow in our expression. Our thoughts and words remain hesitant, weak, immature, like the legs of a baby foul. God’s intention for us is not that. God’s intention for us is that our words would have creative power. That our speech would birth forth messianic sentences. Not wobbly, toddler sentences, but strong, beautiful, God-filled, mature sentences.

Just like Mary, we are meant to be carriers of The Word. We are meant to birth the divine into the chaos and despair with full-formed, future-eye sentences. But too often we tremble and shrink into silence.

I know I do.

Then I read the story of Joshua with Telah at bedtime again last night. Even in this children’s version of the story, the words filled me with a different trembling. A take-notice-there’s-something-here-trembling. The Israelites came up against something impenetrable—a wall—something they were utterly powerless against and God instructed them to march around it seven times. They didn’t attack it with swords or canons, but marched around the wall six times, blowing trumpets. Then the seventh time, they raised their both voices and instruments. They shouted as loud as they could.

I can’t get that out of my head, that a sound–their collective shout—was what made the wall crumble.

And I can’t help but wonder if this silence is something bigger we are circling here.

__________________

I’d love to hear your thoughts, because I am learning and circling here and I imagine this is something, like the Israelites, we are meant to circle together:

Do you struggle with giving expression to your thoughts and ideas–going from in to out?
If so, do you sense it’s a personal struggle or perhaps something bigger we are a part of here?
What’s the mirror you hold up to remind you to keep speaking out your truths?
How do you keep from running off in silence, like the women at the tomb?

Image credit: Andy M. Taylor

Filed Under: Circling Silence Seven Times, Inspiration, Roar, Writing Tagged With: afraid, anxiety, blogging, externalizing, fear, shut up, silence, silent, women, women at the tomb, Writing

Eshet Chayil, Rachel Held Evans

October 30, 2012 By idelette 1 Comment

This is a time for clear speech …

Today I join with many voices to celebrate Rachel Held Evans, because it’s the official launch day for her new book, The Year of Biblical Womanhood.

A good friend, in addressing issues around prostitution and demand, often says: “This is a time for clear speech.” When we speak about women’s equality, it’s a time not to become overly emotional or let our hearts run away with our heads.

This is a time for clear speech.

I am thankful that Rachel is such a woman, who speaks clearly. She researches, ponders, asks questions, collaborates and speaks out. She’s not intimidated. And for that I am deeply grateful.

I am thankful that Rachel is forging a path. She’s leading, she’s going first and she’s giving me courage to speak about the things that matter dearly.

Piercing patriarchy isn’t easy. It’s gutsy and it requires wisdom and clarity of thinking. It’s not something we can shout down or yell down or beat our fists at. I know, because I’ve tried that.

So, my heart in standing with Rachel today is not to draw a line in the sand. In fact, on Sunday night, I asked our lifegroup to pray for the Sisterhood online this week … for all of us women who follow Jesus. We prayed that this would not be a week of division, but of connection. That we would choose Love and not judgement. Even when we don’t understand or agree and we are trying to figure this out, that we would listen and learn together, with open hearts and minds.

I pray that Love will cover us, as we go forward in understanding God’s heart for women on the earth, at this time in history.

I pray that Love will cover Rachel, as she continues to speak out and go first … Lord, grant her more wisdom, more anointing, deeper understanding.

Eshet chayil, Rachel Held Evans. To me, you are a woman of valor and today I celebrate and thank God for you.

With Love,
idelette
xoxo

Filed Under: Empowerment, Equality, Sisterhood Tagged With: clear speech, eshet chayil, patriarchy, pierce, piercing, Rachel, Rachel Held Evans, Year of Biblical Womanhood

We Write to Make Bread

August 13, 2012 By idelette 47 Comments

Anais Nin said we write to taste life twice. Today, this thought has pushed itself to the front of my chest: We, followers of the Way, those of us who quest to know Spirit and dwell in Love, we write to make bread.

I know, for me, this is my serving. This is my offering.

Most days it feels like I have nothing. Most days, I would say to Jesus and his disciples when they come around in the crowd asking, “What do you have?” I feel like I don’t have much to offer. Many days I would point to others and say, She has something. Go, find her! She has something that will feed the crowds today. But I don’t have much.

I am learning I don’t need much. In Jesus’ economy those few tuna sandwiches go a long way. What matters is that I fill up, peek into my cupboards and bless those ingredients as worthy.

