teeth and kitties

the other day i almost bought a living social deal for a costco membership, until my husband gently reminded my of my scruples. this is the problem with public journaling blogging. people remind you of grand-sounding things you said once, quite some time ago. but life marches on, and you move into a beautiful lil’ house that actually has a basement where you could purchase and store sensibly-priced paper goods in bulk, where your life could be just a tiny bit easier. time is a river rushing by and there are so many ways to remember that you are always coming up short in your quest to identify with people on the margins. there are so many ways to tune out the prophets.

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where we live, going to the dentist is an ordeal. we live in the midst of a city, as urban as i have ever experienced. we are surrounded by payday loan companies and “treatment centers” and halal markets. But the only available dentists for miles and miles around are all students: bright-eyed young things who poke and prod your mouth and have to call in a crash of supervisors for any little old thing. it takes forever (it costs relatively little). people make mistakes. a one-visit procedure stretches into 3 or 4. i take my daughter to these students because she is complaining of tooth pain. they look at me and my medical insurance card from the government, and they loudly tell me that i really should be bringing her in for a cleaning every few months. i hang my head, ashamed, letting this young thing think whatever it is she wants to about me. my daughter’s teeth are perfect, they cannot see any cavities. i only feel slightly better.

my husband got his tooth pulled last year. it is one of his canines, you can only tell when he smiles so wide that his eyes get lost in the crinkles. before this happened i didn’t know there was yet another way to categorize people in our society, a way that we not-so-subtly put people in their place. there are people in our country who are missing teeth, and there are people who get them replaced. nowadays, i know so many people with the tell-tale gaps. my students, the ones who are so recently arrived here in this country, they are in the midst of it. a student will be gone for a few days, then come to class, holding an embarrassed hand over her mouth. she doesn’t want to talk. when she finally does, i see it: 4 or 5 teeth pulled, many in the front, just like that. no replacements, no nothing. we all have the same insurance. the government will help us all pay for the teeth to be removed, but replacing them is viewed as “cosmetic”. vanity of vanities, to want to look in the mirror and remember for a second, how it all used to be.

i don’t mind the gap in my husband’s smile, i think it is rather cute. but the dentists said that since my husband is so young that is could permanently mess up the way the other teeth in his mouth move around, could cause him many problems in later years. so we scrimp and save for a year, shelling out what amounts to more than what we paid for our (admittedly not-so-great) minivan, our identification coming to a screeching halt. my husband is on his way to let students insert a screw into his jaw; in a few months they will affix a new, shining tooth. he will go on with his life, eating whatever he pleases, working in his professional capacity, bearded, pleasant, whole.

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a few months ago our cat was bit by another; the wound was large and gaping and we didn’t know what to do. we tried to clean it up but by the next day it was clear that this was bad news. we found a cardboard box and brought her to the vet; they put her anesthetic and cleaned her wound and put in a drain. she was gone the whole day and when she came home we had to put a cone around her miserable head. she moped, for a week, and we bought her special kitty food to coax her. she got better, day by day. we fixed the screen door so she couldn’t get out anymore (our neighborhood does have the meanest cats you ever did see) and she meows pitifully, longing to be out. but it cost us so much money to save her that we can’t afford for it to happen again. a neighbor came over and sat under our tree in the backyard and we talked about pets who got hurt, and all the ones who died because vets were not even an option. all the animals we loved so much when we were young, the ones we clutched and cooed at and kissed; the ones who fell by the wayside, who were attacked by the robbers of the world, the ones that we were always powerless to save. i look at my cat, gleaming and whole, and it is a marker of difference. of options. the opposite of identification.

teeth and kitties, such vulnerable parts of ourselves. the whole world is a place that is liable to hurt us, to weaken us, decay us and bite us. some of us have access to resources and money where we can forget about these realities for a few more months, a few more years. we can justify ourselves to people just like us all the day long, but in the end, the same Christ looks at all of our hearts. and he will ask all of us: did you learn from the prophets, the ones i sent you all along? the gap-toothed and the sad, the wounded and the un-whole? because they are preaching to us, all the time.

they are the reminders of the kingdom that is slowly barreling into our hearts and our minds and our lives, a kingdom where every tooth and every kitty is cherished, valued, and most importantly, mourned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Book

As per usual, I couldn't take a glamorous picture because I have a very crappy phone (which blesses me and allows me to feel smug and superior, but is annoying on the whole instagram level).

As per usual, I couldn’t take a glamorous picture because I have a very crappy phone (which blesses me and allows me to feel smug and superior, but is annoying on the whole instagram level).

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a hard spring and summer, harder than I care to admit; now that everything is better I realize what level of stress and sadness I was operating under. Coming out of a winter where it was colder than mars, we ran headlong into a season of chaos and being crushed under the burdens of trying to neighbor well in intense situations. I thought I became allergic to something, found my throat closing up, started gasping for breath at the most inopportune times. I went to the doctor and had them stick all the needles in my back, but it came back negative. The doctor gently told me that there was no biological evidence that I was allergic to anything. You might want to consider panic attacks, he told me, and I instantly felt foolish. I didn’t know that was what they felt like–I assumed shaking and jittering and crying. Not wanting to drive or talk on the phone of feeling like your throat was closing in on you–this was just my new normal.

Now I breath clear and fine, I have forged through rough relationships and came out tender and new on the other side: what lesson better than forgiveness can we ever take to our graves? It is truly a mystery, finding yourself rock solid in selfishness, having the Spirit crack you wide open, deciding that you are the worst and everyone is the worst and why don’t we all consider the lilies together? Because there really are some lovely ones in my neighborhood.

