hope junkie reporting for duty

I smelled magnolia and honeysuckle as I walked back to work and immediately, I was whisked back to my childhood backyard – sweaty and laughing as I played with my friends. Georgia in summer smells of cut grass, rain on hot pavement and honeysuckle. I miss it.  I miss those scents filling my nostrils and spurring a thousand different memories through my mind. Home – it’s sacred, or it should be.

For so many people, their homes are not safe – whether it’s the 4 walls that make up a house, the confines of a city or an entire country.

I am an extremely privileged human. I almost always feel safe. I live in a country that is not my own, but they have welcomed me. For many in this land and in the world, that is not the case.

I visited the International Dentition Center (IDC) this morning and saw my friend Abdul.* He’s an unaccompanied minor. In his home country, he was jailed by an oppressive regime and escaped to Thailand. He’s a kid. He’s got a crooked smile and an eager energy that seems reserved only for teenage boys.  Abdul’s friend David,* with whom he shares a room, is from a different continent. David’s a few years older than Abdul, and he knows his chances of obtaining refugee status with the United Nations and being resettled to another country are much slimmer than his friends’.

To look into David’s eyes and know that he knows that the deck is stacked against him, it’s heartbreaking. I couldn’t get David’s face out my mind for week after I met him. My colleague, and all-around kick butt-human, Constance, calls me a hope junkie. And she’s right. I crave it. I need it. After I met David, I kept wondering where the hope was. Where was the light for this kid who could use a break? Where was his plane ticket to another home?

In my faith tradition, Jesus tells and shows us what to do when we can’t find any hope. We make some. He said, and this is paraphrased, visit and get to know people who are in prison, open up your homes for people who need a place to stay, invite and welcome strangers, have people who are different from you at your dinner table, check-in with, and give extra attention to people who have lost a partner and kids who have no parents – that’s where the hope is – if you don’t see any, then make some. If David’s story needs some hope, then get to work. Advocate for him and take him his favorite dessert. Let him show you hope.

These things root us in our shared humanity, and as the Indians say, the divine in me recognizes the divine in you. 

I forgot. I forgot I am as Chris Heurtz, the co-founder of our parent organization says, a “hope hustler”.

Currently, my home country is, to put it scientifically, a mess. There are centuries-old wounds that have gone unattended and are now riddled with puss and dirt. This also mirrors the rest of the world, there’s so much pain and hurt and loss and fear. She aches with it.

Three nights ago, my neighbors invited me to sit down and have a beer. I protested, but they insisted. I was invited into their space, into their home. I’m the outsider, the foreigner. I don’t speak their language well, and I’m not extremely knowledgeable about their customs and culture, and we don’t practice the same the religion.

That’s hope – some hospitality, welcoming a stranger, some awkward, muddled conversation and a little beer.

The truth is that the deck has been stacked in my favor. I am a white, middle-class American. My parents paid for me to attend college and they encouraged me to see the world and get to know her people. So much has been given to me. My race, ethnicity, nationality, and socio-economic status swirl together and create a set of privileges that I did not earn and that most humans do not have. So it’s strange for me to write about hope – or the lack-thereof.  I am learning and unlearning how to use my privilege for good in the world – and often I am flailing and failing. I’m being taught by my neighbors, Jesus, Constance, and David to not just be a hope junkie, but a hope hustler as well.

Last night I heard Irish theologist and philosopher, Pete Rollins say,

“We think when we go to the prison that we are being good news to the prisoners, or if I go to the homeless, I am good news to the homeless, but what if they’re good news to us, because they tell us that there’s a problem in our social body that we’re not looking at. So, if we want to be converted as a society, we have to go to the most oppressed people in our community, let them speak to us as prophets, showing us the problems that exist within our community so that we can be converted, transformed, and society can improve.”

Amen, to this! Hope is equitable.

I just keep thinking that if the world seems a bit darker these days – then lets be hope makers. Here’s to visiting prisoners, inviting folks who are different from us in someway over for dinner (and if you’re not opposed, a beer), becoming a mentor, investing in a kids education, praying with someone of a different faith, fixing up the guest bed room for someone who needs it, and practicing listening.

As I was about to leave IDC today, I saw an older woman reach out and touch Abdul’s face, and caress his head. They had met minutes before. The woman is from a bordering country of Abdul’s, and the relationship between their countries is rocky at best. In this small moment this woman didn’t see an enemy, she saw a boy who is alone, and like her, a prisoner – and she reached out – humanity and dignity.

