A Writer’s Commitment to Real & Raw

Five and half years ago, I started this thing called a blog. I was going abroad for the first time. White girl living and studying in Africa for four months– oh, wouldn’t there be things to write about!

And there were.

19 years old and learning a great many things about myself and the world, I processed externally on this blog. Kept it very raw and very real. I had been journaling since age 12, and so that’s what I continued to do here, only publicly.

25 years old and I’m about to go abroad again. Only now, I find the raw and real to be generally unacceptable. The voices of many have informed how it offends, how unprofessional it can sound. If I want to become a good writer, they say, I need filter and focus…and maybe a little less frankness. They may be right.

3 years of devotion to Sacramento soil and putting my roots down here. Trying to live with and around the many peoples arriving from around the world and re-planting their roots too. Wouldn’t there be things to write about!

And there were.

There was indeed much to write about as cultural & religious-based truths met Jesus truths head on.  I tried to be focused and filtered, but sometimes it was hard to draw these clean-cut and confident conclusions when my religion and worldview was being unraveled. Luckily, that didn’t leave me so much lost as much as it escorted me to fearlessly face that which I could KNOW to be true. Truths based on Jesus– who He is, what He taught, who He calls His followers to be– proved themselves true.

 

I began to discover and then, due to my inborn wiring, challenge others. That hasn’t been so liked. To keep it honest, mostly by other Christians.

3 weeks from now I leave the country again. I realize the learning journey that began 5 years and some months ago never did stop. As it was then, so it is now.

I’ll write and aim for a focus, but what worth is a filter. The Church of my homeland has a lot to learn about Jesus, His truths and a lifestyle that wholly follows Him. And I’m sure the Church everywhere does– but I can only speak to that which I’ve lived within.

I fail! Raw and real here… I am just now getting to really know our Jesus. Man! He is something else. Radically humble, most clever peacemaker, patient teacher and the utmost epitome of inhuman love and justice. I certainly am not these things, but wow, I would really love to be.

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The privilege to embark on a new adventure has so kindly brought with it a whole realm of internal transitions as well. I’ve been fundraising to do my work and live my life for the past couple years and so with that has brought about an implied obligation to report on the lessons learned and lives changed, right? Not a terribly bad thing. I like to write. Though it hasn’t been intentional, the realization is that I’ve been accidentally putting myself in the spotlight by reporting “God’s work”. A valued, but brutally honest friend so kindly told me that my writing (about the work of the ministry, updates, etc.)  often sounded “self-enamored”. Whether I was conscious of it or not, he’s probably right.

This season has set me up to make one last push in the fundraising life– 6 more months and then let me tell ya, I look forward to being done. It’s not asking for money that irks me. I don’t mind that element. It was those moments when it was time to write to my financial partners and the debriefing of recent

events are actually discoveries of this paradoxical, counterintuitive kingdom of God that I kept finding were m.i.a. in conventional Christianity. Taught frequently, conceived occasionally, lived out rarely. I was discovering Jesus in places where He said I would find Him, but religion didn’t lead me to. How could I be real and raw in that? Partners want progress. Unlearning doesn’t look very progressive to most.

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I read an insta-blog this morning. You know, those written bits published as instagram posts because our generation doesn’t have the attention-span for blogs anymore? Writer is talking about flow and rhythm when he says there’s one word that really helps him keep calm through the chaos:

“SERVE.  Serve at a high level. This doesn’t mean forget about you and  your goals. This means to use your gifts to impact others. Focus and strengthen them not only for your story but others. In a nutshell, stop making it about you. That’s how you become a prism. A vessel, a messenger, a teacher, a catalyst. When you don’t make it about you, you panic less. You have more courage. You flow. #awriterslife.” – @theangrytherapist

I am extending this adventure of mine by becoming a sojourning learner for at least a solid four months. I so desperately want to write, but not present a conclusive lesson. I wish to listen and then relay stories, letting any readers gather their own reflective thoughts. I want to process aloud, but not sound self-righteous. I want to be free to be without a filter, real and raw, yet still trusting that my words are serving someone else. I want to flow, courageously, for the sake of both myself and others and the learning we might possibly attain together. This is what I want. I hope one day I’ll better learn what it is others want. I’ll be so happy to give it, so long as it doesn’t require anything fake or filtered.

Re-Rooting

The transplant was still fresh, only 5 months old, but Hamid and Asma had friends to introduce the new soil and slowly help them re-root in it. 

From the moment a family or individual must drop their lives and flee home, their identity sharply shifts from a rooted resident to a sojourning stranger. Many find refuge on an in-between soil and there they obtain the status of “refugee”. For many, that is when a waiting game begins. A grueling game, for there is no strategy for winning and no foreseeable end in site.

When resettled in a receiving country, the new soil is supposedly permanent. The uprooted plant is given a chance to place its roots back in the ground and slowly, steadily begin finding new roots.

This past Sunday, a small group of Sacramento locals prepared a “Friendsgiving” meal for their newly-arrived friends– a family of 7 from Afghanistan who were resettled in America this past July. My parents’ house served as a geographically convenient and hospitable location so everyone could gather and eat around family-size tables and feel the familial sentiments that only homes provide.

