AfricanKelli

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I recently completed a prayer shawl for a friend, much of which I did seated in a blue rocking chair, staring at the Wind River Mountains, enjoying a giant fluffy dog at my feet. I selected the yarn because of the variegated purples — one of my favorite shades, and because it is exceptionally soft.

The trinity stitch was the perfect fit too; three knit, three purl, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

In prayer for the recipient while knitting, I was reminded of the blessings of good health. It is one of life’s mysteries that we are able to completely overlook all that is wonderful and gracious until it suddenly slips away. Today, may I be more mindful of the plentitude of goodness in my life and remember to be even more thankful.

Psalm 143 says this so much better than I ever could.

~K

I can imagine hikers in the Rockies years ago, love sick and without Facebook/Twitter/Blogs/Cell phones/Texts to embarrass themselves with emotion. Instead, trees and bark met the need.

There are fields of Aspens on the San Francisco Peaks in Flagstaff that are equally marked by passersby. Story goes, Spanish shepherds marked the trees as they watched the clouds and time float by. I can imagine them dreaming of their gorgeous Penelopes left behind, carving their initials and hope into trunks, wishing for a bridge over the sea between to bring lovers back together.

Today I attended Grant UMC in Denver — a reconcilation congregation with some of the most welcoming folks I’ve ever met. From heavy, old pews lined with maroon velvet, we sang and worshipped with “peace,” “love” and “anyone and everyone” banners hanging near centuries old stained glass. There is nothing more loving, or Christ-like, than such acceptance and compassion. I am honored I stumbled upon the church during a walk yesteday and managed to find my way back today.

Love, like truth, always wins.

~K

Inspiration — from in spirit — from the latin root of being in breath — is fascinating.  Breathing the same air as those who have come before gives me so much to consider. Lately I’ve been inspired by tales of extradordinary faith, such as that of Immaculee Iibagiza. Her story of surviving Rwanda and of connecting with God during the worst time life could possible hand you, is, not coincidentally, breathtaking.

My heartache of late has fueled much time praying, sitting alone in churches, writing, meditating and trying to find God’s voice.  I’m exhausted.  Plus, I’m a bit of a spiritual pariah. Most of my friends hear about my time talking with God and think I’ve got soft in the head. Immaculee lived with seven other women in closet-sized bathroom for months. I’ve got days in pain of an entirely lesser degree, with food, without companions also suffering, and I am wiped out. I have no idea how she did it.

The only thing I do have in common with this amazing woman is our shared belief. I would have to hope if ever put in a similarly trying situation where I was fighting for simple survival, I’d be on my knees reaching out in prayer. This seems to be the only thing I know how to do. I vividly remember praying for my family when I went to live in Mexico at age 14. I would find quiet cathedrals to sit in to speak with God, asking for the homesickness to fall away. Quickly enough, it did. I sat in the Catholic church in Flagstaff begging God to keep a friend safe during a breast cancer scare in college. A blue-eyed, blond angel painted near the ceiling seemed to watch over me and sure enough, my similarly beautiful blond friend was deemed healthy soon enough.  I cried through my prayers on the way to Cameroon, sobbing so much I infuriated those sitting next to me on the long flight. I found a huge church in Yaounde, with a black and white mosaic Jesus behind the altar, staring at the array of tile as I  prayed to end the homesickness; instead God brought me home.

I prayed and visited churches and friends for many months after the last time I said goodbye to a loved one. I felt cracked, but God didn’t accept my Humpty Dumpty ways. He glued me back together by keeping my friends and family close by, and reminding me that life without golf really wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it’s much better.

See? My woes by comparison are so minuscule, it’s shameful. I should say I have nothing in common with this incredible woman and I should say so with an attitude of thanks. Her life has been so miserably difficult. Her story has made me appreciate the simple blessings in life — like my family — so much more.

We are like so many other American WASPY families in that most of our traditions have fallen away with the generations. We maintain a few cultural things here and there, but for the most part our family is very much apple pie. I was lamenting to a girlfriend the other day that I so wish we had some Irish or English customs so I’d know how to pass them on to my own children. Later, without knowing why I was doing so, I took her into my closet and opened my hope chest to show her the collection of handmade quilts and wall hangings my mother has made me over the years.

She stepped back, looked me in the eye and smiled.

“Kelli, these are your traditions. Here are your customs,” she said, running her hand over one of my most cherished possessions — fabrics selected, cut and sewn together with unconditional love.

