Singing with Jamie

I remember the very first time I met my sister-in-law, Jamie.  She was sitting on the brick wall outside the north entrance to Seattle's University Presbyterian Church.  It was a chilly Saturday morning in early 2001 and she was helping out with a work day offered by college students preparing to go abroad for the summer.  I don't remember this, but I'm willing to bet she was holding a Starbucks Americano.  A few months later she, my brother Ned, and two others left for Turkey for the summer.  They came home with carpets and stories and Jamie's filled journals and Ned's newly pierced ears, dyed red hair, and Bono-style sunglasses, and both of them with stars in their eyes.  Shortly thereafter they started dating and I moved to Europe.  Ned called me a few months later when they were engaged in February.  Jamie and I talked on the phone a time or two and she sent me Crayola markers and cards she illustrated and a verse from Zephaniah:

 

On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem:

 

"Fear not, O Zion;
let not your hands grow weak.
The Lord your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.

I will gather those of you who mourn for the festival,
so that you will no longer suffer reproach."

I get chills from the words and the song in my own heart is wet with tears.

Jamie and Ned were married the following August on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.  They made promises and danced and shed tears and laughed and Ned spontaneously kissed the bride at the beginning of the ceremony, prompting a mock rebuke from their pastor that it wasn't time for that yet and charmed, delighted laughter from the gathered crowd.  Their lives continue to play like that.  Four children and eleven years later they are still singing, this time a song that mixes in sorrow but that rings clearly with their thick, abiding love for each other and echoes of profound living.  Here is her song this morning.  I love you, Jamie.

http://nedabenroth.blogspot.com/2013/08/an-update-from-jamie.html?spref=fb

Reached

When my mom was diagnosed with melanoma I had no idea how important people I barely knew would become to me. I've always been one for rich, meaningful friendships and leaned toward having a small circle of close friends over a large gathering of more casual friends. It doesn't have to be one or the other, although for many reasons I found that I could enjoy a larger circle but felt more alive in a closer one. Mom's diagnosis came when I was about 21 years old and I turned to my family and a few close friends in that time. But when her disease progressed I discovered I was also leaning into the larger communities I'd become part of. They were rich, healthy communities, able to help carry the weight of reality in life...the joyous and the grave...for so many of us. It was a natural leaning for me because it was a relational one. I hold the memory of some dark days with the sweetness of those connections. I also saw how a bouyancy formed out of the hearts of people around the globe...people who simply heard a story and followed their hearts' responses.

Now I find myself in different but familiar circumstances with my brother Ned's cancer journey and see again how the comfort of established friendships and the rising of new ones form the love God meets me with. I usually have a lot of bandwidth for life's harder curves, but right now much of my capacity feels used up by the recent birth of my son and the play-out of some postpartum depression. At times I feel the ground in everything going on right now and at times I don't. In all of it I am grateful for friends and family who also live in light of love, shared love, love that embraces and accompanies. We don't usually know why new relationships enter our lives at certain times but I know that the advent of new circles in my life this past year is no accident. They widen my heart without diluting meaning...rather, enriching it. They carry part of my story, helping to remind me of what I know and marking pages for me to come back to. I am deeply grateful for friends old and new....in relating we can be for each other expressions of God's heart.

Ned's in surgery right this very moment and his post this morning shares a note he received from our sister Britt, a true illumination of the kind of love and living that most moves me....moves me toward desire for closeness with those I love and deeper appreciation for the massive host of humanity we are graced to be part of.

See the post here, click on his blog title for all of his posts:

http://nedabenroth.blogspot.com/2013/08/i-consider-myself-luckiest-man-on-face.html?m=1

Ned's Stories

It's a little after 5 am on this Friday morning.  I've been up since 3 am ... fed the baby, tucked him back into bed with Jonathan, and returned to the kitchen nook where I've been staring at the slowly dawning day for the last hour and a half.  The sprinklers are clicking away outside, soft music wafts through the room, a dim light shines above me, and summer's silent night breeze cools the earth as the ground prepares for the upcoming heat of day.  I'm at my dad & stepmom's house in Walla Walla, my hometown, for a weekend gathering of a few close friends & family to celebrate the birth of Jonathan's and my new, 6-week old baby boy.  I really should be back in bed, I know that sleep is one of the things I need most these days.  But the writing I've done in my head is aching to hit the page so I need to be here.  But I'm staring out the window instead...

