World Changers pt. 3...

If you want to start this series from the beginning than start here.

Peter Remington Dunn is one of my favorite human beings. There's a lot of reasons for that. He is funny and creative. He's never afraid to say what he thinks and he asks a lot of good questions. He also has managed to find one of the most beautiful, witty, caring women in the world and convinced her to marry him (rumor has it that his dance moves cannot be ignored). So basically Peter's living the high life. I am proud to be Peter's friend, but that's not why he is one of my world changers. He gets his own blogpost because he is my pastor and as my pastor he is teaching me to really see the world around me.

Peter pastors the evening service at our church. It is a rag-tag group of weirdos- college students, men and women in their early-mid thirties, a couple families, the elderly, and at least 1/3 of our congregation is made-up of local men and women who are homeless. I'm not sure how we all came together, but here we are walking in together every Sunday evening. We meet in the original sanctuary of our church which has been changed into the gym or youth room. The space itself represents our service well- it's messy and smattered with DIY projects, but somehow it feels like home. Although our service is an off-shoot of the larger congregation in a lot of ways we feel like our own church. 

I've spent a lot of time thinking about what makes our service special because honestly we are not reinventing the wheel. There's a time of prayer before we begin, worship music, a sermon, coffee, and "greet your neighbor". I mean, let's be honest, these are the basic evangelical ingredients since the dawn of time. But there is something about the way we mix these ingredients together that makes me feel like I'm tasting a brand-new concoction. 

Now look I know the biggest and most important aspect of our church is that God is moving and breathing and directing our steps. We are just dirt until he picks us up and breathes life upon us. BUT one of the ways that God interacts with us is through Peter. Peter is the best kind of pastor. He trusts the Spirit within him to move mountains, but he doesn't want anyone giving him the credit when the rocks start to roll. He looks into an empty space and he sees life in it. He sees how to set lighting and use music and media to engage his church. But he doesn't believe that a particular slide is going to transform someone's life. He wants to collaborate. He wants to hear new ideas and brainstorm through the old ones. All of those are reasons why Peter makes a great facilitator for our church, but it isn't why he is our pastor. 

Peter is our pastor because he challenges us to see Christ's movement in the world. He sees each and every one of us in our seats and he knows that if we offer our lives to Christ there is nothing stopping us from changing the world. Peter believes that the Church exists to provide for spiritual needs and physical ones. That means he doesn't just plan a sermon, he also finds ways to live that sermon out. So for example, last night he preached about the gift that is Jesus in a manger, and he bought a new tent for one the homeless members in our church. He crafts a series on community and then he facilitates community meals so that we gather together and get to know each other. Peter sees the unseen and he hears the voiceless. He cares deeply for the oppressed and disenfranchised and he shows that compassion by living his life in a way that loves- always. Peter is never going to be the guy that just buys a hipster beanie because the company gives to charity. Now don't get me wrong, he will rock that beanie with every hipster bone in his body- but he will wear it while actually serving his community. 

I learn something new everyday from my friend, my colleague, and my pastor. Peter truly is changing the world and I can't wait to see what happens next.

World Changers pt. 2...

Author's Note: Continuing the series of men and women who have changed my life. To read from the beginning start here.

When I was ten years old I read the book Zlata's Diary. Zlata was a young girl who lived in Sarajevo during the war in 1992. She was inspired to keep a journal after reading The Diary of Anne Frank. Eventually her diary was turned into a book and I found it on a shelf at my elementary school's library. Zlata's story captured me. To this day I don't really understand what it was about Zlata that I was so consumed by, but her story sparked something in my heart that would define the woman I was going to become.

As a ten year old I saw a lot of myself in Zlata. In fact as I looked at her picture on the back of the book I thought we even looked a bit alike. She was only a few years older than me and even though we lived on different sides of the world, we were both just girls. She kept a diary and so did I. Even though many of her entries were a place that she worked out the pain and trauma of living in a war zone, there were plenty of entries about life. She wrote about her family and her cat. She wrote about her favorite foods and her birthday wishes. In many ways my diary was a mirror image of hers. 

