“There are some wounds. only africa can heal.” –nayyirah waheed, salt
I am a daughter of Africa and yet I was in my late 30s, before the door into the continent finally creaked open. I had been to China, Mexico and Australia before I ever set foot on the rest of our continent.
During my growing up years, there were no visas for the white Afrikaners who implemented Apartheid. We visited Germany, England and Belgium, instead.
In my younger years, Africa did not have my face. I lifted my eyes to Europe and beyond, like a daughter who turned her heart away from her mother, thinking the woman across the street had better bobotie.*
Then democracy broke through in South Africa and we sang freedom songs in the lineup to vote. Even though wanderlust called and I moved away shortly after that, a deep hunger grew in my heart.
I know now: We can’t deny where we come from.
With that same hunger, grew a sense of unworthiness. Most days I could avoid it, until someone asked, So where are you from?
Then my white face and my Afrikaans accent gave me away and for the first time in my life, I felt deep shame for being an Afrikaner. I suddenly felt like the face of a pariah people. I felt like I deserved my self-imposed exile.
I dared not enter the gates into Africa again.
I was not worthy of her face.
I was not worthy of her soil beneath my feet.
I had rejected her and, of course, I argued, she would reject me.
Around my 37th birthday, I learned about a hairdressing school in Nairobi that empowered women to walk out of the chokehold of poverty. A friend told us how the local church had trouble keeping the school open due to the rent. It was one small sentence in a whole story, but it kept tugging at my thoughts. I kept wondering, What if I could do something?
Saying yes to doing something, felt like small act of solidarity. I could do that one thing.
Then I heard about Amahoro Africa, a gathering of theologians and practitioners from mostly western and southern Africa, who gathered every year in friendship and conversation.
I was planning on going to my 20th high school reunion near Cape Town that year. But as we approached the time to register for Amahoro, I knew I desperately wanted to go to Kenya.
So, I booked a ticket to Mombasa. My hands shook.
I wasn’t worthy.
When I landed, I stood on that tarmac in Nairobi and took pictures of the sky. I couldn’t believe I had finally been allowed access …
I, who had denied others so much, was now allowed in.
I was finding a piece of myself in the sunshine and the expanse of the sky. I walked comfortably on the sidewalks and didn’t skip a beat.
I was at home in that vastness, in the hustle and bustle and the rhythms on the street.
I flew to Mombasa and my heart felt like it was beating outside my chest. I felt like I could burst with the goodness of being on the soil of my soul.
I walked on the beach at Mombasa while the tears dripped down my face …
The same happened during worship.
I sat down for meals and got to know friends from Burundi and the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Zimbabwe and Rwanda and South Africa and I wanted to cry to myself: Do you get how beautiful this is? Do you get how healing this is? Do you get how many walls are broken down with a single conversation, a smile, a hug, a shared meal? I could feel the dismantling of the apartheid in my own soul.
My heart soaked it all in. Every day. Every conversation. A gift.
Then, on the last day, we were invited into Communion.
Come with a friend, they said. Come, have communion together.
People went up and I sat, my heart beating wildly. Who would I go with?
Then my eyes met the eyes of a sister from the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
She nodded.
I didn’t feel worthy.
We held the cups and my hand was shaking so badly, I could hardly serve her.
Does she not know who I am? This white daughter of Apartheid?
And yet …
She held the bread and I ate … so hungry.
Jesus’ body, broken for me.
And I gave to her …
So unworthy of her grace, sharing the sacrament with me.
She ate.
Jesus’ body, broken for every one of us.
Jesus’ blood, shed for you, she said.
I sipped the cup.
And I gave to her too ….
She drank.
We shared the holy meal and the moment was eternally drenched in Light. We stood as sisters at that table.
I was invited in, just as I was inviting in.
We stood in a world in which everyone belongs at the table and I felt a little closer to the world as God intended: reconciled, forgiven, deeply graced.
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*A traditional curried beef dish in South Africa
About Idelette:
Idelette is an immigrant, mother of three, restaurant wife and Founder and Editor-in-Chief of SheLovesmagazine.com. She was born and raised in South Africa where her eyes were opened to how insidious injustice can be. She found Jesus around a breakfast table in Taiwan.
Idelette now lives in Surrey, Canada, but her home is the world. She loves Jesus, justice and living juicy.
Twitter: @idelette
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Website: SheLovesmagazine.com
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I have been thinking about those creatures that resemble each other so closely they seem twins—alligators and crocodiles, dolphins and porpoises, camels and dromedaries, bees and wasps, ostriches and emus. I like to imagine God imagining these subtle differences, having created an alligator and then wondering how it would look with a slightly more narrow snout or having breathed life into the honeybee and then considering a more slender and smooth version. Why stop creating, God might have asked, when variation is so much fun. I imagine God growing almost giddy with pleasure, shrinking a crow down into a grackel, flattening a deer’s antlers into an elk’s. And then there were all the furred patterns to consider, all the shapes of ear. God must have become fully engrossed, working right through lunch, the way some of us do when we are absolutely engaged with our work.