Like the widow at Zarephath, I don’t actually have nothing. I have something. I just need eyes to see what I have as worthy–stories old and new, words, the ponderings of my heart, the scribbles in my journal. These are the treasures in my cupboards; oil and flour that could make bread. Bread that might perhaps even, like that widow, feed a hungry prophet.

My cupboards are not empty. I simply need to take time, make something and bring it. Offer it up to discipled hands and give it away.

I have to remember: My few loaves and fishes–the little that I have–become eucharisteo and miracle in Jesus’ hands.

He holds my offering in crowd-loving hands and lifts it up to Heaven in thanksgiving and then more hands, available and ready, serve it up to hungry bodies-with-stories.

What rises in me today is this: thinking through our lives, mixing ingredients with faith and hope, kneading stories and watching words grow, in partnership with the One who Loves and asks, What do you have in your heart? is beautiful Theology. Mary-with-her-apron-on Theology.

This making of bread and baking of bread is fragrant, holy work.

Most Fridays we celebrate a Messianic Shabbat in our home. I make bread and light candles and we toast with blessed grapes–communion cups with juice for the kids; sweet wine for the adults. We bless children and guests, identity and future. What we see now and what we see with our Love eyes into the future we hope for them.

We don’t do these Shabat Fridays religiously, but when we do, the week feels rightly celebrated. On those Friday afternoons when I mix one egg and four cups of flour with yeast and milk and a tablespoon of sugar, those Fridays press pause and invite in the holy.

It doesn’t just happen. This making of bread and baking of bread requires intention. And faith.

Every Friday when I bend and place the tray into the hot oven, I pray and say, Bless this bread, Lord. Bless this loaf to the mouths who will sit down at our table tonight and eat with us.

I also pray, because there has been a Friday when Scott had to drive down to the IGA and buy a baguette. Making this bread requires faith that it will rise and shape the way I hope it to. It doesn’t always. My hands shape the braids differently every week. It rises uniquely every time. Even with the same ingredients, no two loaves taste the same. Ever.

But when they do rise, we taste the miracle.

I think about this bread now as I open the doors to the words in my pantry heart today. As I mix and sift and crack and pour. As I watch the rising and wait for the braiding. As I put the bread into the oven and set the timer.

And today, I bend my knees, just like on a Friday, and offer these words up as prayer: Lord, bless this bread to the hearts who will sit down and eat at this table today. For what we are about to receive, I am truly grateful.

_____________________

These thought have been inspired by Kelley Nikondeha’s post on Doing Theology … Second and Holly Grantham’s comment on my Sabbath post on SheLoves, writing about her “holy minutes on a Sunday” and Ann Voskamp’s extraordinary work “One Thousand Gifts” …

PS: This past May I was part of a Women’s Theological Intensive at Amahoro Africa, led by Ruth Padilla and Rene August. Those hours on those five days with my sisters was Holy Ground. As part of our discussion, we used this life-changing text called Doing Theology with Mary (<<<–A PDF download for you.) // Talk about Bread.

___________________

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Filed Under: Amahoro Africa, Purpose, Theology, Writing Tagged With: Africa, Amahoro, blog, bread, challah, christians, eucharisteo, heart, Idelete, Idelette, Idellete, Kelley Nikondeha, making bread, McVicker, Messianic Shabbat, One Thousand Gifts, rituals., Shabbat, thankful, Thanksgiving, theology, write, Writing

Hello, This is Beijing

July 28, 2012 By idelette 11 Comments

Today I am joining in Sarah Bessey’s Synchroblog: In which we are saved, right now.

I received a phone call last night.

Sophia, our homestay student, approached me and said, My father would like to talk to you.

Uh-oh. I was making dinner and she didn’t know when he was going to call back. Just that he was going to call before the end of the night.

My head raced a little. Did I do something wrong? Was she upset? Was there something I missed?

It’s been one week since Grace and Sophia arrived from China. I picked them up last Thursday and I remember standing at school, with three little sheep around my hips, gathering in two more. They were a little hesitant at first. I tossed in a few Mandarin sentences when it looked like they were really confused, but I might as well have been speaking Zulu. (I’ll pretend it’s my Taiwanese accent.)

What I know about this week is, I’ve been cooking a lot: spaghetti bolognese, salmon, rice, gourmet macaroni and cheese (the recipe with the bacon), chicken in the wok, stir-fry vegetables. I’ve flipped pancakes, made waffles, baked muffins and cut up fruit. I’ve stood around the kitchen island, listening to Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts for inspiration, and made lunches deep into the night. I’ve poured apple juice, grape juice and soy milk. On Wednesday the dishwasher ran through three cycles.