When I finished the book, I had to read it again. And as I reread the pages of one girl's fear and terror I grew more and more convinced that I had to do something. So I wrote a letter to President Clinton, asking him to help Zlata and her family. Even at ten I was convinced that my government could save the day. A few weeks went by and as far as I could see nothing was changing. This frustrated me. So I  thought maybe more people needed to hear Zlata's words. I was convinced that if someone else could read her book or learn her story they would be just as passionate as I was about helping her.

Around this time I was competing in a speech contest with my school. I decided that my speech had to be about Zlata. I wrote up what my 10-year-old brain thought was the perfect snapshot of Zlata's story and I knew that as my teachers and friends heard about Zlata they would want to help bring about change. My little speech kept winning round after round and in a few weeks I found myself at the district-level contest. On the night of the contest I stood up at the podium and as fervently as I could, I talked about Zlata. I read her actual words and I spoke about how unforgivable it was that I was a girl with the freedom to play in my yard or walk to my friend's house and Zlata was hiding in her house, cowering from air raids and hungry because of the lack of food. I urged the people in front of me to care- to care that a little girl they didn't know wasn't getting the chance to live her life. 

I'm not sure that my speech really made any difference. I went home with second place and my first dose of cynicism. But I'm so glad that I "met" Zlata through the pages of her diary. Her life marked something important in me. Her life stood as a reminder that there are always those living with less, struggling with pain and hurt, and attempting to walk through traumas. Some of those people are easy to love because they look like us or we know them. But some of those people don't fit into a neat box. 

Zlata's courage in the face of such devastation was the first time that I saw how important standing up with others is. In her diary Zlata often wrote about how lonely she was. She wondered if anyone cared about what was happening to her city. She struggled, because she felt alone. Those words imprinted themselves on my heart and I decided right then that I would never ignore the hurts and brokenness I saw around me. I decided that I wanted to help. Zlata may have felt alone in Sarajevo and in so many ways she was. But her words inspired and transformed a little girl in America and for that I am eternally grateful. I want to end this post with Zlata's own words about war and resistance. Let them inspire you with courage of your own...

"I keep thinking about the march I joined today. Its bigger and stronger than war. That's why it will win. The people must be the ones to win, not the war, because war has nothing to do with humanity. War is something inhuman."

World Changers...

I've had a writing project on my mind for the last few weeks and I've finally finished finals so it seems the time is NOW! I've been inspired by an advent devotional that a powerhouse of a woman has been writing (find it here) and I want to do something similar. 

In my life I have been blessed by people who continue to teach me, to challenge me, and to help form me into the person I am today. As they say, no one is an island and even though that's totally a cliche- it happens to be true. I want to devote some blog space to the people who I admire- who teach me what it means to walk around on this earth with intentionality. So... all that to say, the next few entries I'll be profiling the world changers who I love, some I know personally and some I just admire from a distance (not in a creepy way). 

Here we go...

Sarah Keough is my best friend. We met in August a few years ago at orientation for seminary. We were placed in the same small group and the rest is history. Sarah and I bonded over our mutual distrust of authority and our very real, very vibrant love of stupid television shows. Sarah is truly one of the greats, and here's why...

In addition to being beautiful and funny and fiercely loyal Sarah happens to be smart. I'm not talking "I did ok on the SATs" smart, I'm talking "better put her in the bunker if the world blows up because we need her brain and also her heart" smart. Sarah sees the world like no one I know. She sees God's hand in it. She sees nooks and crannies that the rest of us are blowing by. Sarah takes in details and finds ways to weave them together that are so unique and so beautiful that you just want to cry and build a monument in their honor.

I have learned so much from Sarah. I have learned that it is ok to take time to really think something through before running my mouth or finding a solution. I have learned to find the systems in place that take advantage of others and to fight like hell to dismantle them. I have learned that waiting for someone else to stand up before I do is cowardice. 

I love this sister of mine. Sarah is going to change the world with her voice and her heart and her brain. I love that I have a front row seat for it and I'm going to be cheering her on every step of the way. 

Also side note: I love that she is going to hate this blog post because it's gushy and about her and she is going to be so embarrassed. Unfortunately for her, my desire to brag about her outweighs her desire to not be written about.