This summer I went back to Oregon for a visit, the place of my family and my people and so many of my threshold experiences. I visited with the Somali refugee family that changed my life, nearly a decade ago now. The girls are tall and tower over me, high schoolers who take inordinate amounts of selfies, giggling into laptops, cooking the evening meal. I wrote a book, I told them, feeling more than a little nervous. They were non-plussed. Oh yeah? I thought you liked to write or something. I pushed ahead. The book has a lot to do with you guys. They look at me, but don’t say anything. You know, how you guys changed my life. How you taught me so much about God, about what it is like to be a refugee, what America looks like to you . . . I trailed off. I suppose I was looking for their approval. They shrug their shoulders and look back at their screens. Yeah, you did learn a lot from us, both of them say. This has been apparent to them since day one. They are bored of this conversation, and pull out a baseball cap that is completely covered in large gold studs, the bling just dripping off of it. Want to take your picture wearing this hat? they ask, and of course I say yes.

 

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Very few people I see everyday care about books. They do not read the magazines I read, they do not adore the same authors, they do not understand the intricacies of industry and marketing and platform, the great big desire to be noticed, to be new, to be good, to be admired. They do not understand how people who publish books can sometimes become giant cardboard cut-outs of themselves. They do not know how easy it is to fall into those categories, to wander in the way of self-righteousness, irony, elitism, hubris, or easy breezy moralism. Most of the people I hang out with are refugees, many of them non-literate, the majority of them all carving out lives in the hard stone of the American Dream. The other person I hang out with is 4, and she is a wormhole of ferocious need, an excellent advocate for herself, a barreling ball of kingdom values (truthfulness, faith, love), and she most emphatically does not like anything that takes my attention away from her.

It is good to be small, good to have more than a handful of identities (wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, neighbor, teammate, teacher, advocate) that vie for your attention, split you up and keep you on the ground. For awhile I looked in despair at the discrepancies of my life: living and working within one population (people experiencing poverty in America) while writing for another (mainly Christians who come from somewhat privileged backgrounds). But now it starts to seem like a gift, an authentic whole, a way to beat back the sin of pride (which comes at me from every direction). To be small, everywhere. Living in the upside-down kingdom, and writing about it. To try and be honest, to be vulnerable, to open yourself up for the inevitable misunderstandings and criticisms, to forge on ahead and practice forgiving and being forgiven. What lesson better than forgiveness can we ever take to our graves?

 

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I was born a reader and fed by a mother who let me be interested in the world, by small-town libraries, by a quest to know truth. But I did not start writing (beyond the college paper or a re-cap of a missions trip) until a few years ago. I now pinpoint the shift to when I had my daughter. I was made small and still by that experience. I had many more hours to contemplate (feeding and rocking and jiggling the baby), and it seems to me writing happens in your head when you give yourself some space to think. So I wrote a few things and sent them off, was legitimized by places I adored and read religiously. And I was surprised to find that the element underlying my new obsession with writing my own words was this: I finally wanted to be as honest as I could. And the only way I could be honest with myself is if I wrote it down.

And in the past 3+ years, that is what I have been doing. Eventually I realized I had written a book. It took me a long way to get to the place of saying I am ready for people to read that book, but here I am. I am over the moon. I am entering into this new part of life, this plan I never expected for myself. I just signed a contract with HarperOne (such a dream choice!) and I am excited for the expertise and the bridge-crossing that this particular publishing house is capable of. I’ll be sure and give you all the particulars as I come to understand them, but for now I just wanted to say thank you. It’s been a hard season, it has been one that has changed me. I am still coming to terms with all of my different selves, especially the ones that I never lived up to. When I started writing, I was finally able to be honest with myself and with God. And it became my way of considering the lilies–especially the ones that the world forgot. When I started writing, I started to finally start being able to understand the radical nature of honest in relationship to reconciliation and forgiveness. And I know I will have to keep re-learning it until I can learn no more.

I guess I just want to say thank you to everyone: thank you so much for reading along with me, for encouraging me and praying and being the cup of cold water that I generally always seem to need. But most of all, thank you for letting me write it out as I need to. It means more to me than you can possibly know.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

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The Book that Changed Josina’s Life

I met Josina at my Collegeville retreat this summer. I was immediately struck by her beauty, her warmth, and her very sweet way of speaking the TRUTH! Her writing is extremely powerful, and I love this reminder that art means more when we have suffered–which reminds me of the beauty of Christ (Also, I now really need to get this book). Be sure to read more of Josina’s work, and find out more about the amazing community that she is a part of.

 

 

 

 

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Cries of the Spirit edited by Marilyn Sewell

Guest Post by Josina Guess

 

 

 

 

 

Perhaps it is cheating to choose an anthology of poetry as the book that changed my life.  With more than 300 poems by women from Hildegard of Bingen to Audre Lorde each one speaks across history, ethnicity, geography and class and draws me in to a deeper sense of myself as a woman.  I received Cries of the Spirit as a graduation gift from a housemate at Earlham College.  I knew so much more then than I do now and sometimes read smugly the voices of cynicism, rage and doubt that cry through these pages which are a “Celebration of Women’s Spirituality.”  I was pure, hopeful, idealistic and passionate for Jesus and justice- I wanted more happy and righteous poems.  Over the years I have become a wife, mother, witness and bearer of grief and joy that my twenty one year old heart could barely fathom.  As experience has made my heart break and harden and crack open once again I read these poems over and over with eyes that always cry at wisdom that transcends what I thought I knew when I first received it.