The small group had previously spent time with the family in varying capacities, most of those being assistance in getting to appointments and helping them with the bare basics required for survival in the first several months of resettlement– language learning, enrollment, applications for programs, etc.

Like dried out roots getting re-accustomed to the feeling of soil and potential nourishment, integrating in a new country is a long-haul process. Beyond filling concrete needs, emotional support is vital as well. People, no matter their country or culture, will always need friends. For three hours, this mixed group with mixed stories got to simply dine together, muse over pretty decorations or backyard plants, listen to each other play piano, shoot some basketball hoops, and observe each other’s social tendencies. And in joy, I got to simply absorb those bounties of friendship happening around me.

Friendship does not require common culture, common faith or even a common language, but it does require a little dedicated time to slow down and simply enjoy each other’s company. There’s respect in that, there’s longevity in that, and there must be patience and excited anticipation for growth in that.

The group leader said she saw break-through that afternoon. From what I’ve learned, a key part of

encouraging newly-arrived friends to put down new roots is to share life with them.

Show them your own soil. Tell the stories of how your roots started and grew there. Let those stories and your love itself prove how the soil can be good and hope-filled when you give it a chance, some time, and proper care.

Replenish, Not Replace

It had been a year and a half since our friendship began. We had our bumps in the road and for a while there, a cultural misunderstanding estranged me from their family; but we eventually reunited. I sat on the living room floor with my hamshira jan– “my dear sister”, as we call each other. We watched her first born show off with his sassy antics, almost always speaking only English , even with his mama. Anoosha has another son on the way and was still refurnishing the better apartment they’d recently moved into.

As we rambled on about our lives, the natural culturally appropriate questions arose, only we chose to answer with care and honesty and not just the formal response.

“How is your family?”

I spoke of my sisters, my brother, my parents and each of their contexts. She spoke of hers.
My family is within driving distance. Hers is across the world. As I listened to her acute awareness of the familial situations afar– some victories, some injustices, what she loved and

missed and what she wishes she could fix, I was reminded that family, no matter its state o

rgeographical location, is irreplaceable.

I love being called “sister”. Many whom I am not related to call me by this name. Many of those who do have been forcibly removed from most, if not all, of their family members. I eagerly soak up the honor and appreciation that comes with this title. Sometimes I feel I’ve earned it; other times, I wonder if I deserve such a name.

It is my heart’s deepest desire to provide a new family, nurture the new home of many who have been given no choice but to restart their lives here in America. Gratefully, I am joined with hundreds of others who wish to do the same. But I am humbly reminded that even when we openly share our lives and treat refugee families the way we would our own flesh and blood, we may be able to help fill a gap, but we can never fully replace what they have lost that is their own.

Communion

Written By: Emma McHenry

Home has its meaning in every culture and every people. It is a deeply intimate term, and one that often makes its way back to the earliest memories of childhood. Some days you may step through a familiar doorway into a house you know as home; other days you may think of a land or a culture or a face far away, and you will call them home. But walking into the warm light of apartment #46 on the second floor, I began to see this simple word in a very new light. That night I found a kind of home that went far beyond a house; I found communion.

Nader and Maryam were cordial hosts, to say the least. From the moment I stepped through that door, the family thought of nothing but making me feel welcome. All of them shook hands politely to honor my own culture, and the light in their eyes showed the joy that was theirs for having us all under their roof. They laid out food while we talked, they listened carefully as I slowly spoke about my family and life through translated words , and they cooked a magnificent, rich meal—fit for royalty. Cooking, cleaning, and making sure we were all given an abundance of delicious food was their way of showing the highest honor, and though we were yet strangers they treated us like old friends.  

That night I was left in awe. All I could think of was what a beautiful culture God had blessed these people with. What fear or prejudice has kept Christians from seeking out their new neighbors? What could possibly be at risk?

When engaging other cultures, American society tends to get hung up on the apprehension that they are going to offend someone or come off as a fool. Even though that was a possibility that night, there was a greater possibility of something far more significant: making a friend. And I am glad that was something I was willing to risk!

Even more so, I ran the risk of gaining a deeper view of this world. God has made every culture intrinsically unique, and as we engage with others from different nations, it makes us aware of our own perspectives. As the diversity and beauty of two different societies joined that night, I found a window into new viewpoints and insights into both their culture and mine.

The last thing “risked” as I entered into Nader and Maryam’s apartment was this: seeing them in God’s eyes–not as foreigners, refugees, Muslims or strangers, but as my beloved neighbors. God didn’t create culture to divide people, but to build strong and lasting relationships that embrace diversity and depend on love, surpassing any weak cultural links by doing so! And it was in this love that I found a new kind of home in apartment #46. The friendships that were formed, the communion that was shared; these were a marvelous reflection of the home and belonging that may be found in Jesus. And that is what I pray all of us may find in the presence of God, our true home.

