Love Determinedly

23 years ago today, the Americans with Disabilities Act was signed into law, giving persons with disabilities a chance at inclusion and equal opportunities for a full and purposeful life in society.

7 years ago today, I got a call from a man I greatly respected asking me to go to dinner with him...

5 years ago today, I married that man, wheelchair and all...

Today, I reflect in beautiful astonishment at God's loving mischief.

Everyone always says that the day you get married is the day you love your spouse the least.  Not that you don't love them at that time, but that you learn how love grows, changes, and deepens over your years together.  I believe this deeply, but I also think that time has a way of helping you reinterpret what you didn't already know. I love my husband passionately.  He is my best friend, soul mate, supporter, protector, comic relief, writing/teaching partner, and road trip buddy.  I am his wife, friend, confidant, sounding board, and caregiver. Everyday of the last 5 years, in some capacity or another, I have acted as his eyes, feet, hands, and strength. There are days I am called to love my husband by setting aside the needs of my own body to stand in the gap and act as a bridge between his inabilities and the flow of life. I may love Justin passionately, but the last 5 years have taught me lessons in how to love determinedly.

We all choose how we are going to love another in the face of obstacles. Some choose to love in spite of, other because of, but we choose to love in the midst of. Today, this is what I celebrate. I celebrate the sleepless nights, broken down van, tumbles and falls, hospital experiences, spilled drinks, gouged walls, extra laundry, and sore muscles. These are the Ebenezer stones marking our way in the journey of learning to love with God. These are worthy of celebration.

I remember a young 19 year old woman who accepted an invitation 7 years ago. She couldn't have understood what it means to love determinedly. But she did make a choice to give this guy on the other line a chance. She chose to see a man sitting in a wheelchair rather than a wheelchair-bound man. She took a chance that God works in mysterious and mischievous ways. She was right, and I am forever thankful.

What if I can't?

"God, what if I can't?"

I feel like this is a question I ask quite often. I'll find myself facing a particularly arduous task or a difficult day or just the prospect of getting out of bed, and out it pops. I really sat back and took notice of this query today, and I noticed a few things I thought I'd write down.

1. This question assumes God desires for me to go somewhere, do something, or be generally active in my day. Though I may feel like I cannot do whatever the task or thing is in front of me, it assumes that my response to God is not stagnant, but a call to action or engagement with my surroundings.

2. This question shows me that one of my greatest fears is the inability to do what is asked of me. I don't know if anyone else out there is like that or not, but it hits me that "can't" is very different from "won't" or "don't." For me, to "can't" is to fail, to be weak, to be less than acceptable.

3. Despite the consistency with which I ask this question, the answer is constant. It is the panacea to my fear, the balm to my broken admittance that I'm just not capable. God says, "I Can." I Can in you, I Can through you, I Can with you. 

Whatever questions we ask, whatever internal roadblocks would make stagnant waters look better than flowing rivers of life, may we remember that God--who always is when we are not and always can when we cannot--offers the answer to our questions in God's very presence.  It is not an answer we earn or an answer which is withheld from all but the privileged few.  It is an answer freely offered and generously given to all places, all peoples, all walks of life. As our hidden places whisper of our inadequacy, may we know ourselves to be God's precious children in our very dependence on the "Can-ness" of God.

Barbacoa and Empanadas

The smell is heavenly and earthy.  Heavenly, if that's what it can be called, with the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and fresh dough.  Earthy with the aroma of slow cooked meat, vegetables freshly washed, humanity and food packed together in a place not quite big enough for all that it holds.  It is a smell full of vitality--it is the smell of living people, my neighbors.  

The sight is overwhelming.  People and color and food and people and baskets and food and people... People who do not look like me...but they smile like me, smell their fruit like me, stand indecisively in front of the pastries like me.  Here I see my neighbors.  

The sounds are chaotic.  Clicking, rolling, banging, yelling, shouting, greeting, crying, words rapidly fired in a language I don't understand.  The language of people working, playing, struggling, rejoicing.  The language of my neighbor.

