“I am completely unapologetic about my passionate love for the House of God. It is where I discovered who I am, why I am here and what I am called to do with my one life.”

By Helen Burns | Twitter: @helenburns

I am on a flight from Amsterdam and homeward bound as I write my thoughts today …

I have a few uninterrupted hours to pour out some thoughts that have been swirling in my heart and head about the beauty of community … specifically the church. My eyes continue to see the wonder of this glorious global family.

I’ve just spent 12 days away from home with my husband, John in the glorious Netherlands. There we encountered stunning landscapes and magnificent buildings and walked the streets of cities that told the story of a rich and ancient history. I ate too much delicious cheese (Old Amsterdam is my fave) and drank too much coffee perhaps, but it was all a part of a priceless adventure.

During that time John and I ministered more than 20 times and had many meals with others–opportunities to meet with pastors and leaders and their extraordinary families. I am coming home once again refreshed and refueled and uber-excited! Not a hint of feeling tired, spent and discouraged. I believe that is because of the caliber of the people we consistently encounter who are building God’s amazing church. They are so completely breathtaking that my spirit is lifted and revitalized on every level.

Over the past number of years, I have had the blessing and honour of intimately observing how the church of Jesus Christ is beautiful, strong and magnificent throughout the whole world. Each time I have an opportunity to glimpse into the life of another “new-to-me” local church family and hear their stories and see and experience the passion with which they build, serve and lead, I am inspired and energized to keep running my race of faith.

I am completely unapologetic about my passionate love for the House of God. It is where I discovered who I am, why I am here and what I am called to do with my one life.

One Question

On a Sunday afternoon, about 27 years ago, John and I were chatting at the close of a church service with a businessman and the pastor of that church. Both were very successful and greatly respected in what they were doing with their lives. During the conversation, there was a bit of a tug-of-war going on about what John and I should do with our lives and our future.  Each man had differing opinions on what was best for us to do.

At the time, John was running a successful dental practice as well as ministering as often as he could in several capacities. Everything in our lives seemed to be going great personally, in our marriage and family, as well as in business and ministry, but we were well aware that our lives had come to a crossroads and a decision had to be made about building our future.

The defining moment came when the businessman looked straight into John’s eyes and asked the question: “John, if you could do anything with your life, what do you believe is the best?”

Without hesitation, John answered: “Church.”

That was the beginning of what brought us to this day and we still we love what we get to do … more than ever.

For me, nothing compares to building the church. There is no business, no activity, no investment I can make with my life that is of more value than building the church. From my perspective it is the most powerful, dynamic, exciting, vibrant, life-giving force and movement on planet Earth and I am completely devoted to it, always and forever.

I know it’s the one thing I can invest my life into that will live on long after I am gone–it will live on for all eternity. It is the hope of the world.

I am well aware that the church is not perfect–it is filled with people, like me, who still have a long way to go. The people I am meeting on this journey are not perfect either … but they inspire me, they awaken my God-given passion, they make me want to be a better person. They strengthen my core convictions and make me love God and people more.

So, as my plane is about to land in my favourite city in the world–Vancouver, my home, I find myself exceedingly grateful for this recent journey. Once again my heart has grown to hold new and renewed friendships. My love and knowledge of new cultures, food and languages has grown. But most of all my love for the passion of God’s heart has grown … a passion for God’s beautiful bride, God’s church.

Eph 2:19  “That’s plain enough, isn’t it? You’re no longer wandering exiles. This kingdom of faith is now your home country. You’re no longer strangers or outsiders. You belong here, with as much right to the name Christian as anyone. God is building a home. He’s using us all — irrespective of how we got here — in what he is building. -The Message

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My beautiful SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments:

• How do you see church?
• Has church been a shelter for you–a place of hope–or a story of pain?
• How has Jesus met you through his church?

___________________________________

About Helen:

Helen Burns and her husband, John, speak around the world on the topic of relationships. They host the popular TV show “Relate with John and Helen.”

Image credit: Kids on the beach, by José A. Warletta

“Today I have a better understanding of  the depths from which he arose, the strength it took to turn his life around and I am so proud of him.”

By Trinity Robertson

I remember sitting in the booth with my sister across from our father. His intention was to take us out for a nice dinner. We didn’t want to go. We had asked to just stay home. We knew he had taken too many pills that day and he had had a lot to drink already, but he insisted. So there we sat in the booth of a hotel restaurant … watching our father nod off into his plate. He made attempts to bring his fork to his mouth and would nod off with his hand in mid air.

This scenario repeated itself over and over again. We tried to wake him up, saying we should go, but he insisted on finishing his food.

We sat there … for hours. 

Other diners looked over at us and shook their heads with pity in their eyes. Others would just look away and pretend not to see. I wanted to disappear. I desperately wished I was invisible. Every minute felt like an eternity.  I wished so hard that someone would save us. I wondered why no one, not even the waitress, would help my sister and I.

Over the years we had watched our father slowly succumb to this disease. It ruled his whole life.

I do have memories of a dad playing with us, taking us camping and celebrating holidays together, but as the years went on those memories became fewer and farther in between. We sat there,  watching a shadow of him nod off into his plate of food. I felt ashamed that he was my father; angry that he wasn’t like other dads and desperately wished for a normal life.

Eventually he woke up enough to pay the bill. My sister and I helped him get home. We were ten.

Desperate

No child should ever have to grow up this way.  That was one of many times. No matter how bad my father got, I still loved him.

Then the day came when my father packed up my sister and I and drove the four-hour trip to our mother’s. I didn’t want to go … I didn’t like to leave him.  I worried about who would be there to intervene when he went into one of his black-outs. I wondered who would pick him up off the floor when he passed out and who would make sure he came home.

I had taken on the unhealthy role as my father’s caretaker. 

When we arrived at my mother’s place, my father said goodbye to me and my sister.  He knew the disease had a hold on him and he believed it was going to kill him. I was heartbroken. I yelled, I cried and I begged … nothing I said could stop him from walking out that door. I couldn’t believe he was choosing his drugs and alcohol over his family.

I didn’t hear from my dad for a long time. I was so afraid he was going to die. I prayed for him, begging God to spare his life; to help him. God heard my prayers … My dad got clean. I still remember the phone call with him telling me so. He told me how after a night of using, he collapsed on the staircase of a rundown hotel. My dad had suffered a mild heart attack. He lay on those steps unconscious for two days. People just stepped over him, no one thought anything of it. My dad was the town drunk.  When he finally regained consciousness, he recognized the grace his life had been given, the second chance … and he chose to live. He checked himself into a treatment program and got the help he desperately needed.