This book is not Chicken Soup for a Woman’s soul.  It is the whole bird: feathers bones and blood, mouth gaping with eyes wide open; the shock of feet with toenails floating in the broth.  This book has a flavor so rich and deep – never canned-that is always good medicine for my sin-sick soul.  Tough poems on suicide, rape, abortion, domestic violence, divorce and menstruation are joined by tender poems on washing dishes, peeling apples, planting a garden and making love.  This book reliably primes the pump of my tear ducts and keeps me feeling in a world that tempts me to go numb and give up.

Now that I have sat with a friend and wept over the divorce papers that finalized the death of a marriage that her husband had been killing for years; now that I have watched my friend carried out of his house in a blue body bag after losing his battle with psychosis; now that I have had a friend tell me of running from gun fire with her baby shot dead on her back; now that I have had my body four times stretched and poured out through the birth of children that keep stretching, pulling and pushing me I see in this book a mirror.  This book gives me words when all I have are sighs too deep for words.  When my friend’s mother died I emailed her an Alice Walker poem when I had no words of my own to give.

Though Cries of the Spirit is heavy on the pain I am still hopeful, idealistic and passionate for Jesus and justice.  Now I can see more clearly that these burdens and blessings we women bear are worth sharing with one another and the one who made, loves and redeems us.  It makes the poems that radiate joy, hope, forgiveness and redemption all the more sweet.  Gathered in these pages I see myself: white and black, urban and rural, broken and healed.  At 35 I know I’ve only just begun.  Maybe it has not changed my life as much as help me to articulate life as a woman in all its complexity.  As my life and perspective has changed, Cries of the Spirit has given me words to embrace those changes. In some grace-filled moments I find myself writing poems when nothing else will do.  I know I have this great cloud of mothers, sisters, grandmothers and friends, whose voices sing through this book- who give me courage to raise my own- to thank.

 

 

 

 

 

 

unnamedJosina Guess lives with her husband and their four children at Jubilee Partners, a Christian service community in Comer, Georgia.  Josina has written for Conspire, Communities Magazine and Red Letter Christians Blog. Pull up a chair at Josina’s Kitchen Table to read a few more of her thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other posts in the Book That Changed My Life series:

Night

Walking on Water

Jesus For President

With Daring Faith

East Of Eden

The Giving Tree

The Irresistible Revolution

Winter’s Tale

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe

 

 

 

 

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Reasonably Bright, Reasonably Average

“David Foster Wallace once said that he thought good nonfiction was a chance to “watch somebody reasonably bright but also reasonably average pay far closer attention and think at far more length about all sorts of different stuff than most of us have a chance to in our daily lives.”–from Austin Kleon in Sell Your Work

 

 

 

Drawing by the unbelievable Chris Clother (for Cordella Magazine)

                                                   Drawing by the unbelievable Chris Clother (for Cordella Magazine)

 

 

A reminder for myself on a day like today. A day where everything is so very normal (slow walks to the library with a small, curly-haired child, a messy kitchen, faint and ebbing headaches) and where the world is cracked in every direction that you look. Our tiniest decisions, thoughts, purchases insurmountably inane and important, I can never quite remember which one. I dream some day of being a wise old turtle, calm and peaceful, one of the cloistered kinds of saints. But for now I am rather more like the unhinged ones, stumbling about and repeating the truths as I find them, aware that they never quite sink in. This is why I so struggle to identify as an artist, or a writer. Being honest about the restless heart within me, and pursuing it–it is not safe and it is not exactly what I had planned for this life. 

 

But to be awake–that’s all God ever wanted for his artists, anyways. To pay attention, to cry when everyone is laughing, to laugh when everyone is crying. To be all wrong, all out of sorts, ridiculous and hopeful, so plain and so honest and so frail. In that vein, I wanted to point you to an essay of mine that I wrote about for a dear friend’s gorgeous new literary magazine called CordellaI wrote a bit about my own story wanting to be like Joan of Arc, and how that never quite panned out. Head over to the site to see the piece, and then check out the rest of the first issue.

 

Here’s to a weekend of being our (un)reasonably bright and average selves. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Book that Changed Lydia’s Life

I met Lydia at my Collegeville workshop in July. She was a pleasure to meet and hang out with, and the stories of her life (growing up in the Catholic Worker house in Detroit) and her current work as a water activist were so inspiring. Her writing is amazingly evocative, filled both with a sense of activism and a deep lyricism. I too love the Narnia books, and for me they are so tied to family as well. I want to honor the richness of this essay by telling you it would be best if you find a quiet space to read it and be prepared to be moved: when Lydia writes about her mother there is something deep happening. I am so grateful for her words here, and am honored to host them. 

 

 

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Love Story to Narnia

by Lydia Wylie-Kellermann

 

Frustrated he said, “Well what would you do if you were trying to convert someone?” He had been following my mom around campus for months trying to convert her to be a Crusader for Christ by following the 5 spiritual laws of conversation. Without needing a minute to think about it, she said “I would ask them to read the Chronicles of Narnia and then invite them to talk about it.”

She was raised on those stories, traveling Europe with her parents. She read them aloud in the little chapel on the hillside in Taize, France while the monks chanted prayers. On the Queen Mary, she carried her small metal Reepacheep sword around the decks. Narnia came alive in her as her sense of imagination, adventure, and wildness grew.

That deep magic found its way into our home. Tucked under the covers, I feel her hand on my back and her voice carrying the pages into my own dreams. We were a family who craved winter, to walk through the snow and trees imagining being in Narnia where the animals and trees are alive with spirit and speech. It was a tale and a land that nurtured my love of the seasons, honored the animals, instilled a sense of hope and faith against all odds, trusted in the unseen sacred spirit around us, and taught me an unfaltering belief in resurrection.

