I’m sitting in the airport, in a wheelchair. I had surgery a few days ago and I have to travel for work and I foolishly (and typically) thought I would be fine to fly this soon after my surgery. My doctor cleared me. But that’s not quite true. It took a little pleading and arm-twisting on my part, assuring her that I would be fine.

Since I am traveling so soon after surgery and still feeling a wee bit, umm, well, tender, shall we say, I thought it might be a good idea to ask for assistance. So my office called ahead and told them that I would need help. I thought this meant a ride on one of those fun little carts with the yellow light and the obnoxious beep we all have to dodge, but I was mistaken. Oh, was I mistaken! Had I thought it through a little more beforehand, I might have remembered that I’d never seen one of those carts in an airport as small as Nashville.

So, when I arrived, I gingerly pulled my suitcase out of my trunk. Actually, my cleaning lady was at the house this morning and she put it in the trunk for me and – with much loud and slow speaking and hand gestures on my part – she arranged it so that all I had to do was sort of push it out of trunk and not try to handle the weight. I managed this perfectly, pulled it up on its side, drew out the handle, and waddled off.

Now, I am legitimately in pain. However, there could be an argument that it is of my own making because I don’t like painkillers – I don’t like to feel loopy – and Tylenol ® only goes so far. So, this need for assistance is not a complete farce on my part but if I am really honest, I might have been hamming it up ever so slightly as I walked up to the lady at the counter. I had to wait a moment or two and made a couple of pained looks for good measure. When she checked me in, she called for the chair and it was then that I remembered the lack of carts and yellow lights. Oh gawwwd, not one of those chairs. But surely enough, within a matter of moments, a tiny man pushing a huge chair made his way in my direction. I thought, I’ll kill him before we make it to security. He could not have weighed more than my right bicep.

They settled me into the chair, accompanied by a couple of more grimaces, and off we went. He was both pushing me and simultaneously pulling my luggage. I was most impressed. I whizzed through the checkpoint, I didn’t have to deal with my bags at security or take off my shoes. And as a bonus, they didn’t even question my 150ml leave-in conditioner. What I exchanged for all of these luxuries, were the looks from other people. Some were pity, others looked perturbed or fed-up, others just stared.

This is not my first wheelchair ride. I once had surgery on my foot and my mother pushed me around Wal-Mart. There were also days during chemo that I would be out with my sister and those little trolleys were a godsend. And being bald will certainly get you looks of pity so I can’t for the life of me figure out why this particular incident is bothering so much. Is it because I am alone? Is it because the pain isn’t unbearable or so terribly awful that I possibly could manage without the assistance.

The questions that plague me at the moment, as I type, as I ignore the stares of people walking by, as I sit in the wheelchair at the gate, is…what do I do now? When the lovely little man breathlessly rolled me to the gate, he didn’t give me any instructions. Actually, that is not true. He told me that the lady at the gate would help me onto the plane when it was time to board for my flight. But he was exhausted and didn’t have the energy or breath to tell me what to do until then. What is wheelchair assistance etiquette? Am I allowed to get up? What if I have to go to the bathroom? I am directly across from the Starbucks and would love a skinny cappuccino. Seriously, as I type, my throat is getting dry.

Here is a list of why this is awful:

1. I am second guessing myself and wondering honestly, I do need assistance.
2. I am trying to figure out why I am worried about other’s opinions. I am probably never going to see these people again. I’m probably imagining their weird looks. If I decide to jump up and do a cartwheel, it doesn’t matter. Only it does. And it would probably rip a few stitches.
3. It makes me feel very lonely. Travel is often lonely. But never more than when you need a drink of water and there is no one to get you one.
4. I’ve rarely had a shy moment in life but I am too shy to ask the people around me to get me water. Probably because I could get up and get it myself but, well, refer to #1.
5. I’m trying to remember if I have every stared, or sighed heavily when someone gets rolled in front of me in the security line. Have I given someone a look of pity they didn’t want or deserve.
6. I now have a miniscule, a-drop-in-the-ocean of an idea of what it is like to have to live confined to a wheelchair.
7. My butt is going numb from sitting in the same position for too long (and from which I am worried to move because the people’s whose opinions don’t matter might not approve).

My plane is late. My gut reaction is that it is God’s judgment. But I know he doesn’t work that way. Just like I know that most people are more generous than I give them credit for and less interested than I expect.

An excerpt from from Justin Lee’s latest blog at the CNN Belief Blog.

In high school, I was a Christian know-it-all.

My nickname was “God boy,” and I was known for regularly preaching at my friends about social issues of the day. I dismissed their objections – and accusations of homophobia – as intolerance for my faith.

“I’m just telling you what God’s Word says,” I’d argue.