Recovery

I wish I could say life was perfect after this and he never used again, but it wasn’t.  He struggled to stay clean for a number of  years. His spiritual, emotional and physical recovery was a very slow process … but he never gave up. Today he has over 20 years clean. (Big cheerleading HOORAY!)

As a daughter of a recovering addict this has been a very difficult journey. My dad, because of his many blackouts,  has no recollection of some of my most painful memories.  I have never told him all of the things he did … It would hurt him so deeply.  Today I forgive him.  It isn’t easy recovering from such a dysfunctional childhood and I definitely had my angry years.  Even though these memories still hurt, they don’t own me anymore. I can’t change what has happened in my past.

My young life is mostly a sad story but my adult life is such a different one. Today my life is full of happiness: a good marriage, beautiful children and wonderful friends. I look at my boys today and I am so grateful they have such a different life.  My boys’ life is filled with love, stability and the normal everyday problems and joys boys their age should have.

Many Faces

My dad is not the only person in my life this disease has touched. I have seen addicition wear many faces: Alcohol, drugs, prescription drugs, sex, food, video games, money … the list goes on and on and  it has almost destroyed more than one loved one in my life. It is cruel, it does not discriminate and it will take any one down if given the chance. It’s only purpose is to steal, deceive and destroy. If my father hadn’t faced his demons, this could be a very different story today. It could be my son sitting across from me in a booth, wishing he could disappear.

I see my sisters and I breaking the generational chains that have bound our families for years and I couldn’t be prouder.  I learned from my dad that no matter what, there is always hope … and change is always possible. When I drive down Hastings Street and I see a man passed out on the corner, I see a dad, a son, a brother.  I don’t see a hopeless life. Instead I pray that he remembers who is and finds the strength to fight the battle for his life.

Today, my dad has been there to hold each of his grandsons when they were born. He phones me on my birthday and I know that today he would lay down his life for me. I love him; he is my hero.  Today I have a better understanding of  the depths from which he arose, the strength it took to turn his life around and I am so proud of him.

My prayers go out to any of you who are struggling, have struggled with addiction or know someone who is in their own struggle. I hope my message gives you the strength and hope to not lose faith, to keep praying and remember the value in any life, no matter how hopeless it may seem.

I’d love to share the prayer from my dad’s s 12-step program. I know it has given him  (and me) strength when we needed it:

The Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change.

The courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

_____________________________

My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• How has addiction impacted your life?
• How have you coped?
• Any other thoughts or comments?

______________________________

About Trinity:

I have entered into a new season of my life. Each day brings something new and I am looking forward to seeing what lies ahead. I am loving being home with my kids, being a wife, spending time with family and friends.I love my home. It is our sanctuary, a place for God, rest, memories, love, laughter and happiness. We come together to grow, support, cry, get angry, celebrate, act crazy, be goofy, and strengthen…knowing this is the place we won’t be judged or criticized but instead where we will support and encourage and guide. Mistakes are forgiven and second chances never run out. To gather with my friends and family for a times of joy and love is the place I most love to be.

I blog with my sister at Lime in the coconuts.

Image credit: Pirate Car, by Christian Ferrari

Tania Fiolleau’s Story of Survival and Redemption

” … I slipped back into prostitution. I started pimping girls and I had some penthouses going. I was selling girls to rappers, movie stars, NFL and NHL athletes, Supreme Court judges–you name it, I was the one to go to.”

By Winnie Lui | Twitter: @INTELsashimi

Part 1 of a 2-part interview

Activist against human trafficking. Public speaker. Counselor to street women. Former prostitute and madam. 

These are all terms that could describe Tania Fiolleau, who faced hardship and rejection from childhood, entered into the sex industry, but whose life was changed by God. Having left her former life, Tania now helps other women who are at risk of exploitation.

Tania first entered into the sex industry when she tried to escape the violence of her first husband and needed $7,000 to retain a lawyer who could help her win custody of her children. Short of resources, Tania responded to a job ad promising high pay in a “female owned and operated” business. That business turned out to be prostitution.

Four years into the custody battle, Tania’s chances of winning back her children were still uncertain. In desperation, Tania turned to God. Until that time she had felt great anger towards God–even despised God. But she made a deal with God: she would turn her life over to Him if He granted her custody of her children.

God gave her just what she asked for. But His grace would not end there.

Journey of Grace 

“I got custody in 2001 and I gave my life to God, but I wasn’t doing anything [for Him]. In 2005, I just about lost everything in the economy. The market tanked … I got really depressed. I started drinking wine, taking medication and slipping away from God. I came back to Canada…[and] started up a private investigation firm that basically dispatched investigators and I paid them a commission. I saved up $5,000 dollars to buy a condo and I flipped four properties until I got enough money to buy a tanning salon that was tanking. I bought it when the economy was the worst and I wanted to expand it into a hair salon and spa. When I did that, I needed a lot of money for the renovation.”

“[That’s when] I slipped back into prostitution. I started pimping girls and I had some penthouses going. I was selling girls to rappers, movie stars, NFL and NHL athletes, Supreme Court judges–you name it, I was the one to go to. It was like I was back on the scene. I started escorting [work] myself.”

“Getting back into prostitution was ten times harder. The Bible says the house gets swept clean [then] the demons go out and find seven other friends to come back. They did. Those demons came back times seven. I had never done any drugs in my life and in 2007, I started doing crystal meth …and crack cocaine to mask my emotional pain. I had bottomed out again, and this time it was not for my kids, it was to get back on my feet, to get my wealth back. I had slipped away from God without even knowing it.”

Despair

“My boys moved out. They didn’t want to live with me at that time. Their friends had found out that I was a madam in the past; they were getting teased and they were angry at me. So I had all that stuff going on in my head, [I thought,] ‘Wow, I did that all for nothing. I slept with all those johns for nothing. I exploited all these women for nothing. My kids left me anyway.’”

“Then I said, ‘Screw it!’ And that’s when I became a madam again; that’s when I began messing with drugs.”

“I hid it all really well. I did this for seven months and ultimately, I tried to end my life. And when it didn’t work I was very upset.”

“On the outside I appeared to have it all to the world, but inside, I was dying. One night, I just couldn’t live with myself anymore. I took a bunch of sleeping pills and date rape drugs and I tried to end my life. I pulled the gas fuses out of my apartment … I guess someone in the building had smelled gas. They came in and found me, and I was almost dead–I was unconscious. I woke up in the hospital about a week later and I didn’t know what had happened.”

