Kelly Oribine.com

The World Has Heard Enough Opinions, It Needs Our Stories

2020-05-25T18:09:00.003-04:00

I sat across from an old friend in his basement office, with my clothes unwashed and my hair dreading into clumps. I was homeless, addicted, and desperate. I felt alone and unlovable, depressed and disgraceful. My friend told me about a dark time in his own life, when he couldn't will himself to leave home. He told me about how he grew so depressed and anxious and despairing that he couldn't go out to buy toilet paper and began using dirty articles of clothing to wipe himself. And in this story I found a friend who, although the circumstances where different from my own, could relate to my pain.

This friend asked me that day not to become a tragedy, and those words have followed me for over 15 years.

By sharing his story my friend was able to reach through my wounds and connect with me. By sharing not what he knew, but where he'd been, he was able to walk alongside me.

I forget this often, but the world does not need my opinion. The world is not suffering from a lack of expressed viewpoints. There are plenty of talking heads filling the air with their divisive noise and polarizing opinions. What the world needs is my story, and yours. Our experiences of pain and hope, fear and truth, failure and triumph. Our slow unfoldings of the human experience.

I'm preaching to myself here, folks.

I am opinionated and stubborn. I attempt to manufacture a sense of control over the world around me by collecting, labeling, and organizing data into cohesive arguments. I draft snarky rants about world events and get wrapped up in go-nowhere social media debates. And every time I tell someone what to think I end up regretting it. Every. Damn. Time.

But when I share a piece of myself, open up my life's story to glean the truth and meaning and hope found inside? When I step out in courage to forget what I know and instead share who I am? I am never left regretting that. Never.

Stories change us, opinions don't.

We've all had instances where stories have changed us where opinions never could. Our opinions on parenting crumbled when faced with the real-life joy and fear and pain of shepherding a little soul. Our understanding of a political issue grew when we looked into the eyes of the people affected by the policies and platforms. Our theological leanings changed from feet-on-the-ground ministry in ways a book or sermon never could.

Unless humbly steeped in our experiences, our opinions only ever hurt and divide. But our stories unite us, they reveal what is common and true about the human spirit. Our stories draw us together in ways that opinions never can.

Your stories are sacred. Your tales of suffering and struggling, of growing and learning and hoping, are the ground on which we meet God together. They contain deep and divine truths, and they create life-changing, honest and fruitful dialogue instead of shutting it down.

Friend, if you want to change the world, tell your stories.

The world is overrun with opinions, but we never have enough stories. And by hearing your story, I begin to understand my own a little better.

Don't tell us what you believe, tell us what happened to make you believe it. Show us the places where your inner world and outer world collide, and invite us in to that space. When you do, we are all made simultaneously more human and more divine.

The Only Way to Love our Kids Unconditionally (or anyone, for that Matter)

2020-04-01T12:49:00.000-04:00

We all want to believe that we love our kids unconditionally. But do we? Can we?

Growing up, there were pretty much only 3 things my brothers and I were not allowed to be: Gay, fat, or liberal. I am 2 out of 3.

In fact, my parents would make fun of fat people. They would mockingly say “It’s not working” as they passed a large woman jogging down the street, or make jokes about how spandex should not be sold in larger sizes. Fat, of all things, was the most shameful thing a woman could be. Besides, perhaps, gay or liberal.

As an adult, before I had to remove my parents from my life, getting dressed to see them was painful. Even though they rarely mentioned my weight anymore, I knew exactly what they think of women who look like me. I’ve watched them dismiss and demean smart and passionate women because of their body size. So I would try on every outfit in my closet and suck in my stomach and cry because I already knew that I was not accepted. All those words they carelessly flung at strangers landed and stuck to me.

The point of this post is not to rail on my parents. Because friends, we are all guilty of this. Every one of us. Maybe not of body shaming, but of failing to love people that we see as different from us. Of making off-hand remarks that fall short of the standard of love. Our kids see it. And the scariest tragedy in all of it is that our kids may one day identify as one of the people we have loved so poorly.

Friends, the only way to love our kids unconditionally is to love every person we meet as if they were our child.

Regardless of their faith or politics, sexuality, lifestyle or health, regardless of their appearance, their income, their choices, their experiences. Because the person standing before us is always someone’s child, and our kids may one day hear the words we’ve spoken and feel them directed at themselves. Our kids may see themselves as the people we’ve judged, shamed or condemned.