They will know us by our love -not by our man-made borders, walls, labels, or groups. Just our love. Have mercy on us.

* The names of my friends in IDC have been changed

Thanks for reading, 

EM

Would you like a side of dancing with your ESL?

The kids always open the church door for me. They shout “teacher” as the rush of cool air hits my sweaty skin.  There’s always a lot of noise - singing, pretend sword fighting, yelling, dancing, round house kicks to sometimes unsuspecting bodies. I feel simultaneously overwhelmed, and at home in this pale yellow room with kids running around, a smattering of teenagers lounging on one another while glued to their cellphones, and a few adults talking at the table. 

Most Saturdays, Miranda (CLF intern extraordinaire)  and I take a bus, the sky train, another bus, a boat, and then walk 15 minutes to a church in the south of Bangkok to teach English, dance, and craft with kids who have had to hold too much pain in their short lives.

One of our CLF board members, Plaa is a pastor at the church where we teach. She’s a fearless advocate for these kids whom she loves. Watching her love and serve her community and neighbors is a gift. Yes, we go to teach English, but really we’re being taught and shown how to live well and with intention alongside others. 

English Club, which we’ve affectionally entitled PEC (Prapadaneg English Club), is loud and chaotic,and this past week involved a short lecture on not pointing just your middle finger at people (shooting the bird). The kids range in age from 3 to 19. So there’s lots of coloring sheets, glue sticks, flash cards, and uno. During the first 2 hours of PEC it’s all about the younger kids. We practice the alphabet, play dance stop while reviewing numbers, cover vocabulary (last week we focused on rain and umbrellas), and flex those fine-motor skills while making a craft. When the younger kids leave, we break out the UNO and Phase 10, and practice conversational English with the older kids. 

Six of the older children who come to PEC are also a part of CLF’s scholarship program. Kind humans from around the world sponsor these kid’s education, so that they can continue learning. Plaa told us that without these scholarships, most of students would have to stop studying, and begin working. Two students attend middle school, 2 high school, and 2 are in college.  

The students are resilient and tenacious. They know how to fight - fight to learn, fight systems that are not set up for their success, and fight for kindness in a heavy world. I wish y’all could see how the older kids care for the younger kids -it’s definitely that specific type of love that can only be delivered by an older sibling - rife with harsh truth, a bit of yelling, and affectionate jabs - but if one of the kids is ever in a sticky spot with learning or a game gone awry with hurt feelings, one of the teenagers is there to aid. 

Saturday is one of favorite days of the week. These kids are brilliant - hilarious, they make artful masterpieces from Popsicle sticks, and dance with abandon. They are strong, are quick to fight for, and defend one another. It’s and honor to learn with them and to bear witness to Plaa’s community development skills and compassion. 

We always end every class with dancing, because - we've got to dance it out sometime, we might as well do it together! Usually our song of choice is Bobby Day’s Rockin Robin, but lately, Justin Timberlake has stolen our hearts and dancing shoes with Can't Stop the Feeling. Next time you find yourself in the South of BKK on Saturday, stop on by and we’ll let you show off your dance moves and paper-plate craft skills. 

Thanks for reading! 

EM

Miss, there's watermelon juice on your shirt

Y’all, rainy season has come to BKK, and as I’m typing these words, the rain’s falling outside and much to my neighbors displeasure, the Me Before You soundtrack is playing from my IPOD for the fifteenth time today. 

As of late, all of the posts on this little blog have been a bit serious - emotional, weepy - and just downright heavy. That’s not an untrue depiction of my life, but it’s most certainly not the full picture of how my days look and feel and smell.

Here’s a few of my favorite things in Thailand - yes, Julie Andrews is one of them!

Passion fruit - I freaking (sorry, mom) love this stuff. I’ll take all the passion fruit, all the time. As I type, I’ve just finished a passion fruit slushy. My new favorite way to consume this delicious yellow and black fruit is mixing it with soda water. It’s just so good and refreshing. Treating myself to passion fruit and pineapple smoothies was how I made it through hot season. Lately, I’ve even been putting it in my morning yogurt. 