“I was still angry at God,” she said. “I told God: ‘Why in the hell did You not let me die? I just want to die–just take me. Take me! I don’t want to live.’”

When Tania came out of the hospital, she returned to running her tanning salon.

“A lot of the girls who had worked for me [in the brothels] would come to the tanning salon, and I would say, ‘How come … you are still doing this? Why are you hooked on drugs?’ And I kept hearing the same story. The girls said, ‘What else am I going to do? Am I going to put that I was a hooker for the last ten years on my résumé?’”

God’s Voice

Tania made her salon very successful and soon the business was voted number one in its category for the city of Richmond. But just when the salon reached its peak of success, Tania heard the Lord speak to her.

“The Lord (spoke) to me: ‘You close the doors to this place tonight and don’t open it again.’ I was like, ‘What? How am I going to pay my mortgage? How am I going to make a living?’”

That night, the Lord’s command to close the tanning salon continued to pursue Tania. Unable to sleep through the night, Tania called her staff the next day and announced the closure of her business. The Lord had greater work in mind for her.

“I knew the Lord didn’t let me die for a reason.”

After Tania closed her salon, she started writing her book, Souled Out!, telling the story of her life. Over time, she couldn’t make mortgage payments and her house went into foreclosure.

Trials

“Then I was going to different churches. You’d think that one Christian reached out to me. Not one. I was feeling dejected … Every time I went to a church, nobody wanted to reach out to me. Churches didn’t want to touch on the topic of prostitution. Women were feeling threatened with me around their husbands because I was a former prostitute. I didn’t belong.”

Without a home, Tania began living in her car. She went to coffee shops daily to use their wireless internet. She began researching human trafficking.

“The more I learned, the more I became appalled. The more I got angry at myself for exploiting these women.”

“During this time my oldest son had come back to me and he was living with me in the car. And there were times at night, with my fibromyalgia disease and my injuries from my ex-husband, it was cold and the rain was beating down on the car roof. Cops would tap on the car window and say, ‘You need to move.’ I was going to the food bank … I was just exercising whatever resources I could.”

“I was living in my car, homeless, doing this for several months. Still going to church and I would say to people … They would say, ‘How are you doing,’ and I would say, ‘You know what, I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to afford a place. Maybe you could pray that the Lord provides a place.’”

“You’d think one Christian opened a door? Not one. But they said, ‘I’m praying for ya sister.’”

“I started … becoming angry at Christians, thinking that they were all a bunch of fakes and it was just me and God. And there was my son … One night I just broke down–I was crying and sobbing. I said to my son, ‘I’m so sorry I squandered away your inheritance. Living in a car. I can’t believe I did that.’ And my son goes, ‘Mom,’ he goes, ‘Don’t be sorry. ‘Cos I’d rather go knowing that my mom is doing this, and she’s fighting for what she believes in, than to know that my mom is doing that.’ And the Lord comforted me from the mouth of babes.”

God’s timing

“I kept pressing on. I kept writing my book. Kept educating myself as much as I could. I didn’t realize it then but [God had a plan, yet] I was still breaking down, going, ‘God, why? I’m being obedient. I left prostitution. I’m living in my car. I’m in pain. I’m hungry. Why are you letting me suffer?’”

“I didn’t know it at that time, but He was orchestrating the release of my book, Souled Out!, right when the news broke in the Supreme Court of Ottawa about the prostitution laws.”

“The news got a hold of me and they were like, ‘Who is this madam?’”

“There were people on the news and prostitutes coming forward trying to legalize it; and then I came forward going, ‘No! Don’t legalize it. I was married into an international crime family. I was married into the mafia. I know what it’s like. I was a madam.”

 ”Then I realized, Wow, God had told me earlier, ‘You have a voice.’”

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In Part 2 of 2, Tania shares with SheLoves readers her current journey as an urban missionary and global advocate against human trafficking. 

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About Tania: 

Tania is the founder and director of Save the Women Ministry International, and author of Souled Out!, an autobiography of her survival of childhood trauma, marriage into an international criminal family, and her former profession as a prostitute and brothel madam. Tania is soon to release her second book, Redeemed, which is a book about redemption and how she found it in Jesus Christ. Tania was changed by the redemptive power of Jesus Christ and she is now a Global advocate against human trafficking, a public speaker around the globe, a counsellor to at-risk women, and a major public voice in the media abroad. Tania is also currently a leader at her local church.
To know more about Tania’s work, visit www.savethewomen.ca or contact her at savethewomen@live.ca

About Winnie:

The wave of Asian immigration in the 1990s brought Winnie to Canada on a little red-mast junk. To fulfill her family’s dream of running a business in Hong Kong and giving the children a Western education, Winnie’s father commuted home to Canada during Christmas and Chinese New Year, and Winnie herself spent her childhood between the two continents and among many different schools and neighbourhoods. Her growing up experience has become a mosaic of cultures, languages, and perspectives. Winnie blogs at intellectualsashimi.com and tweets @intelSASHIMI

Photo: SEN-KY

“I had a hard time being vulnerable because I thought I was doing something bad or wrong by letting myself shine and be beautiful.”

By Amelia Englemark | Twitter: @AmyEnglemark

Since I was a teenager, I dreamed of falling in love with a man who would call me “Babe”. I knew someone who often referred to his wife as “Babe” and I could tell by his endearing words that he loved her through and through.

I wanted a man who would love me like that, from the inside out.

Well, I found my man and he calls me “Babe” on a regular basis, even though I never mentioned my teenage dream. I’m confident that I’m his “babe” in every way—physically, intellectually, emotionally and spiritually—but I wasn’t always so sure.

For quite a while I was actually uncomfortable in the role of “babe,” despite having longed for it for so many years. Because of my past experiences, I had come to believe that a “babe’s” beauty was primarily external. I wanted something different. I wanted the unseen parts of me—my character and spirit—to be noticed and loved, not just the external parts. I believed my external looks were valuable but that everything else inside me wasn’t being noticed or cared for.

Paralyzed by Lies

My beliefs about myself hindered my actions for too many years. I held back from being overly friendly because I thought that being friendly attracted the wrong kind of attention, that I would attract  attract people who would love me and then leave.

Allowing myself to hold these beliefs meant that I often experienced guilt. When I was friendly or smiled around men I felt like I was doing something bad. But what chose to believe filtered down into how I thought and ultimately how I chose to act.