The only way we can love our kids unconditionally is to love everyone we meet. Period.
And this doesn’t just apply to our kids, does it? We’ve all sat through conversations in which someone made quick and unfair judgments about someone they didn’t realize we identified with. We’ve all felt unloved or unaccepted by a person who thought they were speaking of someone who wasn’t at the table. The only answer is to invite everyone to the table and love them as well as we possibly can.

When we speak without love or compassion towards anyone, we send out a declaration that we find people like that downright unlovable. And friends, our kids are listening.
The only way to love anyone unconditionally is to immerse our words and thoughts in an acute awareness of the deep and intrinsic value of everyone God has made. Friends, this is hard.

We will fail.

We will fall short of this. I personally will fall short of this today, tomorrow, and the day after that. We cannot love perfectly because we are a messy, broken, imperfect people. Many of us are still growing up, still raising the broken little boy or girl inside of us who still sometimes thinks they need to step on someone else to lift themselves up, grow indignant in order to prove his or her place in this world. We so easily forget the profundity of the grace we’ve received and fail to show love to those around us. None of us loves perfectly.

The Good news? We have a God who has modeled for us a perfect love. A love that is not based on who we are, but in whom we’ve been made. A god who does not draw lines in the sand to divide us, but who beckons us to put down all our striving to be more than and better than, who beckons us to come to Him and be accepted. A God who loves wholly and perfectly from his very being.

We will not love our kids unconditionally.

Because only God can love like that. But we can try. And we can call ourselves out and correct ourselves. We can apologize and start afresh a hundred times a day if need be. We can sit our kids down and say “what mommy said about so-and-so was wrong. They are loved by god, exactly as they are. Loved like you. Loved like me.” We can accept God’s love for ourselves and stop trying to earn it and live and love from that truth.

Friends, the only way to love our kids well is to let them watch us love others well. And when we fail, to let them see us try again. To love everyone we meet as if they were made in the very image of God, because they are. That, I believe, is how our children will know that we will keep on loving them, no matter what.

The only way to love our kids unconditionally is to love everyone we meet as if they were our own child. May God help us love like that today.

Friend, You are Going to Have to Teach us How to Love You

2019-10-29T12:33:00.000-04:00

It should have been her wedding anniversary. I sat on the stoop with my recently widowed friend while she cried and I awkwardly circled my hand on her back. They should have been going out for dinner or a movie, or even bickering in the kitchen about brands of cat food or some other inane topic. Instead she was drinking beer on the porch at 10am while his ashes sat in an engraved wooden box inside.

Her sobs grew louder and without thinking I muttered these words: “It’s OK”.
“It’s not OK.” She snapped back. “My husband is dead.”

She was right of course. It’s not OK.

She shouldn’t have to, but my friend taught me how to love a widow that summer. She showed up crying on our porch at midnight. She asked my husband to help with small household fixes. She came over dutifully at each holiday and birthday for a plate of food and some quick pecks on the cheek. I like to be invited she said. But I’m not up to staying long.

It’s not that I didn’t want to love her well. I did. But I’ve never walked in her shoes. Frankly, I’d rather not imagine having to do so. So I needed her to show me. To ask for what she needed and tell me when to shut up. She shouldn’t have to teach people how to come along side her in her most desperate moments, but she does. Because we just don’t know.

My friend is brave and bold. She consistently told us what she needed. She swore and cried and didn’t for a moment pretend that grief hadn’t shaken her to the core. If we forgot for a moment that her pain is the forever type, she would remind us. She taught me another invaluable lesson that summer; she taught me that we all need to teach those around us how to love us. We shouldn’t have to, but we do.

I had to teach my friends how to love me.

In these past few years, the mental illness and addictions I had been trying to ignore for decades set my life on fire. My husband and kids suffered along side me through rehab and psych wards and countless appointments. Friends wanted to help and often didn’t know how. Some people intuitively knew what to do, showed up to be present in our family’s pain, brought casseroles and smiles and caramel lattes. Others avoided us for fear of saying the wrong thing. They didn’t know how to love us through the pain. How could they? I hadn’t told them.

How often do we live amongst each other with out being amidst one another? We are surrounded without being embraced. We are together yet alone. What if instead we learned to be brave and bold like my friend, to tell each other precisely what we need? What if we taught our friends how to love us?

Because our friends want to love us well.

We want to love each other well. But don’t we all feel a little in over our heads? A little shaky and unsure? Afraid of reaching out too far and falling flat on our faces?

It takes a special type of vulnerability to express to each other how to love us best, to reach out when we feel lonely or forgotten, to communicate our hurt when we feel dismissed, to ask people to listen when we feel voiceless. But I’ve come to believe that it results in a special type of blessing: A community of people who are willing to meet us in our need, a circle of loved ones who know how to love us well.