Currents, October 2014

I realized that my last few blog posts have been pretty heavy. I am in desperate need of a distraction and so here are the current things occupying the space in my mind, heart, and life...

Drink: Well California is currently in the middle of God's wrath, otherwise known as the hottest fall known to man. So my drink of choice is cold, ice water. I'm slurping it up by the gallon.

Project: I have a small, white dresser that I use as a TV stand in my room. It's so adorable and I love it. But recently I've been tossing the idea around of painting it, it also really needs new hardware. I'd love to shnaz it up a bit.

Location: When I returned home to SoCal I discovered that the Del Amo Mall had been totally remodeled. This may seem insignificant to those who don't know Del Amo, but this was an iconic mall of my youth and it has been fun exploring the changes.

TV Show: The Good Wife is the best drama on television. If you aren't watching this show you are a crazy person, like seriously. This show constantly surprises me. The writing is intricate and impressive, the acting is on point, the direction is focused. I find that after an hour of Good Wife I am surprised to be back in my real life because I completely disappeared into the story. GO WATCH THIS SHOW!

Worry: The LA freeway system

Movie: I've got to say I've been pretty disappointed in the big screen lately. I haven't really seen anything that looks worth throwing down $13. But I plan on going to see Gone Girl, so I'll let you know if it lives up to the hype.

Food: I have perfected salad dressing. I know, I know this seems like a stupid thing- but I am telling you salad dressing makes or breaks the salad. With this godforsaken heat I haven't wanted to turn on the stove or oven so we've been eating a lot of salads. After a lot of tinkering I can officially say I make the best salad dressing on the planet.
Here's my recipe for a simple, healthy, delicious salad:
Spring mix with extra arugula
bell pepper
red onion
carrot
avocado
cucumber
A LOT OF DICED CILANTRO
For the dressing: garlic salt, pepper, olive oil, lemon juice, balsamic vinegar

Celebrity Crush: Emma Watson is killing it right now with her work on HeforShe.

Obsession: Daydreaming about winning the lotto.

Book: This month all my reading happens to be stacks upon stacks of books for school and those books are much too boring to mention here. But I am compiling my "on break" reading list.

Thankfulness: My beautiful church family who loves me, supports me, and puts up with my wild inclinations.

Indulgence: I've found this hole-in-the-wall doughnut shop by the beach that serves glazed doughnuts with brown sugar crumble. I'm not going to lie, I'd stab a guy for these doughnuts.

Fashion: Now that I'm back in Southern California I get to live 24/7 in dresses again. I do love a sundress.

Music: This and this have been healing my soul in a summer and fall that I've found incredibly tragic.

Why the Conversation Matters...

"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." -Nelson Mandela

When I was eighteen years old I got into a plane and flew across the world to South Africa. Before I got there I had a "briefing" about some of the country's history. I was given an overview of Apartheid and the effects that racism had on the country. Like the other members of my team I was horrified by the facts and stories we heard in that briefing and I just kept thinking to myself, "Thank God that's over." My white, middle-class, feminine self believed with her whole heart that because the law had changed, the country had changed- and then the plane landed.

What I found when I waded into African soil was that the effects of hatred are far-reaching. As I listened to stories and walked through townships I realized that the work was just beginning. I saw pain and poverty like I had never seen before. But what struck me the most was the distance in the conversations the country was having. There were some who would say, "South Africa has seen a dark time, but we've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and things are better now. We're working together and we've silenced the voice of hatred." The mouths that spoke those words were using white and well fed. The other story I would hear came from the black body, it was a body that was tired- tired of the fight, tired of the pain, tired of the humiliation. That body usually said something like, "We've come a long way. We've battled a long time and there is still much to do. Perhaps the voice of hatred isn't shouting anymore, but it's whispers are just as deadly."

I've spent this week thinking a lot about my time in Africa. The stories coming out of Ferguson remind me of the nights when I slept under African stars. And once again I see two very different stories being presented.

On the one hand there's a narrative that a black "man" robbed a store, assaulted a police officer, and was unfortunately shot in the course of trying to maintain peace and order. As a result of that event people have flocked to the streets and used violence and anger against a city and government that is simply trying to do their job.