A part of me always knew those beliefs weren’t true, but I sure allowed them to keep a strong hold on me.

Feeding on Truth

My husband was instrumental in helping me change specific beliefs about myself. We would talk through my beliefs a lot, until I was able to recognize what the truth was and what new belief I would choose to adopt. He would adamantly and continually tell me how valuable I was. Over and over again he would speak truth into me. I felt like I was being fed with love.

At first the morsels he fed me were tasteless, like I had lost my taste for truth or had burnt my tongue and couldn’t tell the difference between dry toast and a fresh, juicy fig. Then I started to believe the truth he was speaking, that every part of me is loveable. That’s when my sense of taste came back. Spices, herbs, pastry. You name it, I could taste it.

In the beginning of our marriage, I had a hard time being vulnerable because I thought I was doing something bad or wrong by letting myself shine and be beautiful. I now know that every part of me is valuable and that letting my light shine is a good thing … a really good thing. What great knowledge. What security and confidence that brings.

My view of beauty itself has also broadened. Beauty is only partly external. It is shown in what I believe, how I think, what I talk about, in the decisions I make and the actions I take.

I’m thankful I was able to pinpoint my limiting beliefs and create new empowering ones. It wasn’t easy for me to acknowledge my beliefs and I didn’t change them overnight, but my life has dramatically improved because of the new beliefs I now live by.

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My dear SheLoves friends, please consider these questions with me:

• Are you aware of a personal belief that limits you?
• What new belief can you create that will empower you?
• Who do you have in your life that feeds you with truth?

About Amy:

I am a Certified Professional Career and Life Coach through the International Coach Academy. I empower executives and entrepreneurs to find and pursue their career passion. I am thankful for passion in my career and relationships and want others to enjoy the same. If you’d like to find out how to move forward towards the career and life you’ve only dreamed of, you can get to know me at www.amyenglemark.com. I love hiking, mountain biking, travelling and any sort of adventure.

I like to jump from the highest rock into the deepest water.

I like to shout for joy.

“When does it get easier? I thought. What are we going to do?”

By Chaunie Marie Brusie |

I slowed down as I approached the stop sign during my early morning run, contemplating the two paths diverging to each side. My choices stretched out before me: Turn right and keep running, adding an extra mile to my route? Or give up and head left, back home?

I’m tired, I reasoned.  I should just go home. The kids will be up by now.

I was tired—my husband’s beloved grandfather, an integral part of our family, had just passed away. We were physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted from the grueling funeral events. I had been overlooked, yet again, for a job that I desperately wanted. Attempting to carve out a new career as a freelance writer, I had faced nothing but rejection.

And we had just learned that my husband had been laid off from his teaching job, his third year in a row.

My shoulders sagged and my steps dragged as I contemplated turning left.

Yes, my legs taunted me, just turn home. 

Then, a faint voice inside me declared: No.

Run on.

Gentle Vision

Reluctantly, I turned to the right.  My pace slowed and my breath came in ragged gasps, my chest burning as I felt the waves of fatigue settling in. I looked down at the gravel, dark and damp from last night’s rain, the air heavily charged as another storm brewed in the distance.

Tears pricked my eyes. When does it get easier? I thought.  What are we going to do?

As I watched a tear fall to the ground, lost in the blur of my white running shoes, I suddenly jumped.

Arising from the place my tears had fallen—a butterfly.

The butterfly, black and adorned with splashes of brilliant orange and yellow, fastened itself intently to my side.

I watched in disbelief as the butterfly and I settled into a steady pace.  I held my head high, striding purposefully and lengthening my stride.  Breathing deeply, I felt the burning in my chest subside, replaced with a bubbling of hope, like an internal and energizing spring.

Bloom

Joy filled me as the butterfly and I ran on.  I laughed as the butterfly darted in between my legs and circled my waist.

At my laughter, the butterfly paused and hovered next to me, as if contemplating whether its mission had been fulfilled. I shook my head and laughed again, dispelling the last lingering doubts. Satisfied, the butterfly set its wings in a final farewell and flew off.

I finished my run, but not before encountering two more identical butterflies, each of whom arrived at the precise moments that fatigue began to tempt.

When I reached home, I noticed that the buds on the flower bush by our driveway had opened overnight—the flowers we had initially mistaken for weeds when we had bought our house, prompting me to beg my husband to tear them out, the very flowers that shocked us in their vibrancy, with rich hues of dark orange and a deep, indigo-blue center.  How had I missed them before?

Tears pricked my eyes again.  Across the garden, a butterfly fluttered away.

________________________

About Chaunie:

Chaunie Brusie is a freelance writer, labor and delivery nurse, and advocate for young mothers. She hopes to empower other young women facing unplanned pregnancies to continue to live their dreams through resources and support. Chaunie walks the walk alongside of her husband Ben in Michigan, where they are raising two young daughters and awaiting the birth of a son in early July. Find her at www.tinybluelines.com.

“Writing is a skill requiring practice and dreaming.”

By Enuma Okoro | Twitter: @TweetEnuma

Chimamanda Adichie with Enuma

“It must be a skill, like fishing, to cast your net into a river of dreams and catch a splendid array of words.” So says the young poet Nur, one of the complex characters in Lyrics Alley, the newest novel by Muslim Sudanese-Egyptian author Leila Aboulela. It is true. Writing is a skill requiring practice and dreaming.

This summer I am spending six weeks in Paris, France as the Writer-in-Residence at L’église Américaine à Paris. I will be giving a few talks and working on my next writing project. In order to write well, I believe it is important to read well. So, as part of my writing practice over the next six weeks I will be reading a few works of fiction by and about non-Americans. As writers and readers I think it is essential to encounter the stories of those distinctively different from whomever we consider ourselves to be.

Last month, before leaving the United States, I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing, a biennial conference held at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Over sixty journalists and writers including Jewish author Jonathan Safran Foer, Pulitzer Prize-winning essayist and novelist, Marilynn Robinson and renown Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Adichie spoke to almost 2,000 attendees, eager to listen and dialogue about the crossroads between faith and the literary arts. What I love about this ongoing Festival is how it brings together writers and speakers across literary genres and faith and non-faith traditions. The range represented is a necessary reminder that neither God nor language can ever be co-opted.