At twelve, my mom was diagnosed with brain cancer. Given six months to live, she miraculously lived for seven and a half years. It was a season in my life marked with surgeries, seizures, and long hospitals stays. On the times when I would sit with my mom waiting for her to regain consciousness, I knew there was only one thing I needed to bring. Chronicles. We read those stories over and over from one hospital bed to another.

In the final months of her life, my dad took to reading her The Last Battle (the seventh and last book). On December 30, the night before she died, my sister Lucy (a name not unrelated to Narnia I believe) and I crawled into the hospital bed that lay beside our Christmas tree in our living room. We tucked ourselves under her arm, as my dad read the final chapter out loud to us all. He read the final words as we all clung to that moment with warm tears hanging on our cheeks.

 “And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever; in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

Narnia had woven its way through my childhood with a sense of mystery, kept me company through my teenage years beside hospital beds, and now at 19 years old it led me deeper into my own grief. When we closed her casket, I placed a copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in her hands. I held onto a deep sense of knowing that when I read those books throughout my life, I would continue to meet her on those pages.

At her Memorial Service, I read about the sisters, Lucy and Susan, caring for Aslan’s body as we cared for my mom’s washing them both with our tears. A couple years later, in a moment of numbness and loneliness, I found my way to that little chapel in Taize. I curled up in a corner leaning against the cold stone and found the courage to open the page and speak the words aloud. We buried my mom’s ashes up in the thumb of Michigan in a patch of tall pines she loved. The only thing that marks the spot is a lamppost. A young girl and her grandmother wandered into the woods and finding the lamppost, the girl cried out “We have found Narnia!” Indeed they had.

To be clear, there are also many problematic pieces of the stories as it is rich with patriarchy, warfare, and blatant atonement theology. None of that is to be ignored or excused. But for me, they are the stories that wove through my life holding a sense of home, mystery, and awe. In some ways, it almost doesn’t matter what the books were, but that they were.

As an adult, in moments when my belief in God or heaven are challenged or the reality and  possibility of building toward the Beloved Community, I find myself thinking of Puddleglum from The Silver Chair. He is a lovable, pessimistic, Debbie Downer, dreary, pain-in-the-butt, but completely loyal froglike friend. Towards the end of the book, him and his companions have been captured and taken to an underground world and tortured into believing that there is no world above, no Narnia, no Aslan. In an incredible act of faith that breaks the spell, Puddleglum cries out “Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things- trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones…I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia.” Amen.

 

 

 

unnamed-2Lydia Wylie-Kellermann is an activist, writer, and mother in Detroit, MI. She is part of the Jeanie Wylie Community, focused on urban agriculture, immigrant justice, and nonviolence. She works for Word and World- an experiment in alternative theological education bridging the gap between the seminary, the sanctuary and the street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other posts in the Book That Changed My Life series:

Night

Walking on Water

Jesus For President

With Daring Faith

East Of Eden

The Giving Tree

The Irresistible Revolution

Winter’s Tale

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

 

 

 

 

D.L. Recommends Vol. 3: The Summer In Retrospect Edition

First, a few things I don’t recommend:

Cheap sparklers for four year olds. Getting the flu whilst being in Mexico. Flying with a toddler who has the flu. Reality television, of any kind. Going on Pinterest when your self-esteem is already a bit low. Underestimating the urban squirrels and how much they enjoy plums/corn on the cob. 

 

 

and here are some things I do:

 

 

Re-watching seasons 1-4 of the Office

Because re-watching Jim and Pam fall in love is so worth it. Anything past those seasons is quite meh. 

 

Robert Coles

Do you guys know Robert Coles? I learned about him first from Philip Yancey. This guy is a psychologist with the heart of a literary giant. I have been re-visiting his massive Children of Crisis series and it cemented in my all-time favorite books category (an excellent Christmas present for the voracious reader). His interviews with children in various degrees of poverty/marginalization in America will stun you. And even though it was written over 50 years ago, not much has changed. I don’t know how someone can be so smart and write so beautifully about such sad things.

 

Dying Your Own Darn Hair

Ever since the ombre look came back into style, the frugal madam inside me has rejoiced. I go and buy a $2 box of bleach, slather it on the lower half of my hair and presto: I look OK. #cheapskateftw. 

 

What Alice Forgot

This book would be classified as my “summer romp”. Quick, fast, interesting–not brain science here, great for summer–and some excellent reflections on relationships and how people change. 

 

Making a Dirt N’ Worms Cake for your Daughter’s 4th Birthday Party

All the kids will freak out in excitement.

 

Works of Love are Works of Peace

This book has beautiful images/words from Mother Theresa at her home with the sisters of Charity in Calcutta. It is the perfect (IMO) coffee table book: beautiful, disturbing, heartbreaking, hopeful. Pictures of people dying, and other people holding them while they do. Reminders that the world is ugly and terrible and we are just to do that one thing in front of us that we need to do. And if we aren’t connected to people who are suffering, then that might be the place to start.

 

Meeting Writers You Admire IRL and Having Them Be Better Than You Imagined

I was at Collegeville for a week of hanging out with amazing writer/activist/practitioners and it was led by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove. The first few days I was all like is this guy for real? And by the end of the week he was probably one of the best people I had ever met. His genuine listening ear and championing spirit will stay with me for a long, long time–and it makes me like his writing even more than I did. Do you know how rare this is? I am telling you: humility is a lost-art form, and one I dearly need to learn. JWH has it in spades. I am a huge fan. (If you are new to his work may I suggest starting here or here).  

 

Philomena

Favorite movie of the summer, hands down. I was not quite prepared emotionally and sobbed my ever-loving guts out. As I go through my own issues with growing my family this film spoke to me so much through the perspective of the birth parent. Also, the forgiveness scene is fantastic. Watch with tissues clutched tightly in hand (but be prepared to laugh at all the naughty words as well).