Fiction Books - Because of 3 important Thai language exams, I was not going to read a fiction book in May - and I almost made it, but during the very last weekend of May, I went on a retreat with some amazing humans to the Chiang Rai - which is nestled it the unbelievably beautiful mountains of northern Thailand, and I caved - I read a fiction book. It was glorious. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the what it was -oopps - it’s entitled, Eligible: A modern retelling of Pride and Prejudice by Crutis Sittenfeld. Also, I just started using my kindle that was gifted to me right before I left the States from a wonderful family for whom I nannied. It’s so stinkin’ convenient. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get fully comfortable with an electronic book - but man it’s so easy to use. I’ve had a love affair with books since my parents used to bribe us to read (there was candy and coke involved) and I brought 25 books across the ocean with me. 25 - ridiculous. Bottomline - books are the best- and even better when it’s an updated version of one of the best stories to ever grace our homes and libraries and bookstores. That Jane Austen, she’s a keeper. 

Movies - I love going to movies, and when you go to the movies in BKK, you get to sit for at least an hour and half in air conditioning, and practice some good ole fashioned escapism, and it costs $3! Now, I don’t want to toot-the-horn too loudly for escapism, because I deeply believe that we have to look at, and climb into the pain and sorrow of our lives and the pain of those around us to fully experience it, sit with it, and work for healing - but also, sometimes you’ve gotta get away from it, and a cold movie theater is a superb place for just that. 

Sassy, honest humans - I am surrounded by folks who are honest - honest about life and all her junk and beauty, and their honesty is treaded with sass and spunk, and if we get too sassy with one another (usually,it’s me) and jump the border to hurtful, we try to be honest about it, and then dance it out. Honesty is hard. It’s hard enough to be honest with ourselves, but then when you throw other folks into the mix, phew - it gets tough - but it’s the sweet life - this honesty, where we can be completely ourselves with ourself and God and humans. It’s messy (yes, I know this is one of my favorite words) but it’s real and good. 

Coke - there’s just something about drinking a coke from a tiny glass bottle that feels like home (yes, Georgia is the capital of Coke!). And, I’m pretty sure the coke here is still made with sugar cane- it’s delectable!

Watermelon - Watermelon has forever been my favorite food. During the summer months of my childhood, I was frequently scolded for eating too much, or all of the watermelon my mom had just cut up. Here, in Thailand, watermelon is in season all year-round, and I consume it as if it were July in Georgia, and I was a 9 years old who had just burst into my kitchen after riding my bike around our block with my friends for two hours - which is to say -voraciously and often. 

Yoga - you guys yoga is hard, but I really like it. It’s good for carving out intentional space to breathe and clear your mind and spirt of the fog of daily life. 

Being a regular - You know in the movies when you see the protagonist visit their favorite coffee shop, or deli, or bar, and the waiter or person behind the counter knows exactly what they want before they even order - and sometimes just has it waiting for them when they show up? When this phenomena happens to me, it feels so good - it feels like l’m a part of the place - of the life happing there. I’ve lived in the market for a few months now, and I have favorite spots - the coffee vendor to the left of my building, where you can buy the best iced coffee; the pad- thai place to the left of the shine, and the garlic pork place also to the left of the shine, behind the market. These places are my regular spots. My homes away from home. I’m a creature of habit. I’ve been eating the same roast beef sandwich from the same restaurant in my hometown for maybe 25 years - basically ever since I could consume a sandwich, and in October, I’ll eat it again. When I visit these places in my neighborhood, they know what I want. I don’t have to ask - and it feels like home, if only they served roast beef sandwiches :) .

Air conditioning - it speaks for itself. 

Free Wifi - also, self explanatory. 

Making my own granola - it’s not healthy, but its tasty. I just mix whatever I happen to have, which usually consists of cocoa, peanut butter, coffee, and honey and oats. Yum

Dancing - wherever I teach, I always end class with a dance party. I’ve read that dancing in public or with peers builds self-confidence, so we’re trying to combat negative perceptions of oneself and low self-esteem early - and we dance in class. Also, it’s just plain fun! 

Headbands - I wear a headband everyday! Mostly because as my Thai friends say in reference to my sweating, "you look like you’ve just taken a shower!”

Pumpkin and egg curry - it’s so, so good. Maybe it’s all the MSG that’s in it, but y’all - it’s delicious, and I’ve eaten it almost everyday for lunch since commuting to language school from the market. I just finished language school this past week, and will no longer eat it often - but it will forever be in my heart (is this too much emotion for food?…no). 