As a person who took five years of French as a foreign language, I am absolutely at a loss in a Latin American grocery store.  My limited vocabulary and my white skin absolutely set me apart, not to mention my husband was also with me, making us even more conspicuous with his electric wheelchair.  Yet, as I walked into the Fiesta just a couple miles from our house, there was something in the air, something…real.  The store was clean, but it was not immaculate.  It was packed to the brim with food, not carefully manicured to present everything “just so.”  There were glorious smells coming out of the panaderia, and you had to be willing to wait quite a bit to get what you wanted because everyone getting their pastries had to scrunch into a very small space. But take my words for it, the cream cheese empanada was worth the wait!  Though there were national brands of products, I learned that if I wanted the cheap stuff, I was going to have to get a brand I had never heard of before and probably couldn’t pronounce.  But that’s ok.  It was worth it.

Then, we went to the cafeteria-style restaurant squeezed in a space not much bigger than some dorm rooms I've seen.  The tortillas were fresh, the food was simmering...and no one spoke English.  The only name of anything I recognized was "Barbacoa."  And it looked gooood.  So in my best effort I looked at the woman and asked "Barbaco?"  She proceeded to ask me questions that I couldn't begin to understand.  And we just looked at one another, lost, perhaps a bit frustrated, probably both wondering why I was there in the first place.  Was I crazy to come into a place that was not my own?  Thankfully, the one worker who could translate caught on to what was happening, came over and helped.  All the tension left my body, and I knew it was going to be ok.  (By the way, the Barbacoa was excellent!)

I did not go to Fiesta to make the experience fit my expectations.  No, the point of going was to start learning what it means to be a part of this neighborhood.  As a white female, I have a choice to ignore my surroundings and go elsewhere to shop for groceries.  But, to ignore the life of my neighbor is the very opposite of real hospitality.  As Ana Maria Pineda expresses, “When it is most fully realized, hospitality not only welcomes strangers; it also recognizes their holiness.” 

       

For a recent class assignment, I was asked to define hospitality.  My definition of hospitality is twofold: 

1. to recognize the holiness in the stranger 

2. to respond to the stranger’s holiness with full engagement  

This kind of hospitality requires an openness to encounter God constantly.  God cannot be put in a box that only opens when it is convenient to me.  The Triune God must be the Dancer swirling around all of life, encompassing the big and the little on the dance floor of Earth.  I must be on the dance floor with God.  But, I must also recognize that you--the person I meet on the street, the friend I embrace in passing, the child I call by name—are also created to dance.  Then and only then, can I—can we—extend a hand, step out in faith, and join in the Creator’s Dance as partners.  There will be stepping on toes, bumping into each other, and awkward moments of deciding who leads and who follows.  This is part of the reality of dance, and therefore the reality of hospitality.  It’s messy, rough, and real.  It encounters the grit of the human condition, the joy of the human spirit, the struggle of human existence, and the wonder of human life, and says “Welcome home!”  In  the opening of doors and extending of hands, I imagine that the welcomed and the welcomer both hear the quiet voice of the Partner saying, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”  

In our hospitality, we live the Kingdom of God, opening its doors to the stranger and inviting them in the journey, in the dance, in the grand welcoming of Christ.

"Uduhenzagire"

Uduhenzagire, mana!

Turagushaka!

Turagukunda!

Turaguhimbazaa, mana!

(Bless us, O God!

We need You!

We love You!

We worship You, God!)

As a Master of Sacred Music student at Perkins School of Theology, the music of the global Church is an integral (and now expected) part of my course of study.  In our very first class session with Dr. Hawn, we started learning to sing the faith in Swahili, Shona, Zulu, Spanish, Portuguese, etc.  Thus, when I received the opportunity to serve as a Music and Worship Intern for New Day Upendo, a micro-community meeting at  and engaging with an apartment complex in Dallas where many African refugees are placed upon arrival to the United States, I felt like I was going in with an advantage. Sure, there would be things to learn, but hey, I already know 10+ songs in a variety of African languages, and  we could at least start there while I build relationship and learn from what they've been singing.  

Well, I learned a couple things very quickly: 

1. There are a few songs that seem to have traversed the African continent and have probably been translated into almost every language.  Just because you know that song in Shona (Zimbabwe), does not mean they use the same words in Kenya.  

2. A lot of what I had been exposed to is either in Shona or Zulu (South Africa).  The majority of the people I serve are not from Zimbabwe or South Africa.  If I wanted to sing something and have it understood, it was time to learn songs in Swahili and/or translate songs into Swahili.  Not being a Swahili speaker (let's face it, I'm not a great Swahili singer), I often find myself running up to my friend Peter and asking, "How do you say 'always' in Swahili?"  [If I ever go to Africa, I may not be able to say much, but I've got "Daima tunaomba (Always, we pray)" and "Hakuna Mungu kama wewe (There's no one like Jesus)" down!]