Years later I realized my mistake. What my peers most objected to wasn’t my beliefs – it was my condescending attitude. I debated and preached when I should have listened. I thought that stating my position loudly and unyieldingly was a sign of strength. In the process, I alienated my friends.

I’m still an evangelical Christian, but one thing is now crystal clear to me. American evangelicals’ bad reputation isn’t just because of what we believe. It’s mostly because of how we behave.

Read the rest of Justin Lee’s incredible blog at CNN’s Belief Blog.

I had no idea of what to expect when my publisher, Jericho Books, sent me Heather Kopp’s Sober Mercies, especially when I noted the subtitle- “how love caught up with a Christian drunk”.

Trying to be a good team player, I agreed to take a look at Heather’s book even though I smugly didn’t think it would have many lessons for me. On the surface, it didn’t seem to immediately apply to me. In other words, I’m not an alcoholic and I enjoy drinking in moderation.

Well, I was wrong. As we all know, a good story applies to everyone’s life, and Sober Mercies is no exception. Heather’s story unfolds with such raw honesty that one is hard-pressed to put the book down. In fact, I kept this book on top of all the guitar and drum catalogs stacked on my bathroom shelf. My dreams of vintage Stratocasters were left in limbo while I was captivated by this real life story.

The author doesn’t spare herself as she reveals her cringe-worthy episodes, rife with shame and guilt. Driving her kids to school while drunk, hiding bottles in her bathrobe, and ruination of all manner pave the road to Heather’s recovery. The only consolation the reader has is the hope that the book exists because it has a satisfying ending.

The telling of this tale is done with humor and class, and a kind of self-effacement that doesn’t become tiresome. In fact, Heather’s humor is a clue to the health the she discovers on a harrowing journey.

The peril of reading a book like this one is in thinking about someone you know who should read it. After all, you’re not a drunk… Well, hang on for the ride, because you’ll find yourself somewhere in these pages.

The nitty gritty of Sober Mercies is the question of how people perceive God, particularly long time believers in God. Does God hear my prayers? Isn’t everything supposed to turn out right for believers? Heather writes:

What if God could only be trusted in a way that went far beyond simply trusting Him for any specific result? What if He could only be trusted with the outcomes, or despite the outcomes? What if He could only be trusted from the incomprehensible perspective of all eternity?

Heather’s book is a striking account of a family’s struggle with alcohol, and on the merit of that alone, it’s worth reading. But moreover, the questions raised by this Bible-believing, evangelical mother are universal questions that go beyond faith boundaries into the matters of the heart.

It is a dangerous thing to give your heart away to someone you have only just met. Like most people, I learned that the hard way. Protecting your heart is a survival skill you learn as you grow and I am particularly bad at it. I think it has something to do with being too trusting or expecting everyone to be good, or maybe it comes from being the baby in the family, I don’t know. Over time, I have learned to study folks first before I hand them my heart and even that is no guarantee. But the cold winter morning that I plopped down opposite Becca Stevens, I had her my heart with one hand and a hot mug of coffee in the other. I saw safety in her eyes when I looked up at her. I saw wisdom and experience and I just handed it right over.

Becca wasn’t to know that I’d had a rough morning or that I’d had a rough few weeks, trying to start a new life with a new job in a new town in with few friends other than the books that filled my house. She didn’t know my story. And I didn’t know hers. But I wasn’t there to tell my story. I was there to talk about a book idea, and trying to choke back tears and act professional, I slapped on a smile as I walked through the door to meet this reverend with a cause. It took all of six seconds to unwrap my winter layers and my heart, take a deep breath, and make eye contact. Suddenly, the slapped-on smile wasn’t necessary and I was safe. I knew that the instant I met her and I know it as I type this blog.


That first coffee we shared was not to be the last. I did not know was how much Becca would come to be a fixture in my life. She is first my author, later my pastor, and – crossing all sorts of professional lines and decorum – has now become my friend. Becca is a woman that speaks truth, even if it means doing it with a shaky voice. Not that her voice would shake. As I understand it, the only thing in the world that frightens Becca is the Bishop. She’s faced CEOs, strung out pimps, child abusers, death and bureaucrats. Now that is the kind of person I want on my team.

What is so spectacular about Becca is that she doesn’t just hold my heart, but the hearts, histories, secrets, dreams and nightmares of dozens and dozens of women. Probably some men too. And that is apart from the four that live in her house – her husband and three sons. Becca is the ultimate snake oil salesman. I trust her, I believe in her and I know that what she offers, will deliver.

In her latest book, Snake Oil, Becca tells you how she came to be this spiritual apothecary, gathering hearts and stories the way old chemists gathered their tinctures and kept them safe. She shares the battle scars that have turned her into the compassionate warrior for justice that she is today. You will learn that Becca is not only a purveyor of oils and tonics but a storyteller whose word will fall on you like a cool, spring rain.