There you go - this was a smattering of some of the indulgent things that fill my life and make it a bit more sweet.

Oh - one of my favorite things of all time is my parents love story. They fell in love, and have done the hard work of staying in love for over 43 years, and this week marks their 42nd wedding anniversary.  Congratulations, Mom & Dad! Love you!!! 

Thanks for reading, dear friends!

  

Love, 

Erin 

I wear red shoes to jail

She turned her face toward the sun, let her mouth and cheeks relax; her chest constricted and contracted. Then as if burned, she whipped her head back to the two concrete metal fences separating us, grimaced and audibly sighed, as if the suns brightness - its sheer yellow burst - was too much to take in a place where one often forgets the sun still shines and provides light. 

Those first sentences are complete projection - but they feel true. When I first met Margaret, I wanted to lasso the sun for her (like in the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, when George wants to lasso the moon for his gal Mary) and bring its radiance down to her and let her feel it’s warmth - thinking somehow this massive ball of burning gas could show her that she can and will leave this stark place. 

Margaret is kept in the Immigration Detention Center (IDC) in Bangkok.  This is where people who have overstayed their visa into the country are jailed.  Thousands of people seeking political asylum through the United Nations, or an escape from lands and countries ravaged with war, political unrest, or not enough food come to Thailand. This daunting reality, and Thailand’s response to it is extremely layered and rife with intricacies. I’ll leave it to Facebook’s vernacular to describe it - it’s complicated!

Through our work at Creative Life Foundation (CLF), some of my colleagues and I visit IDC weekly. The first time I visited IDC, all I had was a name - I knew I was visiting a male from Pakistan. As I waited for him to appear on the other side of the pseudo-barbed wire fence, I was overwhelmed - all the visitors speak to all the folks being visited at the same time - in the same room (okay, it’s technically outside) at a volume that I wasn't sure was allowed outside of amusement parks and festivals.

 Side-note: I just took a break to stress-eat caramel popcorn. Clearly, even typing this scene makes me anxious. 

The lady across from me dressed in a brightly colored outfit put her hand on a young man’s shoulder and motioned toward me. The person standing 4 feet from me was kid, a boy - not a man. He’s small for 15. He’s probably the size of the average 11 year-old in the States. He smiled and I almost lost it - in front of this kid - with his lopsided grin who’s hand was on his mom’s back. It’s one of the only times that week he was able to see her. He’s a teenager, so he has to stay in the male rooms and is separated from his mother, sister, and younger brother. 

A kid - you guys. A KID. I was only there for an hour. Who knows what we talked about. I kept thinking that I hadn't brought him enough candy. If I had known I was visiting a teenager, I would have gotten him a coke or more chocolate or something, I don’t know. I just couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that this gangly, dark-haired boy was in jail. I still can’t. 

I should give you more facts about our visits - like who, when, why - that sort of information. I’m just not good at the facts. If I don’t feel it - I don’t think about it, so somewhere in this jumbled mess of stories are facts about our work - they’re just weaved around Margaret's tears, caramel popcorn, and the kid's smile. 

I usually visit Mohammad. Y’all, he’s amazing. During his time at IDC, he’s learned/taught himself English and stared a micro-finance business making bracelets out of plastic bags. As I type this, he’s been in IDC 14 1/2 months. He and his family - his mother, father, and 4 brothers left their home country seeking asylum -and guess what…they got it! In a month and a half they’ll board a plan to to a new country, and new home, where they’ll all be free. They’ll get to work, and study and live together. I have been visiting Mohammad for 6 months or so - and am thrilled to my bones to see this part - the joy - the freedom that feels so close he could reach out and tackle it. 

The process for applying for political asylum is arduous and long - and once a family lands in their new home - a whole new difficult journey is just beginning. 

When Mohammad told me his family had been accepted by a country, I wanted to leap across the fence, grab him and jump up and down. I did actually jump and scream, i just wasn’t able to touch him or leap (I have the knees of a 88 year old). It felt-  or rather, it feels- so good to know my friend, who is so intelligent and courageous and industrious will soon know liberation. He’ll get to hug his mom whenever he wants and take his little brother to the movies.