Variety, difference, diversity—for me, those are all words that ultimately mean pleasure. My breath catches those rare summer mornings when I glance out our kitchen window and see a blue bunting at the feeder. I feel stunned by its color, its flash. Often it will be accompanied by yellow finches which are also brightly stunning. They are impossible to overlook, but in paying attention to them, I find myself also paying greater attention to those other birds I’d classify as ordinary, the sparrows, the robins. These birds may be less startling, but they possess their own subtle variations, differences that require me to focus more fully if I am to notice them. The unusual birds startle me into attention, while the common ones require a more intentional habit of attention.
Some people might call this mindfulness, and I suppose it is. I slow down for a few seconds, aware of the life that surrounds me, before I re-enter the busyness of my overcrowded life. I vow to become less busy, to create enough space in my day to appreciate the creatures who wander across my yard and perch in the trees I sit beneath. Of course such a practice would be good for me, and I suppose it might also ultimately be good for the rabbits and deer and skunks since my attention is benevolent. My greatest concern, though, isn’t for me alone or even for each of the multiple other species I encounter, but for us—that great “us” that encompasses all of creation.
So often, I recognize that I have become detached from the world around me not through any overtly hostile act but through simple inattention. When I pay closer attention, I realize that I experience reconciliation with creation. I understand my place in the world more deeply. I live within the fullness of creation rather than apart from it. The more I attend to creation—even if only through a window—the more I appreciate it, and the more I appreciate it, the less harm I am willing to commit.
Will we human beings ever become fully reconciled with all of creation? Perhaps not. Perhaps our temptations toward dominance and exploitation will always prevail. But I am not willing to surrender to such a fate quite yet. We are created in the image of God, and the God who is our great creator is also our great reconciler. What if every morning we awoke and recalled who we are, images of God? What if we gazed out our windows, through the dangling icicles, and called them good? What if we watched the wild turkeys parading across the frozen fields and called them good? What if, as evening drifted down, we heard an owl swoop toward a field mouse and called it all good?
We can bless the world each day with our words and our acts. Why don’t we give it a try? Why don’t we even, perhaps, begin today?
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Lynn Domina is the author of two collections of poetry, Corporal Works and Framed in Silence, and the editor of a collection of essays, Poets on the Psalms. She is a student at the Earlham School of Religion, where she has taken classes in the Ministry of Writing, and she currently lives in upstate New York. You can find out more at http://lynndomina.com .
A wake-up call…today’s college students will be the first generation to inhabit an America that is no longer dominantly white! So how can we all get ready to celebrate our richly multi-cultural future? This is a wonderful opportunity to Social Innovate and Join the Feast!
Journey to Mosaic is an important social innovation that our friends in the Covenant Church have created that is helping people from all kinds of backgrounds to take small steps not only toward reconciliation, but also the celebration of making new friends and experiencing the richness of other cultures.
Join Jocelyn and a bus load of her new friends from the Pacific Southwest Conference of the Covenant Church as they spent three days traveling together from Oakland California to Los Angeles. Jocelyn, our narrator, introduces herself as a 5th generation Chinese American who grew up in a largely white suburban community. Everyone on the bus is sitting next to a person from a different racial and cultural background.
The bus trip began by spending time hearing about the agendas and activism of those involved in the Black Panther Party. Next they headed to the Central Valley and spent time hearing the stories and struggles of farm workers. When they ended their trip in LA they met with older couples who have survived the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II.
After each stop Jocelyn and her seat mate discussed not only what they learned but also to what they experienced. She shared that she quickly moved from being a tourist to being a participant in a very engaging trip. She reflected, “For me, cherish the memories of talking with my brothers and sisters about the vitally important yet difficult topic of race. Along the way I was forced to consider and confess my own prejudices, realize the impact that being a minority has had on my own life, and reach for ways to level the playing field for all people.” a small step towards reconciliation – (source)
Send me your stories about innovation that is having an impact on your life and the lives of others…I want to share so we can learn from one another and stir-up new possibilities in times like these.
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Tom Sine is research guy at Mustard Seed Associates and hospitality guy at the Mustard Seed house. He has worked for many years as a consultant in futures research and planning for both Christian and secular organizations.
St Patrick, whose life we celebrate March 17th is one of my favourite Celtic saints. His prayers are particularly powerful tools to help us focus our faith and draw closer to God. Though St Patrick’s breastplate is the best know of these, there are others like this one that are equally as powerful.
May the Strength of God guide us.
May the Power of God preserve us.
May the Wisdom of God instruct us.
May the Hand of God protect us.
May the Way of God direct us.
May the Shield of God defend us.
May the Angels of God guard us.