She’s right. My mom’s love for art is our tradition. Her generosity in gifting me  the luxurious new sewing machine is nothing in comparison to her generosity of spirit. My mother loves me with such a fierce force, it is embarrassing how at times I’ve let myself forget. She sent the machine and has spent so many hours coaxing me through bobbin winding and stomach unwinding. I am exceptionally blessed to have my parents. I’ll never understand why I’ve been so lucky to have this family, but I hope another day never passes without recognizing what a gift they are.

Thank you Immaculee. In many ways, your story has reminded me how my family and spirit are one.

~K

There was a time when I wrote about praying for God to teach me to be patient. Someone left a comment  saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” I can safely say several years and a good dose of mid-twenties-maturity later, I am a considerably patient person. I still drive too fast. I still burn with anger when I see someone hurting an animal or a child. I stand over the rows at the community garden, looking at the tiny buds and think “Grow already!” But I now realize very little in life happens on any sort of controllable schedule. It just happens. And learning to be patient is critical for surviving the realization that your naivete and innocence will carry you only so far.

This week I was working with an Iraqi refugee family in their apartment in central Phoenix. The mother of four desperately described how she’d lived in Syria for two years in a camp after escaping Basra with her children. Her husband, Egyptian by birth, couldn’t join them at the camp and isn’t eligible for resettlement at this time. Paperwork keeps them apart, prevents him from watching as his four young children adapt to this new life, learn a new language, cry for their home. She’s been without him for years, raising these children, trying to keep her heritage and their family together as best as she can.

I listened to her describe how much she missed him, how he knew how to handle the children, how she just wanted her children to be safe in America and that they must grow up to become doctors and engineers. These are professions always in need. These are jobs that will provide for their family. These are lives that will be much more secure than those they fled.

By the end of the conversation, she told me she’d return to Iraq with her boys if her husband isn’t able to find a way to join them. She simply cannot live without him, even if it means returning to the chaos. Crossing every professional boundary, I held her, with tears running down her cheeks. I told her I’d pray for her family. I’d do everything I could to help. She kept whispering, “Inshallah. Inshallah.” If God wills it to be.

One of my vocab words this week is eleemosynary, which means relating to charity. The root comes from eleos — or pity. The wordsmiths got this one wrong. Charity isn’t about pity or sorrow. It is about the joy of helping those in need and making both lives a bit better in the process. There need not be pity in charity, but there must be kindness, hope and love.  I most certainly do not pity this family. Instead, I am quite hopeful the will once again be whole and be so here, in the relative security of America.

Inshallah.

~K

Matt and Stephanie are bringing Noah and Ezra home today. What joy and relief to have their two little boys home after waiting for their adoptions for so long! Stephanie and I have become blog friends during the last couple of years. When she sent me a photo of their nursery, I knew I had to dig into the African fabric stash to create something for the twins.  A cheetah baby caddy seems just right.

Also, it seems right to celebrate life today in contrast to yesterday’s dreary post. I should know better than to write when I’m feeling such gloom. It doesn’t really do me any good and it certainly doesn’t help to sound the alarm when I always feel better in the morning. One of the many kind responses included this insight and this great verse:

“Always be joyful. Pray continually, and give thanks whatever happens. That is what God wants for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, NCV)

~K

So, the thing about God is that He isn’t necessarily fair. A friend of our family died in an odd accident a little over a month ago. She was beautiful, young, newly married and her death makes me want to go to the top of Camelback Mountain and scream at the top of my lungs and pull at my hair.  My mom isn’t taking it much better. We’ve cried together several times over the phone, which really sucks with two states in between.

She says she’s angry with God. As much as I’m trying otherwise, I feel the same. Initially, I tried to logically talk her down. Coya’s death was an accident. She was a wonderful woman and she had a great faith and her family would find comfort from their rallying community. And then I hung up, shut myself in the bathroom and wailed until my nose ran dry. We were about the same age and I’m certain that if the shoe were on the other foot, she’d be the one on the tile floor. I miss her and it makes me so sad to imagine what her parents and twin sister are trying to deal with. To make matters a bit more horrifying, her husband was killed too.