I live in the same neighborhood where IDC is located. When I walk home from the cafe where I watch Grey’s Anatomy, I often see the police trucks full of people on their way to IDC. I’ll be belting out P!NK’s new song, and stop abruptly because I’ll see several pairs of hands on the truck windows - and my breath halts in my chest. 

Mohammad gets to leave soon, but there will be someone else to take his spot. Someone who knows intimately the yearning for a new life. 

So we go to IDC so that families can see one another, and teenagers can drink coke on a Tuesday instead of stale water. We go because that could be us -but will probably never be.  We go because there are kids, and moms, and dads, and cousins who need to get out of their rooms for an hour and remember that the sun still shines. We go because we need one another. 

I think I go because I need hope; Mohammad gives me hope - his tenacity and enthusiasm - so then I get to hold it for bit and at best offer it to another. 

 Everyone has spunk, spark, and sass in their soul.  Emma Lazarus, who wrote the poem The New Colossus which is associated with the Statue of Liberty said, “Until we are all free, we are none of us free” and Martin Luther King Jr. put in modern language with, “no one is free until we are all free.” That’s it. We long for freedom for all who thread upon this third plant from the Sun. 

Thanks for reading, dear humans. 

Erin 

The names of the people in this post have been changed. 

Let's Stumble Through

Y'all, as of today, I've been in Thailand for 6 months - whoa. Some days it seems like a wisp of time- like it's been 3 days. Other times it feels like it's been 3 years - but we'll talk about that another day. The words to follow are about my enchantment with the folks with whom I stumble through the circus that is the Thai language.  

I don’t have a high-propensity for learning languages. I am not usually a fast learner. When it’s not about people of feelings, It takes me a bit of time to pick up patterns and see trends. Learning Thai has followed that same path. 

I am in Thai Language school 15 hours a week. I thought it would be draining, that I would have to dredge through the seemingly unending vocabulary and tone patterns. The surprising truth is that my time in language school has breathed life into my sometimes weary body. 

I have laughed and cried, had weighty conversations, discussed our various countries political landscape…yikes…and heard and shared fears and deep joys with humans I’ve only known a few weeks. When you’re learning a language - you don’t know enough words to have any coded conversations. You can only speak truth with the most simple of language - that being married is hard, or your deepest fear is being alone for your entire life, or that your both of your parents have died and you’re caring for your family and it's excruciating. 

During my first month of language school, I was the only person in class learning their 2nd language. Most people spoke at least three languages, and yes - I did take 4 years of Spanish - and on a good day can speak 3 coherent sentences. My classmates have included business professionals from Twain, Japan, and Iran, a non-profit manger from Canada, an finance specialist from Indonesia/Australia, short-term travelers from South Korea, and a entrepreneur from Switzerland. 

These people are lovely, kind, hilarious humans who, like me, have come to this land that is not their original home and and are trying to fit here - and that connects us. We don’t have the same mother-tounge, or practice the same religion, and we’re not in the same tax-bracket - but there’s something about learning something totally new together that breaks down defenses and awkwardness, and all the other usual barriers of life - and we laugh together. In her book, Plan B, Anne Lamott says, “Laughter is carbonated holiness” - and it may seem like hyperbole - but so many of my days in Thai class have felt like holy ground - a place where people can come together and see one another’s human-ness and maybe even a spark of the Divine. 

Some days I glance around at all these people from all of these different countries, and I’m jealous of those who are able to work for the United Nations. I think how incredible it would be - and is - to be surrounded by people from so many different places who have such varied life experience and culture- not easy - but good. 

I should also mention that all of my classmates know and speak, and some have even taught, English. They are brilliant without being pompous, and they recognize my privilege as an American - one who has never had to learn another language to communicate with people, and encourage me when learning the particularly difficult sentence structures and tone sounds. 

It’s an honor to have access to education and teachers and classmates who make learning Thai a hilarious, fun experience that is continually showing me that humans are amazing - and we all hold such wonder and spunk in our souls. I’m so grateful to bear witness to it in the people with whom I speak broken Thai. 

40 days

I don't like darkness. In all my best dreams, I’m in a grassy, wide open field with the morning sun on my face. I do not like Lent, the 40ish days in the historical church calendar plopped in-between Epiphany and Easter. 