We are designed to need one another.

We are designed to speak into each other’s lives in both practical and ethereal ways. And because we are mostly made of water and fear, we aren’t always going to succeed. We get lost in daily life, over committed and unsure. So friends, you are going to have to teach me how to love you. And I’ll return the favour. We shouldn’t have to, but we do.

Do you feel alone today? Unheard? Afraid? Reach out and tell a friend. Teach them how to love you in this moment. I suspect you’ll both be glad you did.

Perfect is a Lie and You are Enough

2019-10-21T13:30:00.000-04:00

Friend, you are enough. Today, as you are, with all your frailties and imperfections and fears and struggles. You are enough.

I know we know this. Or, at least we would say we know this, wouldn’t we?

But then we strive for something that doesn’t exist. We feel the sting and the angst of not measuring up. We compare our insides to somebody else’s outsides, our sweat-stained life to their Sunday best, and we feel like we are failing at something or everything.

Oh friend, will you believe me? Perfect is a lie, and you are enough.

We spend our lives trying to excel at meaningless things, trying to live up to a lie that we need perfect homes or perfect families or perfect hearts. And we push other people away because we think that everything we have to offer of ourselves isn’t enough.

Friend, you are enough.

I have a hard time not scoffing at this. The voices remain from my hard-nosed, short-on-grace, legalistic beginnings in the church that told me not to trust self-esteem. My internal theologian starts arguing, “But man is depraved! We deserve nothing but sin and death! You don’t need self esteem, you need god-esteem!”

And it’s true, we are not perfect. We are not fully the people we were meant to be. We are broken in a million ways, and desperately in need of God’s grace. But you know what else? God calls us his beloved. We are loved. Exactly where we are. Powerfully, fully, fiercely loved. And we are enough.

You are enough. Not by virtue of how well you perform, or how well you can scrub yourself up to look good and holy, but based on who has made you. You are enough because the God who made you out of dust has filled you with life and breath and purpose. You are enough because, no matter who or what comes against you, the maker of the universe is adamantly for you.

You are enough. You aren’t perfect and you don’t have your shit together, and you are going to fall down and fall short. This. Very. Day. But you are enough.

You are a beacon of hope for somebody today.

What if all the ways you think you are failing are actually a beacon of hope to those around you today? What if your messy imperfect life is a warm and needed message for someone that it’s okay to not be okay and that sometimes life is hard?

What if that pile of laundry or messy garage says, “it’s okay to not be on top of your to-do list”? What if opening your door to your mess and chaos says, “you matter more than my housework”? What if takeout or leftovers or food from a box says, “I have a lot going on, but sitting around a table with you matters to me”? What if your past and your hurts and your sin-struggle says, “you are not alone”?

What if all the ways we think we are failing are actually beautiful reminders that perfect is a bold-faced lie and we are all struggling through this messy life?

Friend, you are enough, just as you are, in this moment. You are of deep intrinsic value, deserving of love and acceptance.

You are needed. You bring value to this world just by being you.

You are precious. Called beloved by the maker of the universe.

You are enough. Not because of what you’ve done, but because of who has made you.

Friends, can I challenge us both today?

Let us not be afraid to define ourselves as a people powerfully and perfectly loved by God. Not by our faults and our failures and our struggles, but by the faultless, relentless, freeing love of God.

Because, beloved, any other identity is a lie.

For When the World News Just Might Break You

2019-09-25T12:33:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I feel like I cannot breathe the air anymore. It is so thick with anger and fear and grief. I know you know what I mean.

The news is dark and depressing. Shootings, murders, kidnappings. Racism, Oppression, Bigotry. Sex trafficking, climate change, and children in detention camps.

The air is very very thick. But we need to breathe. Here are some ways to do that.

1. Stay close to your people.

You know the ones. The people who help you believe that pain is never the end of the story. The people who help you believe in unbelievable things, like reconciliation and redemption and resurrection and hope.

Speak to your people. Tell them when the world has become so overwhelming that nothing on this planet feels right and good and true anymore. We all ebb and flow with hope and despair and by the grace of God our cycles don’t align, so when you are out of hope I may have some to spare, and vice versa.

2. Take a break.

Don’t bury your head in the sand for too long. That doesn’t help. But take a break from the news long enough to come up for fresh air. Our hearts aren’t meant to carry the barrage of negativity that our digital lives can throw at us.