The other story says that an African-American BOY was murdered, left bleeding on the street for hours, and dismissed. This atrocity devastated a community that had had enough and they raised their voices and at times their hands and demanded that something change.

Once again the conversations are far apart.

I don't know what happened in the last moments of Michael Brown's life. But I do know this. I know without any doubt that racism still exists in our world and it still exists in our communities. I know that when people are held down long enough, eventually they reach a breaking point and I believe the community of Ferguson (and perhaps the world that is watching) has reached that point. I know that when we look at our neighbor and see skin color or political ties instead of fellow people we are headed for an explosion. I know that my country is filled with people who look differently than I do and believe differently than I do, but those people were also knit together by the Lord Almighty. They are held together with the same muscles, blood, and nerves that I am. I know that we need to stop yelling our stories at each other, take a seat, and listen.

Our conversation is too far apart.

My whole self aches as I watch and read the news coming out of Ferguson. I ache for Michael's mother, who lost a son and in turn lost a piece of herself. I ache for our country- so busy with winning an argument that we've forgotten compassion and grace. But mostly I ache because we have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. 

That is why we must talk about this and not just with the people who look like us and think like us. It is time to listen- listen to the hurting as they cry. Listen to the angry as they shout. Listen to the whispers and the warnings and the stories. Listen when it costs us something. Ferguson is not just a town in some part of the country that doesn't have anything to do with us. Ferguson is our town and our people and they are crying out. Will we hear them? Will we risk what is comfortable and listen to them? Will we attempt to hear the story that doesn't read like the one we've lived out and learn what is written on their pages? I hope so.

Perhaps in those moments our conversations will run together, bleeding both black and white.

Falcon Strong...

The past two days have been a whirlwind and at the same time it feels like the minutes have inched by. Is that possible? How does that happen? I've tried to form cohesive thoughts about the tragedy that my community has seen and I'm not sure I have any. But putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys as the case may be) helps me and so I'm going to try to make sense of my feelings and my thoughts, even though there may be no sense to hold onto.

On Thursday when I got the text that campus was in lockdown I was already in Bellevue. This quarter I've had a class off campus and I carpool there with three friends. We try to get there early to beat the traffic and that punctuality meant we weren't at SPU when the shooting began. The four of us sat in a Starbucks, huddled around a laptop that was streaming the news and texted with our friends. I felt this cold, biting fear as I waited to hear that the people I love were ok, I also wept as I thought about the friends who were never going to get the "I'm ok, I'm in lockdown and waiting for information" text. We waited in that Starbucks until we got a text that campus wasn't on lockdown anymore and then we got in the car and drove back. We just wanted to be with out friends, our teachers, and our school. At one point on the drive home I felt such sorrow because I realized even if we were all safe, we were never going to be ok.

We aren't ok. I'm not ok. My heart is broken. A man walked into one of our halls and opened fire and everything changed. We want answers and there just aren't any. A life was taken and others were severely injured (both physically and emotionally) and that can't ever be erased. I'm angry and devastated. I'm broken and fearful. SPU is now part of those lists: Sandy Hook, UCSB, Virginia Tech, SPU. I hate that list. I don't want to be on it. I don't want it to exist at all. But here we are. We can't go back to before June 5th. Our identity carries this now.

But we aren't simply this event. There's a reason that Seattle Pacific University is a special place.

Do you know what happened immediately after this event? My school's leadership team planned a prayer service. A few hours after lockdown was lifted we poured into that church. People were sitting on the floor, standing in the aisles, piled onto the stage, and still we didn't all fit. Teacher, student, administrator- we were all there. We held each other and cried and sang and prayed. Our amazing Dr. Spina spoke words of truth over us. Words we needed to hold onto so desperately. We recognized that this event wouldn't rip us from each other. This event wouldn't steal our community.

Do you know what happened that night? Students took it upon themselves to form a candlelight vigil. They gathered and cried and held tightly to the truth that we aren't alone in this tragedy. Our God laments as well and we walk with each other.