These two lessons were really just the pre-requisites for the real course I was about to learn in what I will call "the hospitality of song."  But, more on that in a moment.  As I was starting to feel comfortable with translating and learning songs, and mixing the languages we sang in our gatherings, we had two women and their children start coming to New Day just a few days after their arrival in the United States.  These dear women speak very little Swahili, even less English, and their dominant language is Kinyarwanda.  Thankfully, we have a few people in our community who can understand and translate between English and Kinyarwanda, but this language barrier has at times provided a new challenge for many of us.  One particular evening, we did not have anyone in the room capable of translating the lesson into Kinyarwanda, and a man walks in who heard us singing and wanted to see what was going on.  None of us had seen him before, but in he walked, and he turned out to be a fluent speaker of both English and Kinyarwanda.  He was willing to translate for the women, and even participated in the discussion himself.  It was such a beautiful moment of seeing God provide.

As a leader of song, I now have the challenge of finding songs in Kinyarwanda, which absolutely is not going to happen by looking at publications in the United States.  I mean, let's face it, Swahili is at least an option on Google Translate, Kinyarwanda isn't.  So, Peter starts experimenting with adding Kinyarwanda to some of the songs we sing.  Then, last week, Peter remembered a song he learned in Kinyarwanda, the song that I posted at the top.  After spending a week singing the song at any opportunity--in the car, the shower, while shelving books (quietly)--I taught the song to the community yesterday.  Somewhere along the way as I learned and became familiar with the song, it also seeped into my spiritual bones.  It started to gain meaning beyond what the words actually say.  Then, to hear all of us, people of many languages, ages, experiences, and cultures,  come together and sing in a language few are familiar with so that we could sing in solidarity with our sisters...it was beautiful.  I realized in that moment and upon reflection that they shared something with me of such worth I can barely describe it.  They shared with me the language of their heart, and they let me take it in as my own heart song. I was presented by Peter and these women a song that Means deeply, and in teaching it to me, they offered me the hospitality of song.  They invited me into their musical and linguistic home, and continue to allow me to stay a while to rest, to learn, to grow, to cry, to shout, to be. I am speechless and overwhelmed at the depth of such hospitality.  Praise be to God.  Amen.

When Our Gifts Abuse Us

I've had this topic on my heart and in my head for a long time.  I know it probably sounds pretty dark, and I'm really not intending to write anything terribly emotional, but I feel like this is something we don't talk about enough.  Whether you're a musician, a pastor, a day laborer, a scholar, or none of the above:

What happens when your gifts are used to hurt you?

 

Now, let me define this a little.  When I say gifts, in this instance I mean the intrinsic qualities that every person has that makes them good at one thing or another and the purpose to which the talent/gift is used.  This could mean being good at playing the piano, but on a deeper level, it means having a gift and desire to play the piano for the purpose of praising God.  It could mean being a gifted speaker, but it more means being able to speak in such a way that you connect with other people and bring them closer to the Creator.  So, it's not just being good at a particular activity, but it's being gifted to do a certain thing well for the greater glory and benefit of God's kingdom.  Hence, even though it's not something you can get a degree for or earn medals in, listening, for example, is a gift that some people have and other do not, and it can do much to communicate love and acceptance to another person in Christ's name. 

As a person currently training to be a musician/minister/church leader, I have become very aware recently of how our gifts--given to us to bring glory to God--are sometimes used and exploited by other people to bring harm to me, the bearer of the gift.  I know this may not be everyone's situation, but I know one of my gifts is a tender heart.  Yet, there are people in my life who see my tenderness as a weakness, and direct their hurtful words and action at me to bring my heart pain.  Or, there are those who see a person gifted at listening, and proceed to place on that person numerous mental and emotional burdens without reciprocating love back to their neighbor.  I'm sure the list could continue on all the ways our gifts can be exploited by other to bring us pain, but I'd like to get to the question at hand: 

What is a healthy response? 