I drive the girls to school for 9am and pick them up in the afternoon.

It’s been good and full and intentional.

Yesterday I had this thought while vacuuming: I guess this is true hospitality–taking in these teenaged strangers from the other side of the world and writing a welcome on the carpet. Perhaps I am living out my faith here. Reaching across, not always quite sure if I’m doing the right thing, meeting their needs quite right, because they don’t always want to ask … It’s hard to ask for what we need in ordinary circumstances, even harder in a stranger’s home in a foreign language. I remember what it’s like to be so out of place. I remember well.

So I try and anticipate. I open up space the way I imagine I’d want space to be opened up for me. I imagine these girls as my girls, in case they were to go to China at the ages of 12 and 14, all by themselves. I want for these girls what I would want for my own daughters.

I also want for these two girls to connect with a new culture and a people and think, These are good people.

I want my kids to not see Chinese girls, but friends with names. Grace and Sophia.

There was a moment, last Saturday night–when the girls were still a bit awkward, trying to find their voices and rhythm in our family–that lined up the universe for me in our little carpeted corner of the world. Gabrielle, our fearless eight-year-old and social butterfly, went downstairs to say goodnight to the girls. I was in my office, right at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t long before I started hearing the giggles …

The sound of their laughter rang up the stairs and I stopped my work. I wanted to hear, take in the moment.

They laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Girl giggles. Eight-year-old, 12-year-old and 14-year-old giggles. Canadian giggles. Chinese giggles. For 20 minutes they laughed.

I listened to the sound of laughter and connection across cultural differences and language barriers. I heard how laughter is its own language.

It turned out Gabi had started a pillow fight. And when they weren’t swatting pillows at each other, they were making bunny ears behind each other’s heads saying, “You’re the rabbit.”

“No, you’re the rabbit!”

After those laughter-filled 20 minutes on that Saturday night, I exhaled … This homestay first might just work out.

Until Sophia said her dad wanted to talk to me.

There was a night this week when she felt homesick and cried, but I hugged her and kissed the top of her head and then Grace, the 12-year-old, hung out with her when I went to pick up my other two girls from camp. She seemed fine after that.

Then the phone call.

At first he was hesitant, like he was warming up his brain for the English to flow out.

“I am Sophia’s father,” he said. Clear, confident. He started with small talk, about not wanting to interrupt me while making dinner earlier. I said it was no problem.

“It has been one week since Sophia came to your house,” he said.

That’s true, I said, trying to sound really friendly, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

“Sophia is very happy to stay with your family,” he said, “and my wife and I just want to thank you.”

My shoulders dropped. O, thank you, Lord.

“This is Sophia’s first time to be away from home and my wife and I are very grateful, because now we don’t have to be concerned any more.”

Then he added–the ultimate Chinese compliment: “Sophia said your cooking is delicious.”

Woo–hoo! All that work–she tasted it. She tasted the Love!

“She especially liked the fish,” he added. “You know, at home we can never get Sophia to eat fish.”

I smiled. Thank you, Lord, for Canadian salmon.

And thank you, Lord, for men like this who call and bridge the gap and make this beautiful connection across timezones and awkward sentences. Thank you for fathers who adore their daughters and say thank you so graciously.

Thank you, Lord, for moments like these when my heart feels alive and so full of gratitude that we really can be a bridge across foreign divides. Thank you, Lord, for moments like these that save me.

Because in the busyness of being a gracious hostess and a summer Mama and a website editor, there’s not been much time for the things that usually save me. No time for quiet moments, reading, writing, soulful sips or any kind of required serenity. Truth is: I was flapping my wings a bit.

Until this Friday night phone call reminded me: This is what I spend my life doing–this building of bridges, threading connections and spreading Love. It may sound strange, but it is the Big Picture that’s saving me right now. Like painting the ceiling of a large cathedral, lying on my back, right today the daily-ness is hard and my body is sore. But when I look up and out–into what God is doing and what I get to walk in, I smile. I love this.

This Bigger Story of connection and acceptance across culture and race and language and economic difference–bridging “us” and “them”–this story I am so hoping to write with my life and in our family and in our Sisterhood, moving into it, this is what’s saving me right now.

Lifting up my head, not knowing if I’ll ever see the eventual results, is saving me right now.

Just this faithful, steadfast walking towards a future I hope for … this, most honestly, is what’s saving me right now.