3. Cry.

Cry proudly and publicly if it helps. Margery Kempe, a mystic of old, marched around her town beating her breast and sobbing and it was an act of courage and faith. Do cry into the telephone, spill tears on to your keyboard, mourn a world that is broken and bent. It is a natural reaction and it is a sign, not of weakness, but that you are attune to the world around you.

4. Rally.

Whether it is to march with signs or gathering to help paint a friend’s deck doesn’t much matter. But rally. Join hands with another human being and dare to be a prophetic witness that this world can still know love and truth and life. The small acts of kindness and revolt won’t go unseen. They matter.

5. Write.

Write letters you will never send and some that you will. Fill journals with poems and laments and prayers and confessions. We think in circles, but we write in straight lines. So write. If you can, write without thinking about it so that God and truth and hope can spill onto the page. Poets and prophets and mystics and revolutionaries have done it in times as dark as these and it still works today.

6. Pray.

Pray for the oppressors and the victims alike.

One day I caught a glimpse of a television show my son was watching, and trying to understand the plot, I asked “Is that the bad guy?” My son looked at me surprised and said “Mom, there are no bad people. Only people who do bad things.” I taught him that. Because I believe that. But sometimes I forget.

Prayer changes us. Prayer for the oppressors reminds us of our shared humanity. It is a hard work of the heart, but it is powerful.

7. And know.

Know that you are not the only one who feels like they cannot breathe another damn breath of this dark thick air. Know that there are people in your community and mine making pinpricks in the darkness to let the light in and it is making a difference. And know that there is always hope where there is breath.

Breathe, my friend.

Why I Am Not Raising Nice Kids ( A Letter to my Children)

2019-07-15T11:52:00.000-04:00

Dear kids, please don’t be nice.

Your whole lives up until now I have told you to be nice. I would like to formally retract that.

Most of the time I said it for lack of a better word:

“Be nice to your sister.”

“Hitting isn’t nice.”

“Share, it’s the nice thing to do.”

But I know now that nice was never the right word.

The Dictionary says that nice means pleasant; agreeable; satisfactory. Kids, don’t be satisfactory. Be extraordinary. Be bold. Be passionate. Be fearless if you can. Be just and wise and steadfast. And in doing so, I assure you, some people will find you quite unpleasant and disagreeable.

Kids, be self-controlled, peaceable and charitable. Be warm, hospitable, accepting, genuine. But please, not nice.

Nice is a counterfeit of Love. It’s weak. It may look like love, but it lacks substance. And like any counterfeit the person who is left holding it has been robbed of the real thing.

My hope for you is a holy discontentment. A soul dis-ease that won’t allow you to be nice at the expense of doing the right thing. That you will be so strongly motivated by love and compassion that you will stand for your fellow humans in a way that the powers of this world will not consider pleasant and agreeable at all.

The world needs more prophets. More truth speakers. More humility, vulnerability, and courage. The world needs people who are stubborn about all the right things and won’t be silent in the face of injustice and oppression just because society tells us it is the nice thing to do.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you to be brash and angry and loveless.

The Bible tells us to speak the truth in love, because the biggest truth about each person you meet is that they are fiercely loved by their creator, are of infinite worth and value. Any truth that is not impregnated with that love is a lie. Without love you become a clanging cymbal. So, love bravely and boldly. Love extravagantly.

But, kids, please don’t be nice.

How to Stop Yelling at your Kids (And why it Matters)

2019-07-03T18:19:00.000-04:00

No one wants to be the angry mom shouting at her kids. But we’ve all been there. Yelling at our kids is often considered normal. But it doesn’t have to be. With some grace and humility, we can learn to stop yelling at our kids, and to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve.

I have a confession to make.

When my kids were young, I was a screamer.

It’s not even that I yelled. Yelling would have been a step in the right direction. I would lose my mind over something small like crayon on the walls and scream at the people I love most on this earth.

I felt horrible about it. I didn’t want to spend my mothering years screaming at the precious babes in my care. I knew in my heart that I would never let another person speak to my kids the way I was speaking to them and that was a problem. But I didn’t know how to reign myself in. I felt out of control.

Can you relate? Because if you can, you are so not alone.

Why it’s so important to stop yelling at our kids

First of all, it doesn’t work.

When we yell, our kids learn that they don’t have to listen until we yell. Yelling does not convey authority or motivate people for very long. It may work in the beginning, but over time it will need to escalate to louder and louder yelling in order to be effective.