 

Unforunately, I don't have an authoritative answer for this question.  I still struggle with it on an almost daily basis.  However, I think the place to start lies in learning to set boundaries.  Allowing others to hurt me through my gifts means that I have not set limits in relating to this person regarding how I will or will not be treated.  Sometimes we do not realize when someone mistreats us through our gifts until we are in the thick of it, but that is no reason to allow such behavior to continue. This also requires that re-orient our ideas of what it means to love another person.  Loving my neighbor does not require me to stop loving myself.  In fact, I contend that my ability to acknowledge and encourage dignity in another corresponds directly to the dignity I afford myself.  If I lose my own dignity and identity in order to love another person, then I have not loved them at all.  Rather, I have aided and abetted a continuation of destructive and abusive behavior.  Yet, in setting relational boundaries, I create situations which diffuse manipulation by honestly expressing how I wish to be treated.  In the process, I also set an example for what healthy Christian love looks like.  Let us remember that Christ gave up everything for us except His identity.  Even in the face of the worst of human abuse and destruction, Christ redeemed us by remaining who He is.  Jesus did not love the world by transforming into the political leader the Jews desired, nor did He succumb to the desire others had to cloister Him away when opposition to His prophetic teachings grew.  Yes, Christ could have been a brilliant political liberator, but that wasn't His purpose.  Yes, Christ could have easily escaped suffering and death, but His identity lay not in preserving His own life, but in dying and rising again, that we might have life through the Suffering Servant, God Incarnate.  

In our imitation of Christ's love for God and love for neighbor, may we find the wisdom to use our gifts well with a strength of purpose and identity that only comes from God's guidance.  Then, may those who abuse see that true love communicates dignity and respect of self and of neighbor. 

Taking Care of Caregivers

I simultaneously made a statement and asked a question this morning that are difficult for me to admit to but important to acknowledge:

Today, I'm tired of caregiving.

When is someone going to take care of me?

It's very difficult for me to admit to these thoughts, but being vulnerable in this instance, I hope, will bring to light what it means to attend to caregivers and their families, and what it means to do it well.  On a day where I feel done-in, tired, weak, and empty, it can be tempting to say that taking care of a caregiver means taking away the burden of care.  But, not only is it unrealistic to believe someone will ride in on a white horse equipped with the muscles to lift, a gentle touch to bathe and dress, and the kindness to give dignity at all times and in all circumstances--it's also not true to the redemptive work of Christ.  Caring for the caregiver is not about removing the physical burden, partly because sharing in the labor is only temporary and fails to address the deeper source of pain and weariness. (Though, trust me, any help is greatly appreciated!)  Plus, the physical requirements on any caregiver, especially when the recipient of care is a family member, are only a portion of one's emptying out on the behalf of the other.  There are emotions, good or bad, that are associated with doing for another person what people can typically do for themselves.  Then, there are the emotions of attachment between the caregive-ee and the caregiver, because no matter how healthily you handle the relationship, you have a situation where one person depends on another to help with the most mundane and necessary things for a dignified existence.  All of this can turn into the perfect storm when the needs of the person you care for call for more of yourself than you have to give.  Hence, mornings when I wake up despairing whether relief will ever come.

So, I must ask myself, what does caring for Lisa the Caregiver look like?  If I were to paint a picture of what caring for caregivers looks like, I would ask you to picture a place where people gather to be honest, not only with their words but also with their bodies.  A place where it is safe to be weary and quiet.  A place where it is safe to be stressed and anxious.  A place where weeping and wailing are accepted as much as silent tears or joyful smiles.  A place where an embrace lasts a long time and the look of someone who chooses to stand alongside you communicates as powerfully as a sermon.  A place that is calm, a place that is full of life, a place where love is communicated in the sharing of food and the contents of our hearts.  A place where the call to "Comfort, comfort ye my people..." means a physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual in-breaking of mutual care and support. 

Most of all, I desire a place that fights the isolation of caregiving not with noise and activity, but with full and honest acknowledgement of me, with all my struggles, burdens, cares, joys, concerns, and passions.  I am more than a caregiver, but caregiving pervades my life in ways few other situations in life can.  There is only rest, only rejuvenation, only real care when me as caregiver and me as me are acknowledged, fully received and allowed to live in the tension that is inherent to my situation.  I don't want life to be fixed--I want it to be received, embraced, and encountered with tenderness and honesty.   

"Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."  Matthew 11:28-30


 

 

Where am I?