 

Whoopie Pies

They are so delicious. 

 

The Aeropress

My friend (and InnerCHANGE General Director) Darren Prince sent this to our family and boy howdy, is it amazing. Relatively inexpensive, this is the way to make coffee when you travel! Darren would be horrified to know that I add milk and home-made vanilla syrup to make the best iced lattes you can get in my neighborhood (srsly), but I ain’t too proud to say it here. Also, you can check out this awesome instructional video by my favorite Irish theologian/internet friend Kevin (I won’t even try to type his last name). 

 

The Chapter Book Stage of Life

We bought our daughter a few chapter books and it is so exciting I just want to squeal: Little House in the Big Woods, Paddington, The Ramona series . . . it is all still a bit over her head but my enthusiasm keeps her going. The costs are steep but my goodness the rewards of parenting.

 

Pickling Things You Grew in the Dirt

Stereotypical white girl urban gardner newbie recommendation alert. I grew a bunch of cucumbers and used my amazing sister’s recipe to pickle them. I can’t stop eating them. 

 

Reading Woody Guthrie Quotes

“I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. … I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work.”

 

Watching the New Season of Doctor Who

Somehow my husband figured out how to get it to stream for us and now I am rising up and calling him blessed. I am totes into Peter Capaldi and his eyebrows being the new doctor. Begone, silly-scarfed one! Bring on the dramatic Scot with no ridiculous love situations!

 

Being Quiet

This has been a summer for being quiet in the midst of a loud world. We actually got this quiet book for my daughter and my husband was inspired to photoshop make some images just for me:

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(all original illustrations by Renata Liwska and for heaven’s sake don’t steal them or anything)

 

I recommend taking the time to do the inner work of thinking and working through what it is we all need to sort out. Doing the hard inner work of cleaning our houses, of ensuring that we aren’t all just white-washed tombs bumbling about our world. I recommend going into this fall as people who know we are quietly beloved, and there isn’t a thing we can do to change that.

 

 

 

So, what are some things from the summer that you would like to recommend? Hit me up!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Book That Changed Kelsey’s Life

I just recently made the pleasure of Kelsey’s acquaintance, and now we are in an IRL writing group. Her presence is a joy, as are her thoughtful comments, fantastical sermons, and her general air of practical whimsy. Kelsey is new to this whole writing-on-the-internet thing, and I am so glad she is starting. Also, I read this book when I was a teenager as well, and it completely went over my head (not surprising, but still rather depressing). I do believe it is time to crack it open again. Heaven knows I love a good underdog story. 

 

 

 

 

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The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

by Kelsey Maddox

 

 

I don’t remember where I acquired the book or when. Nor do I recall what age I was—a teenager, I know that much. I do remember that it was a stiff, musty, cheap paperback, and that it was hard to keep it propped open. The print was small, type-writer looking, and there were no illustrations. It is a substantial read, and the print felt especially minuscule for all the movement that happened on one page.

I also recall thinking that with a title like The Heart is a Lonely Hunter that the content was perhaps too “mature” for me, and that maybe I should wait to read it. But I had a habit of woofing down entire voluminous novels, even if I couldn’t fully fathom them. The summer that I was seventeen I read three of Shakespeare’s plays and four other classic pieces of lit. That is what my teenage self did on vacation. I couldn’t help it. Books were a kinship that no human offered. They were my friends. Books were the very thing that cured and caused my isolation. I didn’t lack friends entirely, but I would sometimes choose a book over a social gathering. How strange! It was easier for me to identify with the book characters than my own friends.

It was an escape.         

And I had found the ultimate one. This book, this one in particular, epitomized my isolation. It embraced why I could be unique and exploited it, all at once. There were so many characters to escape into, each of them a different part of me. So easy it was for me to identify with them, yet each of them radically different from me to a degree of deep intrigue. I couldn’t put it down, this stiff, musty paperback, even though it persisted in closing on me. I would read until my eyes grew wide or would slowly begin to ache, becoming big pools of tired.

This, this novel is the great anthem of underdogs and isolation. The ensemble of main characters, 5 of them at least, each a different offering: the deaf-mute, the diner owner, the Greek who smelled bad. The 12 year old girl I wanted to emulate—her name was Mick. I wanted to live in her house, see the world from her gritty perspective, and be as transformed by a Jewish boy and a deaf-mute and she was. I wanted her short hair and audacity to smoke cigarettes. I wanted to eat at that diner with her and have the same hopes and dreams and sadness. I was curious about the deaf-mute, just like her. I wanted to be his friend—he was so intelligent for his lack of sound. How could you forget him, John Singer? I wanted to sleep on the other half of his bunk bed and write down what he had to say to the world. In this unusual spree of characters and their interwoven stories, I had, for once found people I could identify with—a much more difficult feat in reality.

SO GOES THE TALE OF THE UNDERDOG.

Underdogs.

Underdogs:

Winsome, yet mysterious.

Exposed, yet withdrawn.

In view, but you turn your gaze away so as not to gawk.

    Pridefully different, embarrassedly alone.

    Naively divergent, happily oppressed.

   Wanting belonging, peacefully singular.

              Lacking self-propriety, careless of what others think.

              Economically poor, focused on ailments of self.

              Navigating self worth by both flaunting and hiding ailments.

              Internally stormy, yet full of surprise victory.