While I'll share my own recent experiences, I need to start with this, my brother's blog.  Ned is not quite 4 years younger than me.  He's married and has 4 little kids.  He's a creator, an instigator, full of ideas.  He's a dreamer who makes things happen.  He's energetic and smart.  He's forward thinking and a risk taker.  He's reflective and he seeks meaning in everything.  He's fun and longs for joy.  He embodies the essence of Life and lives the wisdom he has come to know.  And he has cancer and he's writing about his story because shared space is where he knows his story already lives.

I love you Nedly!

The Gift of Cancer (& Other Tales)
http://nedabenroth.blogspot.com

Holding On

"To be alive is to be vulnerable."
-- Madeline L'Engle

There's an office building about half way down the block that has a steep gravel driveway running behind it, from the street level up to a hilly area in back.  I walk that stretch of Eastlake twice a day.  They were a ways ahead of me but caught my eye immediately when I stepped outside onto the sidewalk.  She, in her faded jeans, worn jacket, tennis shoes and backpack.  He, in black pants, black shirt, black baseball cap and gold hoop earrings.  He had a backpack too, a nicer one.  Purple.  He may have been as old as 22.  She definitely wasn't.  It immediately felt off.

As they walked she ducked her head slightly toward him the way 17-year-old girls do when they're insecure and under the control of someone who they think loves them.  He paid her no heed.  They didn't speak.  He never looked at her.  She was with him but they were not together.  And his grip....  He held on to her, not by the hand but by the top of the wrist.  They weren't going somewhere; he was taking her somewhere.

I was getting closer when he turned up the gravel ramp toward the weeds under the Mercer Street ramp.  By the time I crossed the street they were at the top of the ramp.  He cut off along the chain link fence and they were gone.

I know she was not safe.

There are times when the sense of paralysis is swift and overwhelming.  "You have to do something!" careening through your brain mixes with "There is nothing I can do to stop this."  The whole thing lasted seconds but my thoughts covered a lot of ground in that time.  Angry tears flushed mascara to my lap as I drove home.  I was livid.  With him, with me, with the whole situation.  Should I have tried to talk to them?  I was so far behind I'd have had to make a bit of a scene to do that, but I've made a very public scene before on behalf of a young woman and it worked and I would do it again...and better.  But do it and say...what?  Or call the police?  "Yeah, um, I think the girl down the sidewalk is in trouble; could you send someone right away? and I'll climb the fence and try to find them in the foot-trails under the freeway and if I do I'll follow or stall them until you get here."  Maybe I should have called.  The police here have done a fair amount of work around trafficking issues.  Or maybe I should have attracted attention in hopes that they'd think I needed help.  Sometimes, though, attention places the girl in more danger than she's already in.  The need to prove loyalty intensifies.  The wrist grip tightens.  To notice her is personal.  She is not there for her.  No one should notice her.

And yet, notice is imperative.

There are a couple of women in my life who I wonder about all the time.  They are young but adult, relatively independent, making choices.  They have taken and stopped many a hand extended toward them.  Some of those hands were extended for good, some for ill.  They don't always know the difference.

We have this idea that we can do so much.  We raise money, we write letters, we call our senators.  We host awareness events, we attend conferences, we volunteer on work trips.  We write books, we change laws, we throw people in prison.  We rescue and we provide counseling and job training and we talk about systemic problems.  The modern-day abolition movement runs on the very idea of eradicating slavery forever.  It won't happen.  At least not in this lifetime.  It's good work but I don't believe any of it is enough for all time.

But I do believe in doing it.
And then in doing it again.

"Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured."
-- Emily Dickinson

A month ago Jonathan & I attended a fundraising dinner in Walla Walla for a nonprofit that provides orphan support in Jamaica.  Money was raised that night for three projects, each of them valuable investments in the furtherance of life for thousands of orphaned children.  A few months ago a I helped a friend with a scholarship fundraiser here in Seattle, benefitting young people trying to move beyond extreme poverty in the Philippines.  Last night I spent hours pouring over the website and mission materials of an orphanage in Kenya.  A gal I've met with visited someone there this year, putting it on my radar.  I'm deeply drawn to this kind of work for a number of reasons.  It's along a path I've been on the past few years.

Noticing is part of who I am. I know that none of these projects can fill all the gaps.  I've been through enough grief to know that sometimes you just have to accept the holes and learn to live with them.  Loss is real.  But it's not all the same.  We all face losses but some losses are more ripping for us than others.  So these projects are important pieces of protection and care, of notice, and where the fill is love the holes can become less sharp around the edges.