Here's what has knocked me over: my teachers. My wise, sensitive, amazing teachers have cared for us even when I know they themselves need to be cared for. I got emails from all of them on Thursday night, saying that they would be on campus Friday and that if any of us needed to process we should feel free to come by. These men and women were huddled in classrooms during lockdown too, but they wouldn't let the fear win. They are teachers and leaders and so they teach and they lead. They teach me that love and compassion win over bullets. They lead me towards the throne room of the King and I am proud to follow them.

Yes, we are broken. We aren't ok and I think it will be a very long time till we are. In fact I think all of us will carry June 5th on our backs for the rest of our lives. It will always be part of our story. Yet, I don't think I'll ever be able to think of that horrific day without also thinking of the way my friend Anh grabbed my hand in Starbucks, reminding me I wasn't alone or the sound of voices singing praise to our Lord in that packed prayer service. I'll never be able to remember June 5th without getting choked up at the image of Dr. Watson waiting in his office to pray and process with his students or the pastoral staff of countless churches offering their ears and arms to those of us who needed it.

Yes, we are broken but that isn't all we are.

Shannon...

It is with a heavy heart that I find myself typing another blog about the death of a loved one. It seems like we were just beginning to find a way to put one foot in front of the other with the loss of Mary and now here we are, mourning Shannon. I don't have words for the heaviness of this grief. I just don't. And I'd decided that I wasn't going to write a blog about Shannon because it just seemed like too much- too much hurt, too much sorrow, way too much loss. But I can't sleep tonight because of these words I have within me and so here I am, spilling them onto the screen...

I imagine over the next few weeks Facebook will be overloaded with stories of who Shannon was, in fact the stories are coming already and it hasn't even been 24 hours since she died. There will be stories of her strength and courage, stories of how she cared for her family, stories of her commitment to the Watt's Powerhouse food bank, and stories of her faith. There will be the "big" Shannon stories, like how she bravely worked at LAX during those first days of 9/11 (Special Agent Kitten through and through), stories of her time in Hawaii with Erin, stories of how much she loved walking on the beach, or the marathons she ran. I've tried to figure out what my "big" Shannon story is and I find that I don't have a "big" story- just a quiet one. A simple memory that I will wrap carefully and place in my heart. A small story that will give me the courage to live a life as bravely as Shannon did.

Many, many moons ago I was working as the high school intern at St. Andrews. As part of my job I planned a "girl's retreat" weekend with my co-leader, Chelsea Hellinga. We planned a fun overnight at a fancy hotel and we were excited to spend some time with our small group girls, lounging by the pool and staying up late. One of the lovely ladies that went on the trip was Colleen Hamilton. We had a wonderful weekend and I didn't think much more of it until the next week.

The next week I was at the Hamilton's for dinner, they hosted us college kids weekly, feeding us and entertaining us with their banter. Shannon pulled me aside and said she wanted to thank me. I asked her what for and she said that Colleen had so much fun at the retreat and she was so glad. I told her she was more than welcome, and I figured that this was just another parent thanking her kid's youth leader for getting her out of the house and bringing her home in one piece. But Shannon grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes and said, "No, thank you. Colleen has been feeling out of place at church. I feel like she's been drifting a bit and she needed this. I've been praying that Colleen would feel connected again." Then she gave me a big hug and sent me on my way.

Here's why that moment has always stuck with me. Shannon taught me something really important about being a parent that night. First, she taught me to know your kid. I was so shocked that Shannon was that tuned to what her daughter was feeling. She knew Colleen. She knew what her child needed. Shannon loved her children fiercely but beyond loving them, she KNEW them. She was committed to understanding who her children were and this small moment taught me how important that is. Finally, I'll never forget the fervor with which she spoke about praying for Colleen. It was clear that this wasn't some half-hearted prayer. These were "knock on the gates of heaven" prayers. Shannon was constantly lifting her family to the Lord, trusting him to cover what she couldn't.

Maybe tomorrow I'll think of a funnier Shannon story or a Shannon story that has some deep insight, but tonight I'm happy with my simple tale. I feel so honored that I got that five minute conversation with Shannon because it planted some very important seeds deep within me. I know that Shannon's legacy lives on in her children and her husband and even Rudy. But Shannon's legacy will also live on in me as I strive to listen and learn who the people around me are and as I do my own pounding on heaven's doors.