Category Archives: learning to live

gracefully critical

gracefully-critical

Recently on vacation, the most stressful part of planning for the trip was not packing, arranging the house details, getting work squared away; the most stressful preparation was choosing which books to take when I knew I would have a week of incredible views, delicious food, and nothing to rush for other than finding a place to sit and read.

I had been saving Becca Steven’s new book, Snake Oil: The Art of Healing and Truth Telling, for the trip and it definitely did not let me down.

The book’s author, an Episcopal priest on Vanderbilt’s campus, founded Magdalene, a residential program for women who have survived lives of prostitution, trafficking, addiction and life on the streets, in 1997. From this work and the reality that getting clean and off the streets isn’t enough to support a new and whole life, she and the community around her began Thistle Farms, a social enterprise run from top to bottom by members of the Magdalene community, and involves making oils, candles, paper and more from the highway-found, stubbornly resilient and ultimately delicate thistle. As the women work in vats of oils and in meetings of scent-testing or tubs of paper-making, they are both creating an income, adding quality products to the market and community, and telling a story of healing and hope through the thistle.

Already a fan of Stevens after hearing her speak a few years ago, and following the work and even more so the spirit of the work at Magdalene and Thistle Farms, I’ve learned much about the nitty-gritty of what it means when Stevens says, “It takes a community to put a woman on the street, and it will take a community to bring her home.”

In our work at Area Relief here in Jackson, it’s that push for working to see the delicate beauty in what others have overlooked as weeds that is at the core of who we are. We aren’t great at it, as we often look at ourselves as much as those around us, as wasted and useless. But once we begin to work in the grace and hopefulness that whispers of the kingdom add to any story, we begin to find that we are becoming a part of healing community, seeing others healed as well as ourselves.

What struck me the most when reading Steven’s book was her uncanny ability to be gracefully critical. It is no butterfly and sunshine story of human trafficking, abuse, molestation, drug addiction, fundraising, second-guessing, and ultimately losing many battles to drugs and sex and objectification. It is no easy work no matter how ethereal our ways of speaking. There are power players to be called out, habits to be carefully questioned, ways of operating to completely burned up. And yet Stevens manages to tell the truth about all these issues in ways that lead the reader to want to be more hopeful, more loving, more compassionate, more trusting, more free in the promise of kingdom come.

The hard work of seeking first the kingdom is not child’s play, and yet we’ve been charged to work at it as a child. Truth-telling and healing all at the same. Silence in the face of injustice is not God-honoring, but neither is pessimistic cynicism. Stevens’ work is a strong and beautiful reminder that the kingdom comes through the action following graceful criticism.

And the kingdom does come.

djordan
Juneau, AK

To order the book, CLICK HERE.
To learn about Thistle Farms, CLICK HERE.

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he loves the justice

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I got an email yesterday afternoon from a friend and coworker in Nicaragua. She is fighting for justice in a case of child abuse, and has seen this thing from the very beginning to where it currently stands. We’ve been praying together via email and Skype conversation. We’ve been spreading the word and asking others to pray who hold the child and the situation close to their hearts and minds.

We pray, of course, when we don’t know what the hell to do.

She arranged for many bodies to be seated in the courtroom when the case was heard to make it clear that we are watching, the eyes of many from around the world are watching, and we seek justice. And we demand it.

I received an email from her yesterday afternoon that brought me to tears.

We correspond often, and I speak horrible Spanish and she speaks incredible English, but one can only imagine the wrestle of trying to make sure we understand what is being said and what is not being said.

Her email, however, made it perfectly clear. In a kind of correct English from the words of a highly-educated Nicaraguan spoken in a way a native English speaker never would have spoken, I have been repeating her phrase both in my mind and out loud since.

We’ve been waiting, you see, for news from the trial. Will those who’ve committed abuse against children be held accountable? Will reasonable measures be taken to ensure that they are no longer able to perpetrate violence against other women and children?

Her email had this phrase buried in with many other words, but it is this phrase in particular that has been on my mind ever since.

“Thank you for praying. Our God he hears our prayer. And he loves the justice.”

Words from an attorney, among many other things, who is working tirelessly toward kingdom come on the ground in Nicaragua where justice doesn’t have the luxury of being a theological issue; where the luxury of whether or not or even how to talk about the kingdom of heaven is not a conversation, but rather a life and death issue. Words from her speak so clearly about the heart of God in the middle of seeking the kingdom where all points to hopelessness and loss.