“Other”ing

The first time I walked down the streets of the tenderloin in San Francisco, I felt significantly insecure. I was out of place and out of touch with the culture. I was supposedly there to serve and love, but only within the predefined contexts that the outreach trip had set in place. Walking down the street was a side escapade and I quickly concluded that the residents in this neighborhood and I shared no commonality. Out of underlying fear, my friendly, extroverted self bypassed them all. What if she didn’t speak English? What if they were high? What if he took my smile the wrong way? It was too risky. I was me and they were the “others”.

oth·er
ˈəT͟Hər/
verb
gerund or present participle: othering

1. view or treat (a person or group of people) as intrinsically different from and alien to oneself.(Oxford Dictionary)

“Other”ing is something we often mindlessly do to each other. If I consider another human being as “other” because they don’t speak the same, think the same, live the same, dress the same, etc., then, likewise, I am certainly an “other” to this person.

Humanity in general seems to have a difficult time intersecting with the “other”.
And when it comes to Muslim-Christian relations, sadly, the “other”ing has often become elevated in churches out of fear of compromising doctrine or endorsing another faith system. It’s a reasonable concern, but it’s not biblical.

The world’s best example of a peace-maker and  bridge-builder was one who made himself an “other” as he lived in a time of great religious, political and interethnic conflict.

Multiple faiths. Multiple ethnicities. Multiple friends.

If you read the Bible, it is often easy to bypass the significance of the parables Jesus told and the ways He treated certain holidays and customs and interacted with people and people groups. It’s easy to assume that the specifics of these parables and stories aren’t applicable to our modern age and culture (e.g.,  the healing of the paralytic, the parables of the Good Samaritan and the repentant tax-collector, Jesus’ attitudes toward the Sabbath, his encounter with religious experts, his actions in the temple…). But were Jesus’ teaching and example limited to the age and place He lived? If no, then we must ask ourselves: who and what are these words and deeds of Jesus in relation to our lives and society today?

There were plenty of “others” then and there are plenty of “others” now. One of the “others”, I think, is our Middle-eastern Muslim community. In Sacramento, many are collaborating to do them justice. Organizations and county offices are being sure they are receiving all their benefits such as EBT cards, Social Security, ESL, and medical coverage. We have supported the establishment of their halal markets and necessary vendors. We have spoken out against segregation and unfair treatment by leasing managers, security services in department stores, and public services. That is all well, good and needed. But what if we are perpetuating them being an “other” as we go about creating space for them to naturally live amongst themselves within “our city” as we continue in our regular day to day life? What if, beyond conquering their cultural and practical needs, we chose to learn more about what it means to become engaged, loving neighbors to these who are the supposed “others?”  

When change occurs, we have two methods of handling it: keeping it at bay OR embracing it and adapting.  We must acknowledge how we are often afraid to invite “others” into our lives or be guests of them. Acknowledge the fear, the awkwardness, the discomfort or stigmas— whatever it is you feel. It’s there. It’s real. That’s alright. What you do with it will determine whether the “othering” boundaries remain firmly in place or start to come down naturally from connection over commonality.

The Stranger Neighbor

“ ‘There are no strangers in this state, and that’s its genius’, he said in a quiet, engaging drawl. ‘People smile. You assume people have a common interest.’ ” In March 1980, National Geographic Magazine published an article called Home to North Carolina. This was North Carolina University president’s response when asked about the state’s “rare sense of community”.

No strangers. Common interest acknowledged. What if that was the life-giving air of Sacramento breathed by refugees who settle here?

Is This You?

A Caucasian, American woman was driving home from work one late afternoon when she blew a tire on the freeway and barely made it to the off ramp to pull over. With a dead phone battery, she was stranded. A Hispanic woman drove by on the off ramp; her mother’s heart felt sorry for the lady, but being fearful of the possible cultural stigmas, continued driving. A Caucasian pastor saw her desperation as he exited, but since he was running late for an important meeting, also chose to drive on. An Afghan man and devout Muslim, respected in his community, saw the woman as he drove by and had compassion. He pulled over and offered his help. Lending the lady his phone, they discovered the tow truck driver would not arrive for 2 hours. Knowing well the risk to his reputation if he was seen alone with a woman, he offered to drive her to a local coffee shop, buy her a drink and wait with her in comfort until assistance could arrive.
Which of these do you think was a neighbor to the woman in distress?

“One of my team-mates was taking a family portrait for a Syrian family in Sweden. During our time in Sweden we prayed for this family, that they would find a permanent place to live, and the very next day they got an apartment in Stockholm! They told us that our God answers prayers, and that all their friends living nearby wanted prayer that they could find homes too!” – Emma McHenry, photojournalist with YWAM, seeing the realities of displaced peoples all over the world.

Some of you may read this and recognize similarities to Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan. Followers of Jesus are told to love God and love their neighbor.

“Who is my neighbor?” was the question asked of Jesus that prompted his parable.
As he often did, Jesus answered a question with a question, turning the tables on his question asker to say, in effect, “Don’t try to justify yourself by who or who not is your neighbor. Rather, you go and be a neighbor to the stranger—the one who you doesn’t see eye to eye with you politically or religiously.” Today, Jesus calls us anew to be that same person, to be that neighbor.

 

Who Are “They”?

Evelyn Reisacher writes in her article  A Moratorium on Hospitality?:

 “Christians and Muslims may be living next to each other, but that does not mean they deeply know each other.”