About 90% of the time, I’m one of the most optimistic and happiest people.  But that other 10%, I’m overwhelmed. I feel like my relationship with God is tested with doubt and anger and I debate whether I am ever going to be able to feel at peace. It doesn’t help that in this shut down mode, I typically stop eating and answering my phone. Hunger and isolation rarely make things better, and yet this isn’t a time for logic.  While my clothing will certainly be more comfortable next week, I’m not sure my heart is going to recover anytime soon.

I feel guilty being angry with God. I know better. I know we aren’t supposed to understand and there really is no rhyme or reason to tragedy and heart ache. Yet still, that won’t comfort Coya’s family and friends. It won’t provide any relief to the dozens of kids at the Beira orphanage I am missing so dearly. It doesn’t even help with the immature homesickness I feel for my family.

I’ll get through this 10%. I have worlds to be thankful for. I simply wish anger with God wasn’t possible.

~K

I spent an hour this morning walking around Tempe Town Lake, watching the sun rise over the Superstition Mountains, the wispy white low pressure clouds scatter across the morning sky, a class of white cranes gather the edge of the water, waiting for a slow learning fish to swim by for a tasty breakfast lesson. I was listening not to the hum of traffic on the nearby freeway, nor the heavy engines of airplanes in the flight path above, but to Brother Thay talk about suffering, compassion and meditation as daily spiritual practice.

If you have one free hour this week, this podcast is worth your time. As a Christian, it may be strange to hear me recommend the wisdom of a Vietnamese Buddhist leader, but his vision is human — not denominational. Plus, doesn’t faith give us the ability to listen to leaders of other faiths and determine what we have in common? This teacher has much to share and I found his words healing and motivating. One of my favorite excerpts discusses taking each step with thought, being mindful of each breath:

Sitting in mindfulness, both our bodies and minds can be at peace and totally relaxed. But this state of peace and relaxation differs fundamentally from the lazy, semi-conscious state of mind that one gets while resting and dozing. Sitting in such lazy semi-consciousness, far from being mindfulness, is like sitting in a dark cave. In mindfulness one is not only restful and happy, but alert and awake. Meditation is not evasion; it is a serene encounter with reality. The person who practices mindfulness should be no less awake than the driver of a car; if the practitioner isn’t awake he will be possessed by dispersion and forgetfulness, just as the drowsy driver is likely to cause a grave accident. Be as awake as a person walking on high stilts—any misstep could cause the walker to fall. Be like a medieval knight walking weaponless in a forest of swords. Be like a lion, going forward with slow, gentle, and firm steps. Only with this kind of vigilance can you realize total awakening.

He also talks about how we can, through compassion, help those who are suffering in part by listening. Separating ourselves from ego to help others is a choice we can make toward enlightenment. This thought set off a chain reaction, bringing me back to a conversation I had with a girlfriend this week about how love isn’t an emotion, but a choice. You can say, “oh, I’m so in love” or you can make the choice to never speak poorly of your spouse or children, of showing those around you that your love for your family is profound — speaking vs. living. Through our daily actions, we love. We put our own needs aside to be loving and compassionate perhaps without realizing such choices put us in touch with our spirit.

This is how I want to live — like the thoughtful lion, strong and gentle. I am keenly aware of my ego, how it pops up at the worst of times and floods my mind with feelings of greed, jealousy and impatience. Thankfully, I believe God gives us the tools to recognize our human flaws and the choice  to improve, and to become more wrapped in faith, compassion and love in the process.

He who postpones the hour of living is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses. -Horace, poet and satirist (65-8 BCE)

ROAR!

~K

I have a fundraiser I’m coordinating this weekend. It is magical to watch pieces of a destined puzzle come together: the musicians, dance troupe, food, wine and location were all donated. We have more than 80 people attending and I have a fabulous new cocktail dress I’ve been waiting to put out of the closet. Abracadabra! With any luck, we’re about to pull an organization-saving event out of our hat.

It’s like the community garden similarly coming together in a series of incredible events, with experts, tools, land, farmers and lots of energies joining with a synergistic effect. When something is meant to be — there is no stopping it. Like Finny reminds me in my frequent moments of impatience — the spring will come and the grass will grow. Regardless of what you to do force or prevent something from happening, what will be, will be.

I once watched a Bravo interview with a movie star who described how his rather difficult childhood prepared him for his current fame. Each step of the way, he was pushed to learn something that made him incredibly uncomfortable. Raised by his grandmother, he was forced to learn the piano, play on the football team, be a member of speech and debate. Later, he recognized each of these skills were instrumental in his rise to success through film that specifically required his talents. Without his grandmother’s insistence, these golden opportunities would have passed him by.