However, there was one major disappointment which I have been unable to let go. Initially, I was thrilled to see that the Festival had a workshop called “Writing the Immigrant Experience.” I anticipated a thoughtful and relevant discussion on how narrative and creativity might lend itself to better understanding and engaging issues of displacement, of cultural shock, of ethnic diversity, especially as we live in a world that politicizes and depersonalizes immigrants and their unique contextual challenges. I was anticipating conversation on any number of racial and ethnic groups given that in 2006 the top 12 emigrant countries were Mexico, People’s Republic of China, Philippines, India, Cuba, Colombia, Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Vietnam, Jamaica, South Korea, and Guatemala.

Single Perspective

The four panelists presenting at the FFW session on “Writing the Immigrant Experience” were of Canadian-Dutch descent. Needless to say, I was duly shocked that ALL four were of the same descent. They each talked about the immigrant experience from that one perspective. I was both floored and sorely disappointed.

During the conference I led a festival discussion group on the topic of “Writing for the Upbuilding of God’s Kingdom.” In the Gospel narratives of the New Testament, people ask Jesus to define the Kingdom of God. And Jesus started telling stories. I wanted participants to reflect on how telling stories across genres can reveal the kingdom of God in novel and expansive ways. How do we recognize writing that honors our God-bearing image? If any inching we make towards God is ultimately about moving toward wholeness and healing, about making clearer how all human creation bears the image of God, then reading and writing about the lives and circumstances of people from different ethnic backgrounds and religious traditions is kingdom work.

So, despite the earlier misfortune I was thrilled that, while at the Festival, I did have the chance to listen to the likes of authors such as fiction writer Leila Aboulela, who writes in part to expose readers to the riches and complexities of her Islamic tradition. In her presentation she spoke to a standing room-only crowd. People really do want to hear from a wide diversity of cultural, racial and ethnic voices. As I listened and observed Ms. Aboulela, I was struck by the humility and seriousness with which she spoke about her Islamic faith. She and her family were forced to immigrate to Great Britain during the Sudanese coup in the 1980’s.

She spoke of how one of the chief things she missed from Sudan in her new country was how easily people had spoken of God’s presence in daily life and conversation. Evoking the name of Allah was common across intensities of conversation. Aboulela told of learning to memorize the Koran and her grandmother teaching her to take refuge in the repetition of verses. When she moved to Britain she discovered she wanted to write fiction that told of these beautiful mundane yet sacred aspects of what she knew it meant to be an African Muslim woman.

I also got to listen to North-American born Chinese fiction writer Lan Samantha Chang, the current Director of the esteemed Iowa’s Writers Workshop.  Chang shared with her audience how at one season of her life she used writing to explore and discover her identity as an American born to Chinese parents. Her novella and collection of short stories, Hunger deals beautifully with issues of Chinese American immigration, family dynamics and how we struggle between past realities and future hopes.

Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, lives and writes from both the US and Nigeria. She is the acclaimed author of Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, and The Thing Around Your Neck. It was an unexpected treat to meet her and to have her speak at the Festival. Adichie identifies as a Catholic, but writes for a global audience across traditions. During an interview at the Festival someone asked her what it was like being a global citizen. Her response was nuanced and telling. “I like to think of myself as an Igbo woman who is comfortable in the world, more than as a global citizen.” Adichie is clear to both affirm her cultural and ethnic identity and to recognize the gift of being able to move seamlessly across cultures, engaging people and stories from various contexts.

So why do I think it is important for people of faith to hear from such a diversity of authors who, regardless of their views on religion or faith, can speak to the immigrant experience in one form or another? The immigrant experience is about crossing borders, physically, but also emotionally, intellectually, socially and spiritually. I believe that at its core, the life of faith itself is also one of crossing borders, between the transcendent and the imminent, between the identities we self-construct, the identities created by the communities that form us, and that which comes from efforts of self-emptying to conform to holy images.

In the Christian faith, the tradition, of which I am most familiar, God performed the ultimate border-crossing through the Incarnation, circumscribing to our likeness. As someone of faith, I understand one direct correlation as our own seeking to correspond to the likeness of God. This necessitates, among other things, recognizing the divine image in those who are distinctly different from us in varied ways.

In the New Testament narratives Jesus was constantly putting the disciples in circumstances out of their comfort zones. Jesus sought out those who were determined by certain religious and cultural criteria to be so different that one was not supposed to seek such people out, but rather to hold them at arm’s length, if even that. Within the Christian tradition there exists a holy defined and particular level of invitation to cross borders in ways that should perhaps make us terribly uncomfortable.

As a writer and avid reader, I believe engaging literature, especially fiction, is one specific way we do this. If we are open to allowing God to reveal God’s self to us through neighbors and strangers, then that includes encounter through various forms of literature. Perhaps we take initial steps of turning strangers into neighbors by listening to other people’s stories with the expectation that there is inherent value in their stories and something to be learned from how these authors see the world. Reading across cultures and religious traditions can remind us that in order to really enter into the lives of others, we have to acknowledge that even in our differences we share some aspects of a collective imagination.

It requires a humble willingness to be transformed by other people’s struggles and triumphs. I cannot help carry your burdens or share mine, be empathetic or able to give and receive grace and mercy, if I do not allow myself to in some way be shaped by your worldview.

______________________

About Enuma

Enuma was born in the United States and raised in Nigeria, Ivory Coast and England. She holds a Master of Divinity degree from Duke University Divinity School where she served as Director for the Center for Theological Writing. She is an author, speaker, spiritual director and continues to lead workshops and retreats on varied topics engaging the literary and visual arts, and spiritual disciplines.

Her spiritual memoir, Reluctant Pilgrim: A Moody Somewhat Self-Indulgent Introvert’s Search for Spiritual Community (Fresh Air Books, 2010) was a winning finalist in the 2010 USA Best Books Award and received the 2011 National Indie Excellent Book Awards Winning Finalist in “Spirituality and African-American Non-Fiction.” She is co-author with Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove of Common Prayer: Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals

Okoro’s new forthcoming book, “Silence,” will be released in Summer/Fall 2012.

[From Our Archives]

When sometimes you don’t have words.

By Erin Wilson | Twitter: @biscotti_brain

I rely on words. I rely on words to make my way in the world. I use words to discover people’s stories, and the tales behind their eyes. I use words to comfort, and to encourage. I didn’t realize how dependant I was on words until I arrived in northern Iraq, surrounded by Kurdish speakers in the city of Sulaymaniyah … and my words no longer worked.