More importantly, I believe that yelling at our kids is an act of violence. I know that is a strong statement but stick with me here. Why do humans yell at one another during a conflict? Is it not to make ourselves seem bigger and stronger than the other? To overpower the other? But we are already bigger and stronger and more powerful than our kids. Imagine how scary it would be to have someone 3 times your size yelling at you?

Most of us would never speak to another adult that way. I’ve worked professionally managing volunteers and I would never yell at one of the volunteers under my care, it would be completely inappropriate. So why would it be okay to treat my tiny humans that way? Do they deserve less dignity and respect than the people I work with? Of course not.

As the adults in the relationship, we are responsible for controlling our emotions. We model to our kids how to behave, even when tired and frustrated. We are responsible for creating a safe place for them, physically and emotionally.

What helped me to stop yelling at my kids

It all started to change the first time I apologized to my kids for yelling. I sat down on the floor, tears streaming down my face. I pulled my sweet children onto my lap and explained that I should not have yelled at them. I’m sorry, will they forgive me? And they did.

After that, I began to do this each time I yelled, sometimes having to apologize multiple times a day. I would pull them onto my lap and assure them that I had no right to yell at them, that I should have shown more patience. Then I would accept their forgiveness, sometimes all of us in tears.

Why this works

It sounds too simple, doesn’t it? Apologizing seems like too small an act to really change such a seemingly uncontrollable response to our exhaustion and frustration. But it’s not.

Because what we are doing is more than just saying sorry. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and choosing a new way of behaving. Making amends to those we have hurt changes us, slowly but surely.

It is an acknowledgement that the problem is always us. When I yell at my kids, no matter what they’ve done, it is never their fault. They cannot make me yell. It is my responsibility to behave appropriately through difficult emotions. Apologizing each time builds an awareness of how I’m responding to frustration. Each act of making amends is a recommitment to the value of being a safe place for our kids.

Be Gracious with Yourself

This is hard. Don’t give up. You are rewiring your emotional responses and that takes time.

My youngest kids have never heard me really scream the way the older ones did. I do still get impatient and raise my voice on occasion. But instead of happening several times a day, it happens once or twice a year. And you know what else? It doesn’t affect my kids the way it once did. They know that it’s not them, it’s me. They know I’m having a rough day. And they know that sooner rather than later they will get an apology. They know that they deserve to be spoken to with respect.

Friend, your kids don’t need a perfect mama, they need a mom who is humble enough to admit she is wrong and in need of grace.

They need us to take responsibility for the way we act and react, to model ownership over our behaviour.

They need us to let go of our pride enough to say “I messed up. Will you forgive me?”

Mama, those tiny humans are eager to forgive you.

Will you give this a try? And let me know if it helps you to stop yelling at your kids. You’ll all be better for it.

Your Kids Don't Need a Better Mom

2019-06-05T11:46:00.000-04:00

It’s hard to be a good mom in 2019.

I imagine it has always been hard to be a good mom. But today there is pressure that I know our mothers never felt. Pressure to throw Pinterest-worthy birthday parties that are a far cry from the plastic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and boxed cake mixes of my youth. Pressure to be constantly present and emotionally available even though nobody is emotionally available every second of the day. Pressure to have pristine homes, and healthy trash-free lunches, and natural handmade toys.
It is so easy to start feeling inadequate. To feel like we aren’t good enough.

Sometimes I feel like I’m too damaged to mother my kids well. If only they’d been born to someone with more patience, more energy, more whatever. I suspect I’m not the only one who feels less-than.
But friends, your kids don’t need a better mom.

Your kids don’t need a better mom. They need you.

They need messy, imperfect, sometimes cranky, you.

They don’t need you to have it all together. They need you to show them that it’s okay not to have it all together.

They don’t need you to have all the answers. They need to see you ask questions and make mistakes and do your best.

They don’t need you to do it all. They need to watch you prioritize, simplify, and do your best to figure out this thing called life.

They don’t need you to do it alone. They need to see that it’s okay to reach out for help.
Your kids don’t need you to never make mistakes, but they do need to see you humbly ask forgiveness and rise again when you fall.

That child that the creator of the universe put in your care? That tiny heart you have the privilege of shaping and nurturing and watching grow? They don’t need a better mom. They need you. Messy, imperfect, real, beautiful you.

You, with your flaws and your insecurities and your messy bun.

You, with your mistakes and your hurts and your uncertainties.

You, with your stretch marks and your disorganized spice drawer and the gnawing fear that you might be messing them up beyond anything therapy can repair.

Above all, they need you.

All that pressure to be all and do all? To be perfect? To have it together? Friend, can we lay that down today?

You are rocking this.