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A vital part of becoming a neighbor is Bridge-building. Bridge-building has a process. First comes knowledge. When the Easterner and Westerner recognize their different outlooks on hospitality, and the Muslim and Christian allow for their differing views on faith, they are collecting bricks and tools for the building project. Knowledge must be followed by action. When they spend time together in each other’s homes or in conversation, they are using their tools to lay down these bricks and begin to build a bridge.

Practically speaking, the gaps are not as wide as you may think. Relationship is not overly difficult to begin and then continue. The seemingly large walls are far weaker and easier to tear down than you anticipate. That is why Raft Amad exists- to pragmatically and relationally escort you toward a simple way of DEEPLY loving the stranger and TRULY knowing your neighbor.

The Racism Rhythm

The amount of unfair treatment that happens on America soil is immeasurable, even in the most liberal and diverse cities. Though I have personally never been displaced, persecuted for my ethnicity or religion, or truly impoverished, I thought I knew what marginalization felt like by way of other avenues. My experiences may count as a mere thread of the ugly tapestry called discrimination.

I took a dear friend of mine, whom we will call Ameena, to morning coffee and to enjoy the long delayed rays of sunshine last Friday. We were long overdue for some one-on-one fellowship. Ameena is about the age of my own mom and is, like Mom, a mother of four. We met through my friendship with her outgoing,  youngest daughter right here in our apartment complex. We are neighbors. Ameena is an educated, swift, loving, resilient woman. She sought asylum here in America with her two daughters when conditions back home in Afghanistan became too dangerous to return to. Here she remained with no governmental support and, for a long time, no ability to apply for local identification, formal work, a driving permit, nothing. She managed life with her daughters until she was granted asylum and now works with an attorney to be reunited her husband and two sons who remain abroad. I knew she had endured much and was working hard for her rights to be respected in the community and at her on-call job as a translator. Nothing was being handed to her on a silver platter or any platter for that matter.

It hit me the other day that though I’ve heard many a story from my Muslim refugee friends about their lives since they’ve arrived here, there will never reach a point where it is time to stop asking for their stories. No, I will likely never be able to personally relate to what they’ve been through and are going through. Their stories from back home can be hard on the open ears and even more painful to the soft heart. Many of our refugee neighbors are willing to share their stories from a distant country, but not all are eagerly talking about the injustices facing them right here.

As Ameena and I talked, I told her that instead of speculating and speaking on behalf of much of the Afghan community in Sacramento, I wanted to hear from a first person perspective. I asked her what it was like to be in her skin, what trials and joys she experienced in this city, what it felt like to identify as a Muslim or an Afghan or both. She recounted many good experiences and expressed gratitude for several benefits of living in Sacramento, but it was the not-so-few and far between stories of racism that shocked me and hopefully shock you.

These stories will be  exposed in three parts in coming weeks.
Stay connected.
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We will look at how racism sparks negative reactions– real life stories about hate, threats, & ignorance. And we will hear real stories about how it can spur on positive establishments like being educated in the matter, standing  in genuine solidarity and experiencing trusting community.
** Stories will specifically reference Muslim immigrant racism, but concepts will apply to and regard all forms of racism occurring across the country.

“From this moment on, it’s going to be America First.
Every decision on trade, on taxes, on immigration, on foreign affairs, will be made to benefit American workers and American families.”

Who are the ones regarded as “American” here?

Choose a Route
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Whether you look upon the new presidency with support or disdain, there is a choice to be made.
Do you exist and live for the benefit of yourself? Timeless teachers, prophets, geniuses, social advocates, martyrs, neurological scientists and figures of all kind teach time and time again that selflessness is the essence of joy and putting self first is the quickest path to your own mental and emotional ruin.

Beside considering the consequences of your choices for our own sake, perhaps we also ought to consider Jesus’ verdict on the matter. He said that our treatment of the widow, the orphan, the shelterless or the immigrant parallels our treatment of Him. What we do for them, we do for Him. When we neglect them, mistreat them, and ridicule them, we neglect Jesus, mistreat Jesus, and ridicule Jesus. (Matt. 25:27-46)

These stories are not about causing permanent division. But on some matters, knowing both perspectives, choosing a side and following it with utter conviction is the first step of action. Concern yourself with your own thoughts, beliefs and measures of action first.
Out of love, hear stories. Out of love, know the facts. Out of love, model your convictions.
Truth speaks for itself.

A Year to Be Welcomed

As refugees have poured into United States by the thousands and into Sacramento by the hundreds each month, anyone with a voice of advocacy for the immigrant or refugee has begun to speak up and raise their voices, almost in a demanding manner: “Welcome them! Welcome them!”. Politically and sociologically, this could mean one thing, but “Welcome the stranger/sojourner” should mean something far beyond that for the follower of the Jesus.

“Welcome the stranger”, we’ve been saying repetitively for the past few years. And indeed we should and will continue to. But what if first the stranger welcomes us? What then?