I’ve been fortunate to travel to a few different parts of the world. In each situation, I’ve found many people speak English, and I don’t recall any significant language barriers. It was different in northern Iraq. While some there speak English, the majority of people I met, do not. I stayed with an amazing Spanish- (and English-) speaking family who helped me navigate, but there were still times when I felt utterly helpless.

The people I met in Kurdistan had a deep longing to be seen, heard and understood. I had a deep longing to hear and understand. But it couldn’t happen through language.

I discovered the value of presence quite by accident. Reluctantly, if I’m honest. It was a slow process of frustration being won over by calm; of awkwardness being replaced with the subtle comfort of companionship. While I had many opportunities to learn this lesson, I had two primary teachers.

My first teacher was three-year-old Liam. Liam and I were the early risers in the house and each morning as the sun came up, we’d find ourselves in the golden light of the kitchen–me clearing up dishes from the night before and him looking for milk. Liam’s grogginess never lasted long and he would settle into the patter of conversation. Except that I couldn’t hold up my end. I’ve never learned Spanish, and his English was limited to the phrase “What happened?”

It took a few mornings for us to figure out our routine. We were both frustrated, and as I eventually learned, Liam was thirsty. When we got the milk situation sorted out, we had a wide expanse of time to spend with each other. Liam would tell great stories. I know they were great because every now and then he would crack up laughing. Which, of course, would totally crack me up.

And on it went until the rest of the house woke up.

I felt so badly that I couldn’t understand what Liam was telling me, until I finally saw that it didn’t seem to matter to him at all that I couldn’t understand his words. In being focused on what wasn’t happening (communication with words), I was totally missing what was happening… we were spending lovely early mornings together, laughing, and simply being with each other.

My last few mornings there were beautiful, settled into our routine of milk and presence.

My second teacher was M. I had wandered around the warmly lit reception room at the Family Center for a long time before she beckoned me over. She was Kurdish. I was a Canadian who couldn’t speak Kurdish. And we found ourselves together on a bench when our bilingual friends-in-common were suddenly tied up with work.

I didn’t yet know my new friend’s tragic story, but I knew something was very wrong. Her hands shook involuntarily. She mumbled to herself and she sucked in her breath in the sharp way you do when experiencing sudden pain. I had no words for comfort. Oh, I tried. I spoke some simple phrases of English, and we would both smile and shrug with the realization that the message wasn’t getting across.

I began to pray, that silent prayer in your head that’s as much for the other person as it is for yourself. I prayed for comfort for her and for an easing of her pain. A soon as my prayer-words trailed off in my mind, she reached out and took my hand in hers. We sat like that on the bench together, holding hands and smiling.

She didn’t need to hear my words, she needed to feel my presence. And in more ways than she would ever know, I needed to feel hers.

That might just be the most powerful lesson I learned about presence. It is a great equalizer. We all have it in the same amount. No one can earn more presence than anyone else. No one can buy it. All we can do is open ourselves up to receive it … we can’t even give it away until we’re open to receive.

About Erin:

Erin Wilson spent the better part of September teaching photography to kids on the margins in northern Iraq with her partners in The ONE-SHOT Project. When not seeing the world though a camera lens, Erin designs and installs museum exhibits, blogs, creates a line of handbags with vintage fabrics, eats local, and dances around her kitchen to Jack Johnson.  You can find pieces of Erin’s heart in northern Iraq, Swaziland, and strewn around the wide-wide landscape of Canada.

Images: View from the mountain & view towards the city, by Erin Wilson

On Hilary Clinton, my hair in Africa and starting a movement. 

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
____________________________________________________________

So, I have a girl-crush on Hilary Clinton.

The media, however, doesn’t share my enthusiasm for her. It prefers to criticize the colour of her pant suits, rather than celebrate her impressive political career.

More recently, the media went absolutely bonkers when Hilary stepped out before press, fresh faced (sans makeup) and bespectacled, while traveling through India and China.

I present to you, Exhibit A.

Quite honestly,  I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I happen to think she looks present and enraptured by whatever is unfolding in front of her. Given her busy schedule and the fact that she’s traveling, this is no easy feat.

Take me for example. Some of you may know that I’m in Africa at the moment. I’m visiting Uganda and Burundi with gal-pal Idelette (I promise, more on that later).

I’m writing this post at the end of a 14+ hour day, my upper lip bejeweled with a permanent sweat mustache. Africa may love me, but it’s all out WWIII with my hair. After a two-week valiant battle with my hair straightener, I’ve finally surrendered to the humidity gods. Messy bun, it is.

Over the last two weeks, Idelette and I have been in the trenches: having heartbreaking conversations about social justice, identifying the fault-lines of our faith and listening to jaw-dropping stories of courage. This, of course means: UMT (Ugly Mascara Tears).

Let’s do the math, shall we?

Sweat Mustache + Messy Bun + UMT = Not Ideal

I’m not implying that my life is as busy as Mrs. Clinton. I’m saying that, the fact that she looks present + enraptured,  while on a whirlwind tour filled with press conferences, meetings and media interviews is impressive.

When interviewed about her au naturale look, she told CNN:

“I feel so relieved to be at the stage I’m at in my life right now. Because, you know, if I want to wear my glasses, I’m wearing my glasses. If I want to wear my hair back, I’m pulling my hair back. You know, at some point, it’s just not something that deserves a lot of time and attention”.

I just looove her laugh at the end of the video.

Psssh … 

She is the freaking Secretary. Of. State. Power to you sister! [insert fist bump]

[switching gears]

Some of you may remember my post from early March, Are You There, World? It’s Me, Tina. Without Makeup. I posted a picture of myself without makeup and extended an invitation to fellow SheLoves readers to upload a picture of themselves au naturale.

The response was: overwhelming. We had women from Vancouver, Sydney, Dubai, Kampala, Toronto, Seattle, Luxembourg, Bahrain, etc. who participated in the challenge. Seeing Hilary’s story in the news, reminded me that we didn’t get a chance to acknowledge these fabulous women.

Now, sit back and savour these scrumptious faces.

And if that wasn’t enough of an adrenaline rush, we had sisters! Indian sisters and Fillipino sisters!

We had mothers and daughters!

We had Mamas with their babes.

Some girls got creative. Meet Loreili:

“Hello World! It’s me Loreili, with no makeup. #iamenough (and sexy beyond belief says my husband!)”

And Jenna:

 “HELLLOOOOOOO WORLD! It’s me, Jenna, proudly with no makeup #iamSOenough

Me with my MAN (3 days into our honeymoon); Tanned and NO makeup; Me in Africa; Me at my BEST moment- the birth of my baby boy!”