I am so thankful for the opportunities for uncomfortable growth that have put me right here, right now. Synergy, divine power, destiny, fate — call it what you will — it is a grace-filled moment to look back at life and see how the dominoes managed to knock each other forward to push you into the beauty of today.

~K

What’s that hiding among all the green tomatoes?

DOODE!

A tomato grows in Tempe! (And a red one at that.) This weekend I listened to a great podcast discussing the Easter season and gardening — how spiritually clearing the earth and watching it bloom again coincides with the high holiday in the northern hemisphere. Regardless of your spiritual leanings, pretty sure leaving for work on a Monday morning only to find your first ripe tomato ready for the picking is a sign of many good things to come. Now, if only the birds won’t notice the harvest is ready…

~K

I’ve written about grace before, but I have to say, the concept is still a bit like calculus. Theoretically, I understand the basics. Practically, it is pretty hard  to apply to everyday life.

Then there are moments where I feel like grace knocks me on my butt and makes me take notice. One instance was a warm summer day in Cameroon when I was with some friends heading back from a farming training. We’d spent the better part of the afternoon in a red van, driving back to our village. I was daydreaming, looking out the window at the verdant green hills and yellow banana trees. The sky was full of those puffy white clouds that seem cartoonish. Heavy with tropical rain, the undersides are droopy and silver, while the tops are whispy and the brightest white you can imagine. There was a moment when the sun shone through those clouds just so. The rays were visible above and below, reaching eternity one direction and falling on rows of crops and tiny huts in the other. It took my breath away and I felt goosebumps raise on my arms.

I knew I was feeling God. It was grace, but I didn’t yet know it.

When we arrived in the village an hour later, there was a message waiting. My dad had sent along a note — through a ridiculous process because email was just reaching West Africa — to let me know two things: Mini had given birth to her first son, Bennett. Both mom and baby were doing well and sent their love. And also, my great grandmother Clarice had passed away in the night. My GG was another strong,  instrumental woman in my life. She not only taught me Scrabble but also why it is important to embrace being a woman and see femininity is a gift. She was maybe 4’8″ when she passed away at 93, after decades of slowly shrinking and bending forward. Her hands were constantly aching from arthritis, but she never let her crooked fingers stop her from playing a board game or wrapping her arms around her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

It was timely her death was marked with a much anticipated birth. Nonetheless, I cried harder than I had in a very long time until finally an African friend humbled me by saying they didn’t understand  “great-grandmother.” The short life expectancy brought my pity party to a close, so wrote a letter of celebration to Mini and looked to the sky with eyes as puffy as the  ethereal clouds, certain GG was (and is) watching.

My faith makes many in my life uncomfortable. I try to talk about things like grace with a soft voice, inviting questions but never pushing. I am quick to flush when others poke fun; I don’t know that relationships become any more personal or vulnerable. I can say my time with God is usually peaceful and fulfilling. I always feel loved and quite often feel more blessed than I can imagine.

Today, in need of a deep breath of air, I took a walk at Tempe Town Lake. With unseasonably windy and colder weather, I clutched the hem of my linen skirt and listened to my sandals flip flop as I made my way around the lake’s edge. My ears were full of whistling, my mind in prayer, my fingertips light purple from the chill. I have the terrible habit of living in the future, not the present. More than once, this unfortunate trait has brought great and unnecessary heartache. I know better, but it is weeks like these when I fully recognize my humanness — when ugly emotions bubble to the surface and I find myself an overly sensitive, tender mess. My stomach clenches with anxiety and I stop eating. I toss and turn and can’t find the comfort of consistent sleep. My mind races and my heart pounds. I feel like I’ve got an elephant standing on my chest. Needless to say, I am not full of grace.

Ironically, it’s these moments when I am most open to noticing grace elsewhere. Again, the sunshine spraying through the clouds this afternoon at the lake. A friend who picks up the phone with exactly the right words to say. Another willing to pray with me until I can find comfort. And yet another who wrapped me in his arms and just let me cry until I felt better. A day at work so satisfying that’s left me feeling more confident and content with my career than I have in a long time.

Some would chalk these up to coincidence — yet another tie to calculus. Instead, I can’t help but think intention, grace and faith are at play.

~K