Kay and Kevin and their three girls were anticipating delivering a Christmas tree and bringing Christmas gifts to a newly arrived refugee family coming from Turkey. The family already had a tree, but was so excited for the opportunity to host guests, that the two families came together anyway. Though the language barrier was evident, the families enjoyed tea and fruit together and asked simple questions of each other. Soon enough, the girls became friends with the family’s daughter and went off to play as Ramin, the host father, immediately asked Kay and Kevin if he could tell them his story with the help of a translating friend. Following Ramin’s heart-felt story of recovery from addiction and then journey to America, he and his wife Elika led a time of singing in their native tongue and playing guitar. Ramin and his son shared their wonderful skills of guitar playing with their new friends as if they had known each other for years. Kay and Kevin expressed their joy and gratitude with words and smiles and told Ramin and Elika how they will never forget this night. It was evident that they were so welcomed in the newer family’s home and that a very mutual blessing was taking place. Their fellowship lasted several hours as they eventually ate a meal together. Upon departure, Kay and Kevin invited Elika and Ramin’s family over to their home the following week. They wholeheartedly accepted.

In Western society, we have a tendency to assume the role of giver. When generosity is a factor, we would generally wish to be on the giving side rather than the receiving side, if given a choice in the matter. Sometimes there is even a sense of shame in receiving the generosity of others.

As a caseworker, transportation assistant, neighbor or just a friend, I’ve been in and out of the homes of local refugees, particularly Afghan refugees, for more than 2 years now and if there is one word that best describes their culture, it is HOSPITALITY.  Whether they arrived on American soil within the past 4 days or established themselves here 10 years ago, you can always anticipate being treated as an honored guest when entering the home of an Afghan.

 

This Christmas, Raft Amad and StudentReach asked American families to do more than just deliver a Christmas tree to some refugee families. Instead of the role of Santa Claus, with a jolly posture of giving and going, we asked people if they’d presume the role of recipient, preparing to be welcomed by the family and visit for a while. As we watched these fellowships take place, story after story came back to us about how easy of a connection was made and the gift it was to the American family to be so warmly welcomed in by their refugee neighbors. Seems reversed doesn’t it? Yet this is so very natural.

As we step into 2017, I want to challenge myself and challenge YOU to be willing to be welcomed first. Whether you are the one to initiate or not, regardless of your comparative assets, no matter whose home you are in, will you receive the blessing of hospitality and welcome from your refugee neighbor?
“Welcome! Make yourself at home in this new country” is the unspoken message you send by gratefully receiving their natural gift of hospitality to you. To receive is the best gift you can give anyway.

 

One Step, Three Steps

Written by: Majid Keshavarz

The family of nine from Afghanistan came as refugees to Sacramento. Three months ago they arrived and we had the privilege of being hosted by them on a Saturday evening.

” You are so welcome. Please make yourself at home,” Massoud said, as the father of the home.
His youngest kid, Ali, welcomed us by the warm smile in his eyes. The family honoured us by standing when we got into their apartment. They offered the couches to us and some of the family sat on the floor; that was their way to pay respect to their honoured guests.

They were so ready to create a climate of understanding and tolerance. This was a kind of tolerance that wasn’t indifferent. Afghan, American, Iranian, Muslim and Christian——we were a diverse group, but this was a climate that was impartial, refusing to accept bigotry and racism.

Seven kids from age 3 to 18 enjoyed carving pumpkins. Some adults chattered over tea. Everyone ate a hearty and delicious meal together.
Having a sense of humour was a gateway to converse. The joy of the interacting could be heard by the sound of laughing. ” We haven’t had such a joyful time and uplifting moments since our arrival in America”, Masoud said.

The family was so focused on moving forward and seizing every opportunity they could to be more engaged with this society. This fellowship was kind of a way for them to spare themselves from some agonizing pains of their move to America. The interaction was a unique experience. In a way, the newly arrived was helping the established folks to be initiated into the hospitality of the Middle Eastern culture, right here on American soil. It was proof that families don’t have borders and loving one another could embrace diversity.

“Fellowship is like a bridge. It will provide a unique opportunity to practice the love for one another. If the other people take one step to cross the bridge, I will take three steps to get closer to them. I am so open to embracing the other side and ready to rejoice with them in the time of joy and  have sympathy in the time of suffering ” Masoud said.

Easement

I live and breathe my current life around a variation of humans whose stories differ greatly. I grew up, spending high school and college, primarily in white, Christian, suburban life.
This present season of my young adult life, I work and live in a workplace and neighborhood that lets me meet and get to know fantastic people from other lifestyles, other religions, other parts of the world. Some of them have become dear, dear friends.

A season of external diversity, these past two years, has also ushered in some intern diversity–by that, I mean newfound discomforts stemming from challenged perspectives and discovery of frustrating health problems. Completely unrelated in their aligned timing, I often find myself struggling as I wonder why these two walk together.

—-Joy & Pain.  —-Desired learning & provoked research.
—-Stories of growth & reports of failure.  —-Dreams come true & fears coming to past.

Why must they hold hands?

As I wrestle with thoughts and fears, those at my side ask me to look beyond myself.

Those dear, dear friends of mine, and so many more, face similar struggles as they have asked their own “why’s”. Coming from different homes, sacrificing different things, leaving different family members, statuses, communities, jobs, or friends, finding new versions of all this here in this place I call home.
Their beauty and sorrow always walk hand in hand. I’m not alone. 

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I learned a new word the other day. Amidst all that life brings, we all seek it:

EASEMENT // “The state or feeling of comfort or peace”

It seems that many times we deem it necessary to go to great lengths or obtain huge achievements to find such a peace.