Underdogdom was my destiny. Entering the world at two pounds, runt-like in my qualities, I was set for certain meekness. Surely I was destined, with my parent’s broken marriage, my dad’s mental illness, my mom’s intestinal disorder. Was I humble in my isolation? Or just lacking self confidence? Naive? Or just hadn’t asked the questions yet? By high school, I had figured out how to caged-bird sing (thank you, dearest Maya Angelou), beat-of-my-own-drum marching, flaunting outright how I am not like you. Was it circumstantial? Or was it just…me? Regardless of circumstance or simply personal development, there was one thing that differentiates an underdog from a down and out mope: the underdog never loses HOPE.

With the underdog, there is an element of surprise. This capacity to shock society, or even just whoever is around, is the most gratifying thing the created underdog could feel! Even if it is only momentary, it is proof that the underdog can rise above, can excel, or in the very least, is an adequate human being.

In the novel, this is the most vivid through John Singer–the deaf mute–the man I so badly wanted to become friends with in real life. I was so very sad for him when he lost his one true friend, the Greek—such an irrevocable plot twist. Now what would he do? No one else seemed to miss the Greek for what good is a deaf-mute to the general populace? This, this is the song of the underdog—set in a time when people seemed to have less education concerning underdogs. They are all underdogs in this story and they are all champions in their isolation because for once their story is told. We all have stories to tell and the tale of the underdog is no less valuable, though it may seem so because that is the very essence of the underdog—to be less valuable. I think most people want to see the underdog on top for one glistening moment, but would they want to remain an underdog after that? Would you want to remain isolated and ailing?

HOW DARE YOU UNDERESTIMATE THE ISOLATED CREATURES!

And is this not the message of Christ?

(Christ: The paraclete society shocker. The turn-normal-upside-down bringer. The “isolation [read: solitude] is where you’ll find me” lover. Is this not his message?)

And this is why I have read this book over and over: it is where I began to see Christ in the underdog. It is where I began to see Christ in myself. It is where I began to see Christ in those who were like me, underdogs, and for the first time in my teenage life, I made friends that were not books.

 

 

 

 

 

Kelsey Maddox is a lover of words and far too many other things, but most especially: people, the outdoors, gardening, biking and rock climbing, and the monastic life. When she is not attempting the craft of words, figuring out the perfect from-scratch ice cream recipe or problem solving scaling a rock, she works for Grace Trinity Community Church (www.gracetrinitychurch.org/) and hangs out with the two most swell dudes she knows: her husband Phil and son Oliver—well, three dudes if you count the dog!

 

 

 

 

Other posts in the Book That Changed My Life series:

Night

Walking on Water

Jesus For President

With Daring Faith

East Of Eden

The Giving Tree

The Irresistible Revolution

Winter’s Tale

 

 

 

 

 

The Book That Changed Ben’s Life

Well, this is officially the first book in this series that I haven’t read–so I best be getting on that (seriously, now I really really want to). Ben is an IRL friend of mine from lovely Portland. I love the way his literary mind is in constant conflict with the beautiful and terrible world that he finds himself in. Do yourself a favor, read this essay, and then get on over to his website where you can find more of his writing. 

 

 

 

unnamed-3

Winter’s Tale

by Ben Bishop

 

“A lot of people hate heroes. I was criticized for portraying people who are brave, honest, loving, intelligent. That was called weak and sentimental. People who dismiss all real emotion as sentimentality are cowards. They’re afraid to commit themselves, and so they remain ‘cool’ for the rest of their lives, until they’re dead—then they’re really cool.”

- Mark Helprin

^  ^  ^

I’m infatuated with New York City. My fascination is of a particular variety, the kind that comes from visiting a place, immediately becoming enamored, and then returning numerous times without ever actually moving there and having to suffer its more dismal aspects. It’s an infatuation rooted in the aromas of history and raw ambition I get a whiff of every time I walk through Manhattan’s cobblestoned alleys, or drift over the timeless span of the Brooklyn Bridge. New York is a romantic city in the fullest sense of the term, at once exhilarating and unpredictable, a grand old place, occasionally desolate, seeming to have a thousand faces. 

Set near the turn of the 20th century, Mark Helprin’s “Winter’s Tale” takes place in an alternate version of New York. Recognizable as the real thing, the city’s subtle deviations from reality are revealed only gradually, as the novel unfolds. “Winter’s Tale” traces the life of Peter Lake, master burglar, including his exploits as a thief, his encounters with an enchanted white horse, his pursuit of a beautiful woman dying of consumption, and his running conflict with a brutal gangster. It is fundamentally a fantasy and a work of magical realism, although it operates within (and, just as importantly, was acknowledged and received by the powers that rule) the world of literary fiction. Verbose to the point of intoxication, the book includes some of the best names I’ve ever encountered (a street gang named the Dead Rabbits? come on), and is both a paean to New York City and a document chronicling the author’s love affair with the English language. 

When I first encountered “Winter’s Tale” two years ago, I was deep in the throes of trying to sell my first novel, a process that involved trying to understand my place within the world of fiction. Who was I writing for? What was I trying say? Who was going to read my book? I furrowed my brow and reflected with great sobriety on the Good Books I’d read or had recommended to me over the past decade. Meanwhile, there was a moment during my devouring of “Winter’s Tale” when I began to realize what the distinct-yet-not-unpleasant twinge I’d been feeling since the first page was. It dawned on me that the sliver of undefined matter lodged way back in the molars of my brain had as much to do with what I was not encountering in the book as what I was. Several hundred pages into the story I was surprised to find that I was not ankle deep in existential despair. Try as I might, I simply could not find any artful ennui, nor any of the other neuroses I’d come to associate with much of the literary fiction I’d read. The lead characters were not grappling with suburban desolation, the disintegration of the nuclear family, or that postmodern ambivalence which, while sometimes useful, is all too often symptomatic of a corrosive, humanistic resignation. 