As long as your kids are safe and loved and you are showing up for them, you are rocking this mama thing.

This hard, sacred, messy mama thing.

You are rocking this, mama.

Keep on rocking this, mama.

Why I Give to Panhandlers (and Think You Should Too).

2019-06-03T12:23:00.000-04:00

It’s a question we have all wrestled with. Should we give money to panhandlers? To homeless men and women begging on the sidewalk or holding a sign at a traffic light? If we do, are we enabling them? Are we doing more harm than good?

I’ve worked with homeless people through drop-in centers and street ministry and been homeless myself as a young woman. I’ve panhandled (quite successfully, actually) with a sign that said “kick a bum for a buck”. I’ve eaten in soup kitchens, and heard the heart-breaking stories of countless men, women, and youth living on the streets. And until a few years ago I didn’t have an answer for whether or not to give to panhandlers.

I did give, often out of a sense of guilt or compassion. But I was never sure that it was the right thing to do.

But then God changed my heart.

One ordinary hectic Sunday morning on the way to Starbucks to get our caffeine fix before church, rushing with our van load of children to arrive on time, yelling from the front seat for someone to put their shoes back on and to stop fighting over the hair brush we brought along because we never manage to get everybody’s hair brushed before the frantic, barely shod rush out the front door, we saw a man with a sign asking for money and thought of stopping . My husband and I both thought of it. But we didn’t. That day in church I didn’t hear a word of what the pastor said because God was breaking my heart.

If I arrive at church on Sunday morning, wearing my most convincing soccer-mom-who-has-it-all-together outfit, with my slew of children all groomed nicely and a three-dollar coffee in my hand, but failed to help the person in need along the way? I have completely missed the point.

I bawled all the way home that day and have felt called to give to panhandlers ever since. Here is why:

1. Jesus says to give to those who ask of us. (Matthew 5:42)

He doesn’t say to give to those who deserve it, those who are trying to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, those who will spend it wisely, but just to give. Do we have to give just money? Of course not. We could give a meal, a gift card, a listening ear, hope, prayer, words of encouragement, warm socks, hand knitted gloves or a hot cup of coffee. But walking past without giving anything to somebody in need who is asking for help? Frankly? Scripturally it is just not an option.

2. It offers them some dignity.

You and I get to decide what we have for lunch, whether to splurge on a latte or just get an ordinary coffee and save a few bucks. It is true that those in need can sometimes get a meal at drop-in centers and urban missions, but people deserve to be able to make independent decisions. I would love to afford someone a little bit of dignity today.

3. Meeting their perceived needs frees up time to meet their actual needs.

I’ve heard this argument countless times: “They are just going to spend the money on drugs”. Maybe it is true. Some of them will. I did when I was homeless. But if this person is going to sit in the cold and wind and rain until they have enough money to not start detoxing in the street, then I am happy to help them meet that goal quicker so that they can go get themselves warm and fed and cared for. Once we give money to panhandlers, the money is theirs. What they do with it is their business. I am just called to give, not to judge.

4. Panhandling is hard work.

There’s nothing glamorous about sitting on the pavement and asking people for money. There’s nothing fun about being spat on, kicked, ignored and sworn at by passersby. People who aren’t in need don’t subject themselves to this. If somebody is willing to subject themselves to the elements and the harsh judgments of fellow human beings, then I can certainly put a few bucks in their cup.

5. I don’t want to miss the opportunity to feed Christ himself.

This is the big one, right? Jesus tells us that when we serve those in need, we do it for him. (Matthew 25:31-40) I would like to think I would never walk past Jesus, scared to make eye contact in case he asks something of me. But so many of us do it every single day. I would rather give to a thousand con artists than walk past one person truly in need and fail to help them. I don’t want to be guilty of ignoring Jesus anymore.

6. It’s humbling.

Truth is, we only have our needs met because God has made it possible. The ability to work and earn income is a blessing from the hand of God. The fact that our own struggles and hurts and poor choices haven’t left us begging on the sidewalk is the grace of God in our lives and nothing else. Giving up a small portion of our income is a reminder that we would have nothing if it were not for the grace of God in our lives. Which, honestly, is a reminder I need often.

We are all in need. And most of us aren’t willing to write our needs on a piece of cardboard and ask for help. I think people who do are stronger and braver than we realize.

7. I want my children to see me giving.

I give to panhandlers because I want my kids to see me excited to give and help. I want to show them that it is okay to look homeless people in the eye. I want them to know that we only have our needs met because God has made it so. When in doubt I want them to err on the side of giving.