A good friend works directly with newly-arriving refugee families. He was telling me the other day of a small blessing. Being out at an appointment with a
refugee family through the lunch hour, he found himself rather hungry, but unable to go shopping. A simple prayer to God asked for no more than a banana to tide him over. Less than a minute later, the father of the family  my friend was helping appeared with a banana and offered it to him. After some refusal and reasoning, he graciously accepted this answer to his silent request. Later, as we talked, he found himself so satisfied and humbled by this gift and showcase that the Lord is near.

This friend of mine is here with his family, having arrived to the United States only ten months ago. He could easily be pleading for greater things, huge fixes to significant struggles, or life-changing provisions. Instead he has kept his faith and trust simple. Many days it seems comfort and peace– easement– are his.

I pondered to myself: how many of us who have the option to struggle and seek more, are first willing to silently ask for the banana?
Perhaps easement more often comes through simple faiths, small asks and ceasing to wrestle so hard. 

 

 

Hearing Their Narrative

With every face you see, hand you shake or voice you hear comes a story.

I consider myself sort of spoiled in the story-receiving world. I hear about so many tragedies and victories, faiths and follies, cultures and worldviews.

Everyone has a story– it’s their life and the ongoing journey they must be on.
Upon swapping stories with so many people of all ages, faiths, and cultures, I’ve realized that the specific stories we choose to speak aloud are exactly what define the ongoing narrative we tell about our own lives. Do I continuously share stories of pain, hope, wondering, learning moments? You can learn a lot about someone’s life and perspective on the world simply through listening well to their ongoing narrative.

Let me tell you a few stories I hear.

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Middle-school girl friends– one from Iraq and the other from Afghanistan– have become afternoon hang out buddies and friends of mine. I recently invited them into a card-making session with me, asking for their artistic assistance in my efforts. They showed up at my door on a Thursday afternoon, informing me that they were ready. Upon coming in and settling down to a table around some iced tea and pistachios, they each began to switch off telling me stories of family members they had tragically lost in their home country years ago and how they perceived those happenings as young children. I listened. We shifted from the murder of an uncle to two older cousins committing suicide. They were treating the stories as light, factual statements. My question to them was. “Do you think its okay to commit suicide?”. “No!”, they responded. “Why not?”, I inquired. “Because we are all on a journey that we must live out.” Thus says a 12 year old. Stories continued and eventually they asked out loud, “Why are we talking about these sad things?”. I shrugged my shoulders to give them the space to answer their own question…and they did. “I guess everyone just needs to talk out loud about these things some times and be listened to.” Smart girls. 

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A single Afghan gentleman whom I met through World Relief approximately one year ago has a profile picture on his messaging account that says “Worship the Creator, not the Creation.” This photo sparked a conversation between us that allowed for spontaneous contact until finally we got to invite him to a June fellowship dinner held in my apartment. The young man graciously bent against the Afghani way of being treated as a guest and brought some food and donated a sufra (an eating mat for the floor) to my household items. He lives with a few other Afghan Muslim men, but expresses a desire to have intentional conversation with those of other cultures and faiths than just his own. His request after the iftar dinner was that I send him a digital picture of our group so he could send it to his family back in Afghanistan. I later inquired how his family responded. He told me how happy they were to see him looking so at ease and content. He also told me he felt like he was at  home at our iftar fellowship dinner that night. 

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A story recently shared with me all the way from Southeast Asia: A Muslim man who has come to faith in Jesus told a friend of mine, “There is a saying that during Ramadan demons are chained, the door to hell is closed and the door to heaven opened.” Then he said, “So what about the other 11 months? Ah, that is what Jesus means to me. For with Jesus all through the year the demons are bound, the door to heaven is opened and the door to hell closed.” 

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These are just a couple. Are you listening to the narratives of people God has placed in your life? Are you wondering about their relationship with the God of the universe or trying to better understand how they see the world you both live in?

How enriching it truly could be if we paused to listen to the stories being told (or wanting to be told) and then subsequently let our hearts, minds and discerning spirits interpret the narrative flowing out of each human we know–each human that God created and loves so, so deeply.

Stories, snacks & making cards.

Enjoying local icecream parlours

Little Roham eats at the sufra

Our First Fellowship Dinner

Breakfast date before the beginning of Ramdan

In a Spirit of Peace

It was yet another day in apartment land. Post-school hours and mild weather brings every last kid out into the open to enjoy their roller blades, watching their siblings and kicking around soccer balls. By now, my fender-bent gray Mazda has been established in the minds of my young friends, so they can easily identify my pulling into the complex. I may have been parked 5 seconds before I was overwhelmed with greetings.

I always find my spirit and mind pretty tired by the 5 o’clock hour, but the presence of the kids seem to rejuvenate me. We let my car doors hang open, my trunk serving as a sitting and talking space.

There’s one young guy, we’ll call him Buddy, who seems to have a playful yet rough personality and not the best grasp on his anger and his tongue. He spotted by pink volleyball and asked to play with it.
“Sorry, it’s flat”, I said. “I have a pump!”, he blurted and ran to grab it so he could fix my problem.
My payment for this service? 10 minutes of volleyball with the boys in the lot.

I went in, but found myself back outside in a flash as my dog needed to be walked, once again. My friend Dida came running up to me, advocating for another young friend, Zella.