I noticed it was a bright, sunny day as I drove up to the auditorium.  Volunteers greeted us in the parking lot, directing us on where to park and where to go once we got inside.  More volunteers shook our hands and welcomed us as we entered and gave us a flyer advertising more events we might be interested in attending.  We found our seat in the auditorium, a large space populated with cushioned chairs, wide aisles and a large stage at the front.  Above the stage was a stylized stick-figure drawing of a family, indicating that today our topic would probably center on family.  The ten-person band came out and led in singing and dancing as the lights were lowered on the audience and words were projected on the screens so we could follow along.  After twenty minutes of music, an assistant came out and introduced the topic of the day:  friends and family.  Then, the leader walked on stage with the friend he brought for the day—a body builder from the Power Team.  His friend proceeded to tear a phone book, break a bat in half, and bend a metal rod with his teeth, all to advertise the programs he and the rest of the Power Team would be bringing to the auditorium at the end of the month.  Then, the leader told us to fill out cards on the back of our chairs, indicating we had been there that morning.  To encourage us to do this, he reminded us that first-time attenders would receive a special gift at the end of the service, and in honor of this special day, second-time attenders would receive a Starbucks gift card.  Further, to celebrate the presence of friends and family at that morning’s program, everyone who filled out a card, regardless of their attendance status, would be entered into a drawing for a flatscreen TV which would occur at the end of the morning’s program. 

                As people filled out the cards, the leader told an inspirational story about a regular attendee whose family was behind on rent for that month, but had incredibly been provided for at the last minute.  This was to encourage others to donate to the cause of the program.  Then, while the cards and donations were collected, members of the band came out and sang a rousing rendition of “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.”  Following an inspirational video illustrating the positive effects of friendship, the leader came up to deliver an inspirational message on the power of friendship as seen in the relationship of Jackie Robinson and PeeWee Reese, Ian Kinsler and Josh Hamilton, the recovery of Johnny Cash, and even to men named Paul and Barnabas.  A couple beautiful proverbs on friendship were read, as well as a small narrative on the nature of Paul and Barnabas’ friendship.  The leader then mentioned a man named Jesus, who he said could be your best friend.  It was obvious this Jesus had impacted the pastor, but Jesus’ importance wasn’t explained until we were told that Jesus takes care of eternal life.  If we want eternal life, then we need Jesus to be our friend.  After that, there was a little more singing, followed by the drawing for the TV and some heartfelt parting words from the leader.  Then, we went out into the sunny day, got back in our car, and drove to lunch.

               

               

The above is a description of an experience Justin and I had at a local non-denominational church of approximately 1000-1500+ members last weekend.  The particular service we attended had about 200-250 people in attendance and it is one of the less-attended of the four weekend services offered by the church. The whole time we were there, all I could ask is:

 

Where am I?

 

I found this service highly disturbing.  I want to make clear, though, that the style of the service is not the issue.  Though I am not as comfortable with contemporary, Hillsong-style worship music, I found the music at this service to be well-executed and fairly sound theologically.  What bothered me about the music itself was how loud it was.  Between the darkened lights and in-your-face volume of the music, I couldn’t hear myself singing, much less the people around me.  This makes worship a lonely experience, and it does nothing to encourage congregational participation in the act of singing to and about our God.  However, all of this said, the ability to worship well in the service was not lost for me because of the music. 

Between the drawing for the flat screen TV, the lack of a proper use of Scripture in the sermon, and almost no talk of Jesus, I found myself shutting down.  I was angry.  Scripture of any kind was not mentioned or read until 50 minutes into the service.  Never in a sermon on friendship was the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ mentioned.  There was an altar call based on whether or not you would go to heaven if you died that day—not based on the saving power of Christ here and now to redeem us from our sin and free us from constricting loneliness.  In a list of freedoms that the church desired to bring to people, spiritual freedom was last on the list behind physical freedom and financial freedom, and spiritual freedom certainly was not last because of its importance.  As the wife of a disabled man, I found that people were kind to us, but nothing in the service was accessible to someone unable to walk.  Thus, when physical freedom was at the top of the list, immediate walls went up in both of us, because words like that indicate an unwelcoming attitude to the inclusion of the disabled.

Overall, I left the worship service disheartened and tired.  The spectacle, the lack of real theology, and the inability of the service to properly include the congregation in worship was quite demoralizing.  Yet, in some ways I am glad to have had the experience.  It is good to know how bad worship can be. In that service, I discovered what compromising your values and purposes for worship can become.  I left that place vowing to never allow myself to lead a service that did not preach Christ as Messiah, display the kingdom of God as here and now as well as not yet, and offer hope to the oppressed and real freedom to all, no matter their physical, financial or emotional circumstance.  I would rather be silent than commit an assault on the Good News of Christ with clashing cymbals, flashing lights, and empty words.