– Against the snares of the evil one.
May Christ be with us!
May Christ be before us!
May Christ be in us,
Christ be over all!
May Thy Grace, Lord,
Always be ours,
This day, O Lord, and forevermore. Amen.
St Patrick’s Prayer for the Faithful
The Pacific NW has had virtually no snow or rain this winter. Snow pack is as low as 6% of normal in some areas. We are all anxious about a dry summer. I am getting my garden ready for a dry spell, installing rain barrels, heaping on compost and mulch and repairing leaks.
Dry spells happen not just in the natural world but in our spiritual lives too. There is much we can do to prepare and the principles are surprisingly similar to those in the garden.
First we need to take notice of the signs that suggest a dry spell is on the way. “Unseasonably warm temperatures” or high stress and anxiety, and “lack of rain” or seasons of intensely draining activity, are my two best indicators that I need to take notice of. Its easy to ignore them and hope that the drain on our spiritual reserves will not deplete us, but that is as unlikely as the impact of drought on physical water supplies.
What Is Your Response?
Sit quietly for a few moments. Read through the scripture above and remind yourself of the last dry spell you went through. Think back over the events that led to your dryness. What were the signs should have taken notice of that indicated your spiritual life was heading for a dry spell? How did you respond to these? What is one action step you could take to be more responsive to those indicators in the future?
There are several ways to make ourselves less vulnerable to dry spells.
Store more water.
When drought hits every drop of water is precious. We need to store it so that is kept fresh and freely available. Jesus knew that. When he was driven out into the desert it was the “stored water” – his knowledge of the scriptures and the purposes of God – that sustained and strengthened him through what must have been a very dry and draining experience. And in the garden of Gethsemane I am sure that his night in prayer was what gathered the reserves that would see him through the agonizing journey toward the cross.
Memorizing scriptures, sitting quietly in the presence of God for a few minutes each morning and drinking in the water of God’s spirit, writing prayers and spending time reflecting on them are all practices that I find store water for me. What about you?
What is Your response:
Read through the scripture again. Reflect on your last dry spell. How do you store spiritual water? What are the regular practices in your life that make the words and ways of God resonate deep within your being and draw you close to God when you feel drained or dried out? How could you nurture these experiences in a future time of spiritual dryness?
We need to conserve the water that is already in us.
Compost and mulch are a gardener’s best friend, but what are the equivalents in our spiritual lives? When we are dry and drained out it is often almost impossible to reach for the bible or pray. Reading spiritual books seems to add to our dryness. So what keeps the water of God flowing strongly within our hearts and souls during a dry spell? For me it is time spent out in the garden, and the reciting of prayers that others have written. Patrick’s breastplate is an especially powerful prayer in this context. When I read it out loud it resonates through my body and lodges in my heart in a wonderful way.
What is your response?
Once more sit quietly and remind yourself of your last spiritual dry spell. What were the practices that conserved the water within you? How could you nurture these more effectively next time you approach a dry spell?
St Patrick, who found a close walk with God while a slave in Ireland, knew how to prepare for dry spells. Listen to The Deer’s Cry, a song based on Patrick’s Breastplate. Is there anything else that comes to you that might help you respond to a dry spell?
The word “mandala” is from the classical Indian language of Sanskrit. Loosely translated to mean “circle,” a mandala is far more than a simple shape. For both Hindus and Buddhists it is a spiritual symbols that represents wholeness. It can be seen as a model for the organizational structure for the universe or of life itself.
In various spiritual traditions, including Christian, mandalas are increasingly being employed for focusing attention, as a spiritual guidance tool, for establishing a sacred space, and as an aid to meditation.
If you are like me you may feel rather intimidated by the creativity and artistic skill that seems to be involved in a mandala but it really is a great tool to explore.
I enjoyed these simple instructions, though it did take me a little more than the 5 minutes they say it takes to master the art.
Today I am posting two prayers for the end of the third week of Lent. This first prayer is usually accredited to Mother Teresa though it was probably written by Keith Kent. It was found written on the wall of Mother Teresa’s home for children in Calcutta. It seemed appropriate for this season of Lent:
People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.
Be honest and sincere anyway.
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.
Create anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, will often be forgotten.
Do good anyway.
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.
Give your best anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway.
The second prayer is written by Mother Teresa and comes from the book No Greater Love.
“We cannot find God in noise and agitation.
Nature: trees, flowers, and grass grow in silence.
The stars, the moon, and the sun move in silence.
What is essential is not what we say
but what God tells us and what He tells others through us.
In silence He listens to us;
in silence He speaks to our souls.
In silence we are granted
the privilege of listening to His voice.
Silence of our eyes.
Silence of our ears.
Silence of our mouths.
Silence of our minds.
…in the silence of the heart
God will speak.”
(Photo: By Túrelio, CC BY-SA 2.0 de, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2246938)
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