“Emily! Emily! Can you help us? Zella is upset because Buddy said mean things to her, about her family.”
“What do you want me to do?”, I inquired.
“I don’t know; go talk to him or something. Will you solve the problem?”

Life around my refugee neighbors has its unique moments, but you might be surprised to hear that most occurrences, skirmishes, rejoicing, or pain is close to and familiar to that which penetrates everyone’s life– the mundane day to day events.

I wasn’t sure what they expected of me, but I meandered in their direction. Buddy ended up letting me talk to him and agreed he should say sorry to Zella. We walked over to Zella together and forgiveness was humbly exchanged. It was the oddest of moments as Zella’s parents were standing right there and I was being asked to orchestrate the peace. My conversation to follow was sweet. It was good to finally meet the Iraqi parents of my young lady friend as they sincerely thanked me for handling the situation and asked about my life.

Jesus often found Himself handling disputes. People knew Him as wise, knowledgeable, bold, and peaceful. Because of this, they sought Him out when issues arose.

Pursuing a spirit of peace on a daily basis looks something being neutral in a situation where your Afghan friend is explaining her struggles at home to you and you choose not to take sides. It looks like suggesting to my middle-school friends that we say encouraging words to each other instead of insults. It looks like simply maintaining patience and gentleness when irritation is knocking at the door. It looks like asking what positives exist in someone’s life when they’ve expressed hopelessness.

And somehow, someway this speaks to others that at your core, you are a peace-maker.

Yet again was I invited into a situation when I wasn’t seeking integration.
Blessed to be living amongst and alongside this community. Thankful that a spirit of peace goes before me.

Through the Eyes of a Kid.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It is so easy to make friends with kids.

One day I returned from a bridal shower and without changing out of my nicer clothes, took a walk with my  6-pound dog named Mia. No matter the age of the kid, this tiny dog seems to captivate the eyes and hands of almost every kid in the apartment complex- girls and boys alike. As I headed back to my apartment after the walk, each eye that spotted the puppy drew right toward her.

“It’s Mia! Awww, hi Mia!” ….. [stroke, pet, drool,]… “Oh, hi Amelia!”
Though I must be at least twenty times taller than this cute creature, I tend to be the second one noticed. It’s alright; I’m the one who ends up in conversation.

That particular day, the boys were playing soccer (better known as futbol) in the alley way. An abandoned roller blade boot and razor scooter serving as one set of goal posts and the red painted curb serving as the other. Mia eventually went back in the apartment and a few of my young girl friends helped me make some fresh popcorn. We sat on the curb, stuffed our faces, I listened to the latest school drama and we watched the boys whip around with their fresh futbol skills. I wanted to play, but needed an opportunity to prove myself. The ball rolled through one goal and straight to my toes. Now was my chance. I hopped up, scooped up the ball and drop kicked it back into play.

“Whooaaaaaa”…and then a few glances back in my direction, as if the boys didn’t know girls could kick a futbol correctly. I eventually invited myself into the game. We formed teams and played to 5 goals. I may or not have shown off my skills.  That day the boys learned my name and haven’t forgotten it since.
Futbol and food makes friends and the acceptance I received from those kids that day filled my heart right up.

Most of the kids that hang outside in my apartment complex are the children of refugee or immigrant parents. Most of their families have come from Iraq, Afghanistan, or Mexico.

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This past week had been a rough one and not just for me. As if trying to process two deaths in my circle of relationships wasn’t enough, I was also battling some minor seizure activity that flares up from time to time. Sometimes it takes me a while to regain all my speaking and listening abilities after an episode. I had just experienced some activity but let myself out for an evening walk with Mia. Some of my favorite girlies in the complex found Mia (and me) as we walked. I wasn’t feeling too great, so I dismissed us, promising to loop back around on our way in.

My friend, Dida, found me again. She had been having a hard time (6th grade and refugee life isn’t all sunshine and butterflies, you see) and needed to enter into a venting session. I tried to explain to her why I was struggling in my communication and listened to the best of my ability as we sat on the curb and talked a bit through her latest struggles. I didn’t know how much my explanation of seizures had really made sense to her or how helpful my words or advice about life really were.

Next week came around and I saw the girls again. Dida came up to me, reunited with her best friend in the complex, and they both gave me hugs. She asked me how I was doing and if my brain was okay by now.
Sweet girl. She had remembered.

Dida and her family are from Iraq. Her Dad is living in Arizona and working a job there, visiting the family only once every couple months, according to her. Her family of 7 is living in a two bedroom apartment. I don’t write this to provoke pity. But seriously, take a glance. Refugee life and youth life mixed? It’s not easy.

Tony started with a balancing act…

…I one-upped him..

…but little Jay whooped us all!

Some of my favorite moments in the week come from 5-15 minute moments spent with the kids. It’s times like these–stealing their soccer ball, greeting them by their names and asking them about their day or seeing them put a water bottle on their head and challenging them to a more impressive balancing job– that allow me to be a very real human who isn’t too busy to stop and have a little fun or listen to whatever they deem most important in the moment.

In the midst of a week filled with pain, struggles and not enough energy or time to feel very capable of hardly anything, what I could do was be present with my neighbors.