Yes, you say, but did the book change your life? It did. From nearly the first page, I was captivated by its earnestness. Here were characters who believed in the eternal power of love and the ultimate weight of justice. Here were clear depictions of good and evil and the struggle to choose one and not the other. Here was the promise of immortality, and a clear-eyed embrace of the spiritual reality that underpins the material world. And yet it was not a naive work. Neither, miraculously, was it sentimental. You can’t elide the realities of depravity and despair and also tell a human story of any consequence. Not if you want people to believe you. Yet the overall tone of the book—the exuberance of the language, the almost obsessive preoccupation with light and color, and the simple yet powerful claim that things like faithfulness and selflessness are not only possible but vital—was so fundamentally and unapologetically optimistic, that upon my exposure to it I felt something inside of me resonate like a sounding bell. 

Of course, not all of what we would call literary fiction is depraved or morally relativistic. Not by a long shot. Still, I cannot deny how clearly I was struck by the difference between the story of Peter Lake and many of the novels featured on the front page of the New York Times Book Review. Indeed, I wonder if there has ever been as tantalizing a description of a book as the one that ran in the September 4, 1983 Times review of “Winter’s Tale”: 

“There’s far more that I would wish to say about the book – so much more that I find myself nervous, to a degree I don’t recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying its brilliance.” 

As someone who has grown up reading and studying modern American novels, I’ve absorbed numerous unspoken rules, including the one that states that it’s simply not cool to hold up people who are gentle, hopeful, generous, or altruistic as heroes. Novels that celebrate virtue wholeheartedly, without irony or shame, are exceedingly rare. Those that are canonized are even rarer. That a reviewer for The New York Times would say of any book, let alone this book, that he is nervous about failing to adequately display its brilliance surprised me, to say the least. 

You will note that I have not told you much about the plot or characters, save a cursory overview. I haven’t talked about the moment when I roared with laughter while alone in my bedroom while reading. I haven’t told you about coming to the final scenes of the book, and how I mourned finishing it. I haven’t done any of these things because I want you to have an unadulterated experience of the novel for yourself, to discover its joys on your own and thereby forge your own memories. Before I ever thought about “Winter’s Tale” on an intellectual or critical level, I simply drank it in as a story, and in drinking it in I was powerfully moved. By the end, I found myself agreeing with another reviewer who once wrote that Helprin’s work “exists to remind us that… it is sometimes wiser and more fulfilling to cherish our deepest ideals than to mock them.” 

Last Christmas, I unwrapped a gift from my sister; a copy of “Winter’s Tale.” She didn’t realize I’d already read it. When she did, she was crestfallen. She offered to take it back, get me something else. 

“No,” I said, waving my hand. “No, no. Absolutely not. I’m going to read it again.”

 

 

 

Ben Bishop lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.

 

 

 

 

Other posts in the Book That Changed My Life series:

Night

Walking on Water

Jesus For President

With Daring Faith

East Of Eden

The Giving Tree

The Irresistible Revolution

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Book That Changed Stina’s Life

I read The Irresistible Revolution late in the game, only a few years ago. But I was already smitten with the ideas and gentle humor and radical hope that Shane Claiborne and his friends possessed. In recent years I have been fascinated by our culture’s reactions to authors who ask us to look at issues of poverty, in-equality, and privilege. In interviews with Claiborne, the most common question I hear being asked is this: “yes, but what about us–the people living normal American lives–is there any hope for us?” There are no easy answers, and–as I think this essay makes clear–there is no way to tell when a book stops changing your life–or what it changes it toward. 

 

 

IrresistableRevolution

 

 

 

The Irresistible Revolution

 

By Stina KC

 

 

What was it about that book?

It was the gee whiz let’s do something. It was the stories of hope. It was the promise of a glittery but gritty revolution where the kingdom breaks through cracked concrete, mustard plant by mustard plant.

It was the acknowledgment that not all is well with the world, stop pretending. Instead, let’s move into the neighborhood and tithe our money relationally; let’s reject the investment in sprawling suburban church campuses when so many are scrounging for grocery money. Be a new kind of believer, a prophetic witness who takes Jesus at his word.

Shane Claiborne came to speak in chapel at my evangelical college in 2004, two years before The Irresistible Revolution was published. It was the week before finals and I skipped his talk to write a paper; I had never heard of him. But I saw the impact he had on my friends, how they came back from chapel pumped up by his words about authentic faith, by his dreadlocks and patched jeans. Some of my crowd looked a lot like Shane that way, and I have a faint recollection of a drum circle that he performed with students on campus.

Shane, it was decided, was very cool. The New Monasticism movement that he headlined buzzed with words like “intentional community” and “downward mobility,” setting my idealist heart ringing. It dovetailed with the “you can change the world” message I had long heard growing up. And I believed in my heart of hearts that I, too, would never settle for a stale and materialistic Christianity.

But, if you’re like me, the sounding gong of radicalism eventually faded into disillusionment. Your life never looked like the dramatic stories in Shane’s book. You forgot to have grace for yourself when your experiments with countercultural living in the city fell flat. You flamed out, young radical. Maybe you never invited your neighbors over for that BBQ you were meaning to throw. Maybe you volunteered at the neighborhood community center until your schedule changed and you had to drop it. Or maybe you got depressed or broke up with your boyfriend or spent a year listening to indie rock in coffee shops while you hung onto cynicism like a scar.

I’m here to tell you – I see you. I am you.