“Thank you for praying. Our God he hears our prayer. And he loves the justice.”

The perpetrator of violence was found guilty in the courtroom that morning.
The story is not over and the work is not done, but the anthem of his people remains:
Our God, he loves the justice.

djordan
Salt Lake City, Utah

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when kicking the printer

kicking the printer

between signing papers
returning emails
standing at the printer
checking the voicemail
stamping the letter
kicking the printer
staring in the workroom fridge at everyone else’s food

we are actually doing a kind of magical work
we are actually making a difference in the world
we are actually building something true
we are actually unearthing something honest
we are actually seeking signs of the kingdom

but if we aren’t paying attention
and if we aren’t watching well
and if we aren’t listening earnestly
and if we aren’t walking humbly

we mistake the
papers and
emails and
printers and
letters

for details.
and we think we are
missing out on the real work
for the details.

but kicking the printer counts as real work.
it counts as a part of seeking signs of the kingdom.

Help us pay attention.
Help us watch well.
Help us listen earnestly.
Help us walk humbly.

Even as we kick the printer.

djordan
108 S Church

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when it’s worth saying

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She held her hands over her mouth
most of the time she talked,
which I’ve been trained to know means
she’s not sure about what she’s saying
and she isn’t sure it’s worth someone else hearing

I find out soon enough
that her pastor tells her she can’t get divorced
even after she knows she’s gotten
an STD from him
a reputation from him
a history and an internalized notion of not being enough for him

but she can’t get divorced from him
so my only hope
and maybe her only hope is
to help her feel strong enough
to know she is strong enough
to stand up to him and maybe
to stand up to her pastor

to say that she thinks
just maybe
even though all of her life has suggested otherwise
that she is worth standing up for herself
and that she is worth having someone else stand up for her. ‘

poverty and power and religion and resources
blur the lines between
what God desires for his people
and what his people end up living through.

and it is, in fact, his people who are called
to put up a fight.
And we, then, cover our mouths as well
because we aren’t sure about what we’re saying
and if it’s worth someone else hearing.

djordan
Summar Dr.

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catching fireflies

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When I arrived, she was painting with water on the driveway.
“We’re painting, see?” she yelled when I closed the car door.
“I see! Awesome!” I said, halfway faking excitement, and halfway excited because she was.
She then led me to a small raisin snack box on the bumper of her mother’s car.
“I got a new pet!” she yelled! She grabbed the raisin box.
“You did? What is it?”

I had recently been invited over for dinner by her parents, and arrived with a fish. She named it LuLu. It died a month later.

“See?” she said, opening the raisin box revealing a lady bug crawling around the almost white cardboard.
“I see! What’s her name?”
“Anna. Do you want to paint with me?”

Looking in that tiny raisin box at that sad little lady bug, knowing it’s fate would be much like the fate of LuLu the fish, I remembered this time of year as a child. My grandfather owned a printing company, so our home was filled with paper and paper boxes. I would take a paper box, cut holes in the right places, line it with plastic wrap, build walls inside with cardboard and rolls of scotch tape, and catch fireflies to put inside. The plastic wrap windows made the house a home in my opinion, and mom would give me orange slices to put “in the kitchen” so the lightning bugs would have something to eat when they were hungry.

So they could live a long time.

The fate of the fireflies was much like the fate of LuLu.

+++

It’s been a week filled with real life.
Stresses.
Joys.
Meetings.
Bills.
Rides with the windows down and the music up.
Dinners with laughter and tears and arguments.
Meetings with questions and difficulties and projections and risks and hopes.
Nights with questions and friends and acceptance.

Everything in me wants to catch it.
Box it.
Package it.
Remember it.
Put it in a box with plastic wrap windows
or the almost white walls of a raisin box
in an attempt to capture it and then remember it when I’m not sure why I’m doing all this, or why we work for all of this.

But I know what she doesn’t know yet as she shows me Anna in the cardboard box. I can’t capture it. I can’t trap the moments where things make sense and time feels right and answers seem clear even though I desperately want to. My only hope is to be present enough in those moments where I know and feel and understand and trust something true enough that I can remember it when I’ve lost my mind or lost my reason or lost my hope that good news can ever be true.

I can pause the lighting of the firefly long enough to remember it, but not long enough to keep it forever. Faith ends up being the jump between what I remember and what I hope. That’s the only way to keep the fireflies alive.