I’m an Advent girl, with it’s candles and hope and weight - but not Lent - she’s too much - to heavy. The Eastern Orthodox call Lent the season of bright sadness, which for me, mirrors our lives here on this planet.  

Not far from my doorstep, there are people experiencing the worst life has to offer - oppression, marginalization, dehumanization, starvation- all those words that are written too often and are too easy to say but so hard to stare in the face and enter into. That’s what Lent is for me - intentional time to go into the darkness, the painful, the mucky, and the bloody - in the world and in our own being. 

My favorite image of reconciliation and community is a table - with a seat and plate for everyone. That’s how I imagine heaven - and life at it’s most full. For a few years, I pictured a well-worn wooden table with mis-matched dishes and cutlery, and of course there were blue vintage mason jars full of wildflowers  because I’m nothing if not a pseudo-hipster and a Georgia peach. 

But, (can you begin a sentence with but?) I’m learning that yes, while the table here on earth is beautiful, it’s also incredibly messy. It’s soiled and cluttered with bullets, blood, cocaine, bigotry, resentment, chemo, plates that have too much, and plates that don’t have enough, puss from unhealed wounds rubbing up against other unhealed wounds, shame, bitterness, hubris, and guilt. We bring our whole selves to this table of life - and it’s scary to dive into one another’s wounds as well as our own; to look at ourselves and souls laid bare without our various armors and self-protectants. 

That is Lent. 

That’s what Jesus does - he climbs into our junk and calls us beautiful and stays there with us and then shows us what redemption looks like, which is also messy and not easy or romantic but so good - like Genius’ right-relationship good. 

So during Lent, we get to know our wounds and our beauty and our appetites, our excesses and our scarcities - and we ask for help. Then, we get to know the wounds and beauty and appetites and excesses and scarcities of the world -and we ask for help, again. 

Jesus’ journey to death and life again is the promise of life from death - a journey marked with betrayal, beatings, celebration, bread and wine. Lord, have mercy. 

In Godric, Fredrick Beaukner writes, “ What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” So, this Lent - I’ll try and wrap all my hope around that truth - and the one who puts on skin and moves into my neighborhood and darkness, and shares a meal with me there - who calls me beloved and makes safe holy space for me and everyone else to be with him forever. I’ll carry that into this season and life of bright sadness. 

You were a sweet slow dance

So long, 2015. You were a sweet slow dance of a year. You held so much beauty.

Last January, I got to begin my days watching the sun rise in Washington Heights and end the day watching the sun set over the grassy field at the end of my street in South Atlanta. I loved the cold weather - with it’s demand to wear sweaters and leggings and drink hot beverages out of favorite mugs - can you sense that I miss the cold?! You were a balm to my tattered and weathered soul. You were a beautiful, unexpected gift.  I was rooted enough in Atlanta to have friends who knew the ugly and and beautiful parts of me- and continued to choose me. My family lived close enough for me to see them often. I got to snuggle and hold babies, while I rested and healed.

2014 was a hard year - with its sharp pains and long aches. 2015 was a time for healing and restoration. I was given so many gifts - topped with a cherry of grace.

A year ago, I’m not sure I would have believed that I’d be sitting in Bangkok typing these words.

I was cared well for in 2015 - more specifically- I felt well-cared for. I was loved well - by so many. I was able to have a job that I loved caring, for kids I love. I was given safe homes to be in when I needed respite, and so much delight and laughter.  You held so many dreams, 2015. Thank you. 

Living in Bangkok and working for CLF is a dream come true - really - it was an ache in my soul for so long - I forgot that it was there. I am so grateful to be here. It's been messy - but the best parts of a life lived well are messy and full. I’ve been so well supported by friends here who are now family and friends and family in the States. 

In Bangkok, there’s so much pain. The city aches with it. You can see it all over - people searching through garbage piles for food and clothing or something to sale, ladies putting on makeup outside of massage parlors waiting for customers - people cruising the red light areas looking for something - searching for something that can’t be found there. We all long for intimacy - if just looks different than what we think it should look like. 

 It’s all so much - and that doesn't even scratch the surface of the tension and dissonance - in the world. There’s just a lot to hold. 

I'll hold hope for you, 2016. May you be full of radical restoration and peace. May you hold gifts and invitations that move us - that make us see one another as fellow humans along this journey. As Mama T says, may we be reminded that we belong to one another.

A little less sweaty, but still grateful, 

EM