The kids in my complex are some of the best at paving a way for neighborly relationships.

Community in Practice

It was Saturday afternoon. My apartment had been given the royal treatment. Candles were burning to create the aura I desired, though I knew that appetite-stirring aromas would soon dominate the room as valued guests found themselves in my home, bearing dinner dishes that properly represented their country of origin.
It is an honor to open up my apartment and my arms.

There are a handful of varying activities or places that bring me sweet joy. Those include everything from hiking mountains to attain glorious views to tasting the intricate flavors in a vast array of coffee beans. But no matter the experience, it is almost always enjoyed more when shared with a friend.

On a broad scale, there are few things I enjoy more in life than COMMUNITY.

Here is a perfect representation of just that!

This past Saturday night, I had the privilege of co-hosting a group of Intervarsity college students who opted to spend their weekend away from Sonoma State and in Sacramento. They wanted to try out the flavors of our domain here , particularly the ever-growing refugee community.

Food + Folks = Fellowship

So we collaborated…my refugee friends and I. Sometimes I forget how recent their transition to the states took place because it feels like we’ve been friends for years.  Fatemeh, Rustam and their son Arsalan are from Afghanistan. Bahram, Arezoo and their son David are from Iran.

I’ll admit.. collaboration was a stretch. It’s not within the cultural/societal norms in Afghanistan nor Iran to ask a friend to help you host other guests in your own home. You are either a guest or a host and culturally-speaking, you would never ask a guest to share in the work load. But I was brave enough to ask and they were brave enough to give it a shot. Together, we all understood our unified purpose of representing our city and community to the students through an enthusiastic presence and some authentic food!

Learning from each other.

The evening was lovely. There were 14 of us in total, gathering around a suffra (An Afghan-style mat for eating on) on my living room floor, dishing out delicious dinner onto each other’s plates with little to no self-control. We each told where we were born, our names, and if we could travel anywhere in the world where we would go. I loved the diversity, but I particularly loved the bravery of my sweet friend, Dida. She is 12 years old and her family is from Iraq. We made friends here in my apartment complex a few weeks back. She heard about my dinner and wanted to come; I invited her and so she came! Sweet girl was the only one her age in the room and while Fatemeh and Arezoo could converse in their mutual language of Farsi (Dari in Afghanistan), Dida could only participate in English. She was ecstatic to share with the group where she would love to travel when she is older.

I was especially proud of the ladies.
Arezoo and Fatemeh made such a grand effort to engage the women students, even while they are still improving their own knowledge of the English language.
The men engaged swiftly as well, swapping stories of their favorites philosophers and theological teachers.

Differing culture, different faiths, differing paradigms, philosophies, and perspectives.
Isn’t this what the Honorable Jesus did while He dwelled on earth?

I had many reasons this night to be proud of the community I am surrounded by. We were accomplishing exactly what I know I’m commissioned by God to do here… connection, stories, community.
We were creating Raft Amad.

What we pursue.

Arezoo & Bahram enjoying post dinner snacks

Fatemeh & me sipping our tea.

Rustam & Intervarsity leader, Troy

The boys unite!

 

 

Raft-Amad

There is something sweet that we often overlook within a tight-knit family, and that is the way that they commune under one roof and freely come and go from their fortress, their place of refuge. This is particularly seen when adult children live with their parents or when teenagers become licensed to drive.
There is an unspoken permission to come and go as they please.

In Middle-Eastern culture, this freedom to come and go oh so regularly spreads beyond the family and into dear friendships. In Afghan culture, it has a specific name– RAFT-AMAD. If you and I have Raft-Amad, then I will come to your home and expect that you come visit my digs as well. We are participating in mutual friendship, hosting each other, welcome each other into our lives and homes.

It’s the going and the coming. It’s personal relationship.

“I wish your family and I can have this Raft-Amad”, I said recently to some friends of mine.
“Yes, we will keep the raft amad”, they said, blessing me in the process.

They are a family of three from Afghanistan: two well-educated parents and their sweet 3 year old boy. I’m still getting to know their story, but the bits and pieces I’ve heard so far have been amazing. We enjoy swapping information about American and Afghan ways and increasing our cultural-intelligence on both ends. This is the way we all grow relationships, build trust and invest in people, is it not? I love to intentionally invest into my Afghan and Arab brothers and sisters here in Sacramento because by doing so, I learn so much about them but also about myself and my own culture.

Jesus said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.”
“Who is my neighbor?”, asked an inquisitive religious leader of Jesus’ day.
The Good Samaritan. You know the story. There was no hero or “better” man. There was a random act of kindness that completely sidestepped a huge cultural gap. There was a neighbor. Apparently loving your neighbor doesn’t actually look like tolerance or small favors, but investments that, like any other relationship, come with vulnerability and risk.

What are the chances you have opportunities for a going and coming sort of relationship with a neighbor of yours (And who is your neighbor, again?) and you’re missing out on its benefits?

If you’re a visually-oriented human being, growing Raft-Amad looks like this:

Sharing personal life after it’s clearly been a long day.

Sharing Personal relationship with the whole family.

Sharing Personal Life by intentionally communing

Sharing Personal Life over a lovingly-prepared meal.