8. Drop-in centers and homeless missions can be difficult places to be (and aren’t always open).

I sometimes hear that we shouldn’t give to homeless people because there are community resources available to help them. That we should give the money to those resources instead. And I love that those community resources exist. I don’t want to be critical of the centers themselves because they are doing a good work the best they can. But so many individuals in need have been hurt, abused, or judged at these centers by other guests or the volunteers themselves. We can’t assume that every person we see on the street could just go get a sandwich and a bowl of soup if they need it. Some of them can’t, for very legitimate reasons.

Also, these often volunteer run programs aren’t open 24/7. Being able to get a meal during very specific hours, 2 or even 5 days a week is better than nothing, but it isn’t enough.

9. I would want people to give to me if I was in that position.

In fact, I did. If you were in such need that you were begging on a street corner, how would you like people to respond to you?

10. I never again want to arrive on time for church on Sunday morning with a Starbucks coffee in hand and know that I drove past someone in need to make it happen.

Never. The Lord broke my heart that day and I am so glad that He did.

There are times that we can’t give. Times when we don’t have any cash on us, or we’ve already given to that person today, or are in too much of a hurry to stop. But if we cannot give cash in that moment, for whatever reason, I believe that we are compelled by the presence of God in our fellow humans to make eye contact, smile, and greet them with the same acknowledgement we would want if we were the ones requesting help.

Friends, be free to give to the homeless, the beggars and panhandlers in your town. Your hands brushing as you pass a five-dollar bill to that man in need might be the only touch he receives all day. You might be the first person all morning to make eye contact with him, to smile at him. Your prayer for that homeless youth might be the first prayer ever silently spoken for her. Be free to give. Your spirit will be richer for it.

But whoever has this world’s goods, and sees his brother in need, and shuts up his heart from him, how does the love of God abide in him? My little children, let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth. -1 John 3:17-18

Messy Hospitality: Inviting Each Other Into Our Sacred Mess

2019-05-15T10:45:00.000-04:00

I didn’t know it, but my heart needed some messy hospitality.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I texted my friend who’d be arriving in a couple hours for our families to eat together and connect.

I shot off a text to her. “I’m coming to terms with the fact that my house won’t be clean in time."

I’d been running around all day trying to prepare for the perfect dinner, baking and cleaning and obsessing over things that didn’t matter. I love this family that was visiting, and I wanted it to be special. She texted back with “Can we just choose not to do this? Not worry about the societal expectations? Not try to entertain or impress one another? Can we just be us?”

An invitation to do life.

My friend’s text was an invitation to freedom. An invitation to lay down all my striving and expectations, all my doubts about myself and my home and the meal. An invitation to be myself and to be accepted.

I accepted the invitation. The seasonal coats were half sorted in one corner of the dining room and there were muddy little hand prints on the bathroom door. There were signs of life; messy, chaotic, often in-over-our-heads life, all over the house. And you know what? It was fine. We drank good coffee and laughed and let the kids paint birdhouses with glitter paint at the kitchen table.

It was better than fine. It was a sacred space.

Friends, this matters. Whether or not we open the door when the counters are messy and the floors are unswept and dinner is from a box, it matters. Because it is the times that we need people the most that we feel most inadequate. It is when we most need to sit raw and exposed that we feel as if we have the most to hide. It is when we feel most overwhelmed by the mess that our hearts most need us to swing open the doors and invite others in.

Because the mess, inside and out,can isolate us. It can make us feel alone and unknown. Or it can draw us together into a sacred community of messy, broken people who need each other. We need each other whether there are crumbs on the floor or not.

What if this messy hospitality is sacred space?

What if our messy house sends a much-needed message that imperfection is welcome here? What if those cheerios on the floor and the Legos under the sofa says, “I need this relationship more than I need to have it all together.”? What if opening the door to our mess and chaos is the first step of inviting people into our truth and our journey?

I need this reminder often. I forget, again and again, that all grand and beautiful things are created in mess and chaos. That we ourselves are made from dirt. That authentic community begins where our need to impress ends.

Friends, can we just choose not to do this? Not worry about the societal expectations? Not try to entertain or impress? Can we invite one another into messy hospitality, to just be, and to be accepted?

Because if we do, I am certain, we will find a sacred space amid the messiness. Cheerios on the floor and all.

Dear Motherless Daughter on Mother's Day, I See You

2019-05-08T11:16:00.000-04:00

Oh motherless daughter, I see you.

Dear motherless daughter on mother’s day. I see you, I am you. I know so well that longing. The soul ache that permeates every day but turns to a gaping raw hole for a few weeks in the beginning of May.