This is a book about justice and healing and standing strong when you don’t feel like it. And like the author, the pages are full of honesty and heartbreak, wisdom and wisecracks. This is also a book about a woman who has my heart and through her work and vision and mission, might just have yours too.

By entering the contest, you acknowledge that you have read and agree to the Official Rules/Terms and Conditions.
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Thank you for your interest in Heather Kopp‘s Sober Mercies.

For more information on the book, please go here.

Contest is also listed on the Jericho Books Facebook Page.

I read The Invisible Girls in the space of one afternoon, in one sitting.

There are many reasons why it resonated so deeply within me, not least because Sarah Thebarge and I share the same name and are the same age. It was more than that. I have no basis for comparison in my own life to what Sarah went through with her diagnosis of cancer, her treatments, her decision to pack up and move to a place where she knew so few, or even her immediate connection with the young Somali girls she met, yet her story and, more importantly, her telling of it, drew me in and consumed me.

Sarah’s life had been turned upside-down in just about every way possible, and I imagine that she felt that so much was far from her control. Yet when she was rebuilding, she didn’t leave her focus solely on herself. No. She looked outward and used her compassion, strength, and faith to touch the lives of another woman and her young daughters.

The Invisible Girls is about that moment we all face at some point in our lives, when we walk past something or someone, when we feel deep in our being that we ought to do something, and then either we do or we walk on by.

Sarah didn’t walk on by. Her body had been ravaged by cancer. She had been abandoned and felt invisible. She felt overlooked. It would have been very easy to overlook these girls on the train or consider them invisible. But here’s the thing: Sarah already knew what it felt like to be invisible, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the idea that these girls, too, were invisible. So she did something about it.

Really, to understand what happened in Sarah’s life to lead her to that moment, and to see and feel the connection she has with these beautiful young girls, you have to read the book. I can talk in paragraph after paragraph about what The Invisible Girls made me feel, how it touched me, but I can’t do it justice. Only Sarah can, because it was in her life and with her words and deeds that brought hope and laughter and smiles to the lives of six women who otherwise might have remained completely invisible.

One of the most important things that The Invisible Girls conveys is that invisibility is everywhere. There are absolutely differing levels of it, but I believe everyone has felt invisible at some point in their lives. But it’s what we do with that feeling, how we learn and grow from it, and how we help other invisible girls live and love that’s the most important. Sarah did this, and I know she’ll continue to do it, with these five Somali girls that she brings into our lives in her memoir, and with others who she’ll meet in the future.

By entering the contest, you acknowledge that you have read and agree to the Official Rules/Terms and Conditions.
a Rafflecopter giveaway

Thank you for your interest in Sarah Thebarge’s The Invisible Girls.

For more information on the book, please go here.

Contest is also listed on the Jericho Books Facebook Page.

In April 2006, I sat alone in a cold exam room in my surgeon’s office, anxiously awaiting the results from the tests I’d had the week before.

The surgeon came in a few minutes later and said in a low voice, “Ms. Thebarge, I’m afraid the news is not good. You have breast cancer.”

My first thought was that I was only 27 years old, far too young to receive a diagnosis like this.

But I had just earned a masters degree in medical science, and while the diagnosis was hard to believe, I knew from my studies that rarely, 27-year-old women did get breast cancer, and it was usually very aggressive. In fact, most women under 30 who were diagnosed with breast cancer died from it within a few years — sometimes within a few months.

I walked out of my surgeon’s office an hour later with tears streaming down my face, convinced I had just received a death sentence.

It’s now seven years later. I have survived a bilateral mastectomy, plus four more surgeries and seven months of radiation and chemo. After nearly dying of pneumonia at the end of my treatment course, I moved from Connecticut to Portland, Oregon, and I started over.

It was here that I met a family of Somali refugees on the public transit system. I nicknamed the single mom and her five little girls The Invisible Girls, because the day I met them on the train, no one seemed to see them but me.

When I met them, they had barely escaped genocide in Somalia, and now they were on the verge of freezing and starving to death in America. As I taught them how to navigate life in the U.S., I saved their life in a way. But in a much more significant way, they saved my life by showing me how to be resilient in spite of suffering, and by loving me unconditionally, in spite of my brokenness.

Last year I wrote a book that weaves my story together with theirs. It’s called The Invisible Girls, and it’s launching next week, seven years after my initial cancer diagnosis.

The proceeds from the book are going towards a college fund for the Somali girls, because I can’t think of a better way to celebrate God’s grace and mercy than by giving the Somali girls what God’s given me — a second chance at life.

Sarah Thebarge’s memoir, The Invisible Girls, will be available in stores next Tuesday, April 16. You can pre-order it today.

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