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

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a promise to wait

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there is a  love that never fails
there is a healing that always prevails
there is a hope that whispers a vow
a promise to wait
while we’re working it out
so come with your love
and wash over us
make us whole.

– sara groves

I’m reminded of the inherent power
in waiting
beyond our anger
beyond our grief
beyond our excitement
beyond our joy
beyond our anticipation
about the way things could be
or about the way things should be
or about the way things might be

Holding onto the hope of
what it means
to wait it out
to work it out
to watch as the waiting and the working
redeems anger and grief and even excitement and joy and anticipation
to push us into
something truer.

something that takes waiting on.
give us the strength to make the promise.

djordan
Pine Tree

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city legs and soundtracks

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She told me that it’s obvious to her who is from the city or lives in the city, and who is a tourist trying to pass as a local. I tried hard––quite hard I might say––to be a local. My fanny pack was left at home, I wasn’t looking up for the top of each building I walked past, and I pronounced the number nine like a good midwesterner rather than a good Tennesseean.

The giveaway, though, was that I didn’t have train legs.

She was in her seventies, groceries in tow, because that’s apparently what you do if you’re a local, and she was watching my knees buckle each time the L hit a bump, wiggle or stop in downtown Chicago. It was the ride back out from a weekend trip that was supposed to be with a friend who couldn’t come at the last minute, so I was a single dude spending a weekend in the city I thought of as home for two years in college.

My ride from Midway into town found me wearing my white earbuds plugged into my second generation iPod (you’re welcome) looking out the window of the Orange Line as we (me and all these strangers) made our way into the city. I don’t remember the song, and the fact that I remember the moment without the song makes it all the more important to me. Jostling into downtown, my legs apparently giving me away more than I realized, I found myself gazing out the window noticing that times like these are things of movies and soundtracks, people and lives and entire worlds passing by as the music plays to make sure that you know that every moment of what you are seeing is important for something that’s coming in the story, or for something that has just happened that you’re still chewing on.

It wasn’t until my trip out that I was informed that my legs gave me away as an outsider.

Now, in the small, rural West Tennessee town that holds my work and family and friends, I often forget that were I to add a soundtrack there is great importance to the transit, the one mile commute to work, the people standing on the side of the road, in front of me in line, in the waiting room at the office, on the other end of the phone. And my realizing that the soundtrack is––or at least should be playing––makes me more aware that I am using my non-city legs, perhaps my small, rural West Tennessee town legs, to navigate these waters in ways that hopefully do justice and love mercy and walk humbly in the town that is and has been home for quite some time.

It’s worth a soundtrack, I think. The people must be.
And we will spot your city legs. ha.

djordan
Pine Tree

 

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in the eyes

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in the eyes
the way we make it clear
what we think about you
whether we speak kindly or not

in the tone
the way we make it known
if we think we are lucky to know you or
if we think you are lucky to have found us

in the words
the way we make it obvious
why we are wasting time on you at all
or why we desperately need to know more of the world that
you know
you have survived
you have crawled through
you have climbed over
you have made beautiful
you have dignified

the reality that we manage the resources
that often stand between you and the respect you were born deserving
can and do often mislead us
to think that we could
if we wanted
speak unkindly with our eyes
suggest superiority with our tone and
communicate arrogance with our words
because we think that you need us

while all the while, the kingdom belongs to you.
God of those we attempt to marginalize, for our sakes, forgive us.
Lord hear our prayer.

djordan
108 S Church

These words come after yet another encouraging meeting where staff sit together to work and pray through what it means to remember that we are servants doing the work of Christ, knowing that in doing Christ’s work as he would do it, every interaction we have should reveal more of the dignity and worth inherent in every person. We don’t do it well all the time, or maybe rarely do it we do it well, but it is our heart at ARM to do so. 

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it’s the quiet conversations

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it’s the quiet conversations
the late night
emails, texts, calls, replies

it’s the quiet conversations
the early morning
coffees, meetings, book clubs, questions

it’s the quite conversations
the midday
confessions, drop-ins, lunches

where we realize that we are so close
to those we pretend to be so different from
and in finding out that we are wrestling
ultimately
with the same
fears
hopes
insecurities
questions
wonders
anxieties
sonnets

and in realizing that we are so close
we immediately feel so far
from being so all alone
and we give thanks.

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

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