We got to this place of motherlessness in different ways. Some of us had a mother who lived a long and full life and passed on a beautiful legacy, but her absence still feels like a punch to the abdomen. Others had mothers lost to tragedy, taken too soon by disease or injury. Some of us have been or felt abandoned, never truly having a mother at all. Some among us had to mother their mothers because the woman who bore them was not equipped to raise them. And some have had to distance themselves from a toxic mother in order to protect themselves and their family.

No matter how you got here, it’s a pained and lonely place to be. None of us wanted to be a motherless daughter.

I see your grief and mourning, your hurts and anger and unmet needs. Grief not just for what is, but for what will never be.

Most of the year, my motherlessness sits quietly under the surface. It is a silent ache and longing for what could have been. But when the stores begin to fill will trinkets and cards, and the quiet ache turns to a loud throb, I’ve had to find some ways to cope. Perhaps, my friend, they will help you too.

1. Practice self care by staying off social media as much as possible.

All those beautiful posts from daughters who have what I do not, thanking their mother, posing with her over tea and scones, they pour salt on an already stinging wound. I am happy for my friends that they have their mothers. However I choose to give myself the day to process, mourn, and heal without the wound being opened again and again.

2. Focus on those who are a motherly force in your life.

Years ago, I began using this day as an opportunity to celebrate the women who have nurtured me. I take flowers to a mentor who has spoken life into my bones. I reflect on the women who have patiently guided and directed me. The one’s I called on as a young wife and mom when I needed to know whether or not to take my feverish baby to the hospital, or if the ground beef in the freezer was still good, or if I mattered.

3. Allow your loved ones to celebrate you as a woman.

I don’t need breakfast in bed, grocery store flowers and handmade cards scrawled by little hands. I want to tear the calendar off the wall, for the world to skip a beat and go straight from Saturday into Monday. But I submit to the day and allow my womanhood to be celebrated. I sit under the weight of knowing that I am an unmothered mother, playing house at a game she’s never been taught, hoping that I deserve a fraction of the celebration I receive. Whether you yourself are a mother or not, use this day to celebrate your nurturing nature, the beauty you’ve birthed, the relationships you’ve nourished, the people you’ve tenderly guided.

4. Take comfort in the motherly attributes of God.

Julian of Norwich famously wrote of God as our mother. Even if you cannot go so far as to call God your Mother (for better or worse, the hairs on the neck of my conservative Baptist faith roots stands up at the thought) we can lean into the God who bore us and in great pains gave us life; the God before whom we stand fully known, every hair on our head, every tear that falls in private seen and known; the God who tenderly guides us back when we go astray, who looked for us when we were lost and accepted us as we were.

Dear motherless daughter, I see you.

You are not alone. Our hearts break and scab in common rhythms with the turning of the calendar pages. The loss of a mother, whether her heart still beats somewhere or not, is a searing loss. The pain is visceral and the heart cry is guttural. Allow yourself to feel what you need to feel.
Many of us are far too young to have to navigate the world without a mother’s direction and love.

But we have each other. As a church, we can be a community of surrogate mothers, holding each other, tending to wounds, feeding the soul.

May we be that today.

Oh Friend, You are Not Too Sensitive

2019-05-02T21:59:00.000-04:00

Friend, with the soft heart and the tears that are quick to flow. I see you. I am you.

And I know you’ve been told your whole life that you are too sensitive. But you are not. You are exactly who you were made to be.

“You’re just being too sensitive” is what a bully says to get us to shut up and accept their abuse. We won’t.

“You take things too personally” is what people say when they want to be able to mistreat us without any consequences. They can’t.

Too many of us heard these words from the ones who should have nurtured us and built us up.
Instead they tore us down, used our fragility against us.

Some of us are still hearing these words.

But YOU, my friend, are not too sensitive.

The human heart is designed to break and mend. To experience the pangs of harsh words and broken intentions. To react to a broken world, broken relationships, broken community.

Your tender heart was crafted intentionally. It is meant to be, just the way it is.

We, the sensitive ones, are the poets and prophets. The ones who weep at a hurting world and still hope for healing when others have grown hard.

Oh sensitive one, we need you. Stay soft. Allow your heart to be wrenched by this heart-wrenching world. Be sensitive. Engage this broken world with all your senses and bravely trust that your fragility is a gift in a world that esteems power and bravado.

Be kind, my friends, to the inner child within. Do not ask him or her to grow cold or distant or quiet.
You are not too sensitive.

This world so desperately needs your tears.