Let’s walk together and sit down here, at the feet of Jesus. Put down the radical rule books and “shoulds” about how we must live or relate to the poor. Instead, look upon your disappointment with kindness. Perhaps you needed a few years to grow up, to be jaded and confused and cynical. Sit here beside me, see his robe hems? Maybe those years were leading you right here, onto the ground like a child at library story time. Lean forward and listen. He is looking at you in love, dear child of God; he is speaking words of grace.

While you sit, remember what Mother Teresa said about great things. Not all of us can spark a movement like Claiborne, not everyone can start a community house in a struggling neighborhood.  But we can all rest here awhile and listen. And when you finally stand up to go about your day, be amazed at how God interrupts your mundane life like the wiliest of mustard plants. Watch dirty things become clean with every dish you wash. Witness tears turning to laughter when you comfort your child. Observe prisoners going free as you extend a meal to a lonely friend. All of them are such small things, such un-sexy things. But, as Mother Teresa would remind us, they are great when done with love.

Actually, this was Claiborne’s message all along – his book tagline is, after all, “living as an ordinary radical.” He even cites Mother Teresa’s words about small things with great love at the end of the book, striving hard to make the revolution legalism-proof. Yet somehow I walked away from that book and the radical Christian sub-culture with a different message, one that elevated inner-city ministry and intentional poverty above all else. It made anything less feel like failure.

Still, The Irresistible Revolution changed my life; it stirred me to reimagine my faith in a terrible, beautiful world. It led me to volunteer with refugees and torture survivors, to live below the poverty level in an intentional community for a season. And, though my life looks different now, I continue to struggle with the questions that Claiborne raised about poverty, about injustice, about taking Jesus at his word. I keep returning to the humble floor, laying the discord and tensions I feel at his feet. I keep reminding myself: the smallest of things, the greatest of love.

Maybe God isn’t done with us yet, my fellow failed radicals. As for the “what now” – well, maybe our lives of doing dishes, childcare and cooking will never inspire quite like Claiborne’s. Let’s content ourselves by watching mustard sprouts wherever we can find them. And, when you start paying attention, you just might realize they are springing up everywhere.

 

 

unnamed-2Stina KC is a fledgling writer who blogs occasionally at
http://stinakc.wordpress.com/. After turning 30, she decided it was
finally okay to write for strangers on the internet. She is an angsty
Anabaptist/Anglican hybrid who likes to write about faith, motherhood,
and being all grown up. Stina lives in Minneapolis with her husband
and daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other posts in the Book That Changed My Life series:

Night

Walking on Water

Jesus For President

With Daring Faith

East Of Eden

The Giving Tree

the crucified God

“There is nothing so unpopular as for the crucified God to be made a present reality through faith. It alienates alienated men, who have come to terms with their alienation” –Jurgen Moltmann, the Crucified God

“For in fact the world is erupting around us, Christ is very often offering us the scars in his side. What we call doubt is often simply dullness of mind and spirit, not the absence of faith at all, but faith latent in the lives we are not quite living, God dormant in the world to which we are not quite giving our best selves” Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss

 

The day our neighbor came over and watched my husband and I pour our spirits out was a day that forever changed me. Grieved and imprisoned in our own wounds, the persistent lies we were fed and nurtured, the histories that we swallowed whole, the sins as old as time, we pleaded with him to help us understand. There was a black boy who died and the person who killed him was let go. Our neighbor stayed for coffee and let us talk, and then he said: you have the luxury of being surprised. Nobody else around here is. In his astounding kindness, my neighbor stayed and talked with us, patient and sorrowful, his weariness more harrowing to my soul than I could begin to understand. 

It has taken many years, many relationships, cringe-worthy questions and blustering self-righteousness to get to the place that I am today, a place which is still far from where I want to be. My choice of neighborhoods is just the tip of me trying to scale the large mountains of alienation that are inside of me. I feel far from the people in Ferguson, but not as far as I was a few years ago; I feel like I see the wounds of Christ bright red in front of me, but I am still not able to feel them.

That people prefer themselves and all others like them is no surprise to any of us, but I am consistently taken aback at how often we refute that our systems might have the exact same kind of problem. Being the minority where I work and live and play has opened my eyes to the way the systems (political and religious) are intrinsically for me. This never bothered me before, until I realized what the converse of that equation is.

Those systems are against others.

That sentence alone is enough to stop me. The words sin and repentance and judgement swim before my eyes. But this time, the meaning is different. Turning away from myself, and turning towards God: for me it has looked almost unbearably practical. It has meant turning towards the ones who are being shut out.

It is this: moving in, listening, reading books. Putting myself in a position to be wrong, to be silent, to be chastised, to be extended forgiveness, to withhold judgement, to invite understanding. I thought the cost would be steep but it has turned out the opposite. The struggle to convince myself and others around that we were not, in fact, prejudiced people living in a very un-equal country–this is what has caused my soul enormous pain and distance from Christ himself.

Because Christ came to suffer with us, and he has no use for people who brightly and loudly exclaim that they indeed are well, that there is no need for radical transformation, no need for someone to save us from the seeds of white supremacy that have been sowed in us from the beginning. So in order to edge nearer to a God who is present in suffering, I had to lay down my mantel of being well. I had to, in the words of a beautiful poet, “start cleaning my house.” 

Make no mistake, I am scrubbed raw and bare and feel the impending panic of how often this process will need to be repeated. But the freedom–the absolute and utter bounty of staring our alienation in the face and telling it to go to hell–is something I will never give up again.

What has and is happening in Ferguson (which is a picture of what is happening all throughout our country) is an invitation to us all. The more we declare that we are well, the farther we will drift from Christ. And he is the only one with the words of life. He is the one offering us his own scars, pleading with us to look at our own. 

 

 

 

 

 

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