And to top it all off, we had Miss World Canada 2012, Tara Teng.

In the words of Buffalo Springfield, can I just say:

 There’s something happenin’ here.
What it is, ain’t exactly clear.

 Sing with me now:

Stop children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look what’s going down.

[insert cartwheels]

_________________________________

So dear ones,

Are you inspired by these ladies to post your picture? Gleep! I would love to see your beautiful faces, all over our Facebook Wall! 

Here’s how you can do it:

1. Go to our SheLoves Facebook page. 
2. ‘Like’ our page if you haven’t already.
3. Then upload a picture of yourself with this caption:
   “Hey World! It’s Me, _____[name]. Without Makeup. #iamenough”

Beauty is about being: present + enraptured. We have the power to define a new standard for beauty that celebrates our pores, wrinkles and laugh lines.

Love you more than a cold bottle of orange Fanta on a hot African day,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

“As I began to allow God to heal my heart with His labels, I began to see beauty in Kylie’s death.”

By Erica McNeal | Twitter: @toddanderica 

If years ago, God had revealed to me the trials I would face in my life, my head probably would have spontaneously combusted from information overload. By the time I was thirty-two years old, I was already a three-time cancer survivor, and had experienced the loss of five children.

I’ve spent many years processing grief, loss, and disappointment. While the typical stages of grief can be predictable in many ways, I learned how unpredictable grief itself truly is. I stumbled through a stage of grief that is rarely defined, often misunderstood, and hardly discussed: living in a distorted reality. This was never truer for me, than grieving the short life and ultimate death of my daughter, Kylie Joy.

After going into labor three times, our daughter Kylie was born at twenty-two-and-a-half-weeks gestation. She was a beautifully perfect tiny human being weighing 15 oz, with a few tufts of brown hair, soft translucent skin, long legs, and a cute little button nose.

As beautiful as Kylie was, our hearts were absolutely crushed knowing she would soon take her last breath. As she died in my arms, I desperately wanted her to open her eyes, so she could see the love her mama and daddy had for her. But, her eyes were still fused shut when she took her last breath.

Guilty

As I began to work through my emotions surrounding her death, I found myself being sucked into a distorted reality. I questioned every decision I made during my pregnancy and pre-term labor. Words like “incompetent cervix” were thrown around, with one doctor saying, “Kylie’s birth was a maternal issue, she was fine.” Rather quickly, little lies began to build in my heart.

“Your body is incapable – you failed!”

“Your body developed the blood clot, that got infected, that made her sick – this is your fault.”

“Your body gave birth to her before she had a chance to live – you killed her.”

I not only began to blame myself for Kylie’s death, but I allowed Satan to label me as a murderer.

For over six months I carried around this guilt in silence, not realizing the depth of these emotions or the hold they were having on my heart and mind. When someone would tell me Kylie’s death was not my fault, I would point out every reason why it was. I didn’t believe this subject was a right or wrong issue, rather a difference of opinion. In so many ways my closest family and friends had to take a step back and allow me to process this stage of guilt, which was terrifying, lonely, and unforgiving.

Perhaps I would’ve had a different perspective if my water had broken on it’s own. But, I had to make the decision to have the doctor break my water. I also knowingly and willfully told the doctors not to do anything to try and save Kylie. I even had to sign a Do Not Resuscitate form. I struggled with guilt for not being strong enough to handle the contractions, and for not being able to carry our child any longer in her carefree world.

While the doctors had given Kylie a 1% chance of living, I knew her life would be filled with suffering and pain from the complications of such prematurity. Ultimately, Kylie lived for only eighty minutes, but this would have given us enough time to take her to a different hospital that was equipped to care for a baby so small.

The distorted reality festering in my heart told me that not only was my body incapable, but when I had a chance to save her I chose not to.

Awakening to truth

And then one night after an emotionally-charged Grief Support meeting, my husband asked me when I was going to let go of the blame. I thought about that question for a moment and then felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. For the first time, with tears streaming down my face, I admitted to myself and to my husband that the heart of my problem, the very root of my pain, was that I believed I killed our daughter.

I needed to grant myself permission to forgive—forgive myself. I needed to accept that Kylie’s death was not my fault, to realize that I did everything I possibly could to keep our child safe, to remember that we made the best decisions we could with the knowledge we had. I had to remind myself of the intense medical obstacles she would face if she had survived and that we made the right decision. I needed to stop being so hard on myself for something that was very much out of my control and to stop second-guessing every decision I made during the pregnancy. I had to free myself from guilt. And, I had to stop allowing Satan to label me and use my weaknesses against me.

The journey home

Even after coming to these realizations that night, my road to recovering from this distorted reality was at times still very dark and difficult. Though I had the light-bulb moment of seeing the circumstances differently, my emotions could not turn off like a light switch. I still needed to talk through my emotions, spend time with other bereaved moms, re-accepting (sometimes daily) that Kylie’s death was not my fault. I had to immerse myself in Scripture and allow God to remind me of who I was—of what grace had labelled me—and choose not to remain in darkness.

I found the strength to overcome my distorted reality using these three tools:

• I kept a tight core group. In the first few months of grieving, I would share my feelings with just about anyone. This only set me up to receive a lot of differing (and sometimes strong) opinions, which became unnecessary noise and led to a lot of confusion. When I began to talk about my deepest and darkest emotions with my husband, and only a few friends, we began to get to the heart of my struggles. These loved ones allowed me to share my darkest feelings because they engaged in conversations with me, instead of making me feel the need to defend myself.

• I wrote my thoughts in a journal. In these moments, my heart began to connect dots, and began to consider a different reality. Writing gave me the freedom to say whatever I wanted to say, without fear of condemnation. Small light bulbs, almost like Christmas tree lights, would begin to come to life. And, sometimes very slowly, a strand of bulbs would lead to a different understanding of my circumstances.

• I immersed myself in Scripture. I constantly broke down Philippians 4:8 in order to prevent a downward spiral of emotions.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.”

I constantly asked myself questions like, “What is true about Kylie’s death?” “What is right about this situation?” “How can I see God’s excellence in my circumstances?”

It took time, and a lot of patience from those closest to me, for me to accept true reality—the reality everyone else could clearly see; to understand that we live in an imperfect world, where imperfect things happen; to accept I did not kill Kylie; to realize she didn’t need to open her eyes to see my love for her. And, as I began to allow God to heal my heart with His labels, I began to see beauty in Kylie’s death.

I was able to begin to think of her life, her precious eighty minutes of life, where she was held, loved, spoken to, and cared for. And then, I was even able to find beauty in the fact that the very first time she opened her eyes, she saw the face of Jesus. At first sight, Kylie was in the presence of the greatest love she could ever know, being held, loved, spoken to, and cared for by our King. How could I not want that for her?

__________________________

Dear SheLoves readers, please taken a moment to ponder these questions:

• When have you lead yourself into a situation of distorted reality?
• How often do you take the blame for something that you have no control over?
• Do you have someone in your world right now who needs you to help them see truth?

___________________________

Creative Commons image by Kaneda99, flickr.com

About Erica: 

Author of Good Grief!, Erica McNeal is a military wife and stay at home mom with sixteen years of experience in Youth, Marriage, and Women’s Ministries. Erica is passionate about equipping people to love others well through difficult times by using her experiences to teach people what not to say, what to say, and how to help when people are hurting . You can find her book, Good Grief! on Amazon.

“Restoring people, physically and socially, is Kingdom work.”

By Kelley Johnson-Nikondeha | Twitter: @kelljnik

Naaman is a Syrian commander. When he looks in the mirror one morning and sees a spot … a bad, life-changing spot. He notices the beginning of leprosy, which means the end of life as he knows it. All will be lost–his wife and family, his leadership role in the Syrian army, his close bond with the king.

To make a long story short, Naaman manages to find himself at Elisha’s house, the great healer in Israel. He is so desperate for healing–for keeping his life–that he resorts to seeing a healer in enemy territory and washing himself seven times in the backwaters of the Jordan River. But with the seventh wash, he finds skin as new and clean as a baby. Clean!  He can keep his life; a leper no more. 

I imagine he returned home to his wife and lovely home, throwing quite a celebration bash. He kept his leadership role and kept the company of the king.

No Name

Ntazina, which means “no name” in Kirundi, is found in the beginning of Mark’s gospel. This man with no name has long suffered with leprosy and lost everything. He lives alone outside the city away from everyone. He wears torn clothes and dons the disheveled hair as commanded by “the law of the leper” in Leviticus, he has been declared “unclean” a long time ago. So long ago that no one remembers his name, which is why I call him Ntazina.

When we encounter Ntazina he is calling out to Jesus, begging to be made clean.

Clean is more than just another world for “heal.” To be clean is to be ritually clean–to be allowed back into the community. To be clean means to be disease free, but also free to enter the temple. Free to take part in a family wedding, free to enter the marketplace and free to share a Sabbath meal with your family at sundown.

Ntazina wanted to be clean. And Jesus said He wanted him to be clean as well, and Jesus touched him and healed him on the spot. Then he instructed him to go show himself to the priest who could verify he was healed and pronounce him officially clean, making way for his re-entry to society.

Jesus also told him to tell no one else of his healing. But Ntazina was so filled with joy,  he could not contain it–he told everyone he saw! He got his life back, a leper no more!

Naaman and Ntazina were both confronted with leprosy (to varying degrees), both sought healing and both were made clean. Both testified that it was God who healed them … and we see how God has healing juices on offer for lepers.

These are great stories, but what do they mean for us today? Know any lepers in your town? It would be easy to say that since leprosy is not prevalent in our communities any more, these nice stories have no imperative for us to act on. But not so fast …

Leprosy is both a physical and social disease. It cripples a body and cripples an entire community. Think of the personal pain in the body–skin, nerves, deformed limbs and loss of eyesight. But beyond that, think of being put out of your community. Imagine leaving your home, your workplace, your church and neighborhood, what would it be like to have to walk away from all of those people? And birthdays, Sunday dinners, church worship, evening walks with your spouse and school recitals … And can you imagine the hole left by your absence? Gaping. This is leprosy–personal and communal pain.

So, I ask again: Do you know a leper?

I know a leper…

Emmanuella Ninziza was born to a mother with full-blown AIDS in Burundi. Her mother died in labor and her father left her at the hospital to suffer the same fate. From birth, she was sick and struggled each day to live, testing positive for the virus with each and every blooddraw.

She was eventually discharged from the hospital and sent to a home for abandoned babies on hospice care. No one expected her to live. For months she struggled. The nannies at the home did not want to touch her, they were fearful. She was grotesque-looking and HIV positive.  They touched her as little as possible. They would leave her in a corner of the home by herself for hours a day, afraid to touch her, engage her or get attached to her. She began to shut down, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

Emmanuella Ninziza had a physical and social disease and she suffered stigma. She was a leper.

Now Emma is a healthy eight-year-old girl. Her body was healed and she found a family. Emma has been restored physically and socially; she is a leper no more.

She is my daughter.

I see more people suffering the physical and social pain of leprosy. For some across Africa it is living with HIV/AIDS, the broken bodies and constant stigma. No one wants to touch them; they are disowned and forgotten by their community. Many suffer alone and die alone.

For many women worldwide leprosy looks like a fistula caused by unassisted childbirth or rape, leaving a hole between their bladder and vagina allows waste to drip incessantly, causing a great stench and shame. So these women are put out of the village, left to live in huts on the fringe, left to die. People say they must be cursed … and so they live with physical pain, social loss and the shame of stigma.

Lepers.

What does God do with lepers? He summons healing juices and makes them clean. He heals bodies and restores people to their community once again. And Jesus tells John’s disciples that cleansing lepers is a sign that He is the One. Jesus then instructs His own disciples to go spread the good news of the kingdom of heaven, which includes cleansing lepers. Restoring people, physically and socially, is Kingdom work.

If we are disciples of Jesus, then we must include cleansing lepers in our Kingdom repertoire. We must fight against stigma and touch with compassion those suffering physical and social diseases. We will know the Kingdom has come when the lepers are clean. As far as Jesus is concerned, we will be the ones engaged in the work of healing, restoring and cleansing!

Naaman and Ntazina are lepers the Biblical story knows.

Emma is a leper I know.

Those women suffering with fistulas are lepers we know.

Who is a leper that you know?

_______________________

About Kelley:

Kelley Johnson Nikondeha is co-director of Amahoro Africa and international staff member of Community of Faith with her husband Claude. She’s a thinker, connector, advocate, avid reader and mother of two beautiful children. Kelley lives between Arizona and Burundi. She loves handwritten letters, homemade pesto and anything written by Walter Brueggemann.