Kids become orphans in many ways.  For many of them, their bodies tell heartbreaking stories of abuse and neglect.  In her address at the dinner, Carla Francis Edie, head of Jamaica's Child Development Agency, emphasized that many of the children in their system need extensive psychotherapy to deal with the profound abuses that landed them in the state system to begin with.  I hope that one way or another they'll get it.

But that's not all I hope for.

Carl Robanske, EO's founder, interviewed a 14 year old girl whose story was shared at the dinner.  She held up her hand, showing him the scars she bears from the time her mother flew at her face with a machete.  If she hadn't raised her hand...  Carl spent very little time discussing EO's work but he didn't need to.  He summed it up in 3 words:  "We hold them."

I'm for holding.

I feel haunted by the girl on Eastlake.  I know we all have our versions of this story...real scenarios, and if not our own then others'; and, when others', where we wonder if we should step in or not, where we wonder if we made the wrong decision, whatever the decision was.  There are all kinds of reasons not to, many of them good ones.  The decision is not always straight forward.  I don't berate myself, but I do feel the bind.  But she feels it more.  Well actually I don't know about that -- she may not feel it.  But I know she's in it, and someday it may become more than she can bear.  Regardless of whether it does or not, though, it's heartbreaking that she is bearing it.  Some people say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  In some cases that may be true and life is found in or from all of it; but in any case I'd rather strength be gained by what we are behind, by the good that we hold, not at the hands of exploitation or pain for its own sake.  I tend to think that's the only way pain makes us stronger....we gain strength through the hands held out to us that offer hope, whether they are the hands of people or the hands of Hope in the heart.  It's a given that there will be pain and grief.  I don't deny that nor, even in my losses, do I wish it away.  But it should not be the only thing that grows us.

I am just home from a week in Alabama and South Carolina, where I spent hours and hours listening to women tell defining stories from their lives. Holding was thematic, literally for some...holding a dying child, wanting to be held by a deceased mother, holding a depressed husband, dreams of a grandfather's hands. And then there's that holding of the wrist...  Holding is not neutral. And at its best it won't be enough either. But where it is loving presence and support, affirmation of human value, rest, redemptive touch and respectful offering, it is good.

I'm for that.

_________________
©2011 Mindy Danylak

see also at:
http://geographyofgrace.com/2012/10/08/holding-on/

Thoughts on Haiti

Last week we demolished a massive brick & concrete block fireplace in our living room and dumped the rubble on our front lawn. The pile is about 3 feet high, 30 feet long, and 10 feet across. It weighs several tons and it gives off a strong, concretey sooty smell when it’s wet from the rain…which we’ve been having virtually non-stop for over a week now. All that remains where the original fireplace stood is under the living room floor…a long trough filled with broken bricks and blocks. On Monday night, I looked at that trough and turned to Jonathan. “That’s the beginning of what I imagine when I think of earthquake rubble,” I commented.

Then Tuesday happened.

Driving to work Wednesday my eyes spontaneously filled with tears as I listened to news reports of damage and death and destruction in Haiti. It was early…despair didn’t seem to be setting in but desperation seemed palpable, even across a radio broadcast. As I listened while driving home later in the day, I became aware that I was shaking my head…back and forth…no, no, no…how long had I been shaking my head? Tears streamed down my face…involuntary, effortless, unstoppable.

Ten years ago that morning (January 13) I flew to Manila with 9 friends for 10 days. The first day we were packed into a jeep and driven through the sweltering city. It was my first glimpse of people living in cardboard boxes, the overwhelming smell saturating the humid air, kids blocking the road begging for anything you’d give them. The sunsets were amazing but children’s lungs look like they’ve been life-long smokers due to the smog. Poverty and street life in a devastating collision. On January 24 I went back to work and one of my colleagues asked how it had been. I looked at her and replied my honest reality. “I would be willing to change everything in my life.”

I had no idea. Six months later, I left the family law firm I’d worked for since before I finished college. I took a position with a financial services firm that I held for a few months. Mom died before Thanksgiving. A year later I moved to the Czech Republic and less than a month after arriving I found myself one weekend in Cheb, on the western border with Germany. The area was first settled around 800 AD. Population today is around 30,000. And it is a hub for child prostitution and human trafficking through Europe. Babies are sold to pedophiles. I’m not kidding.

I arrived home and looked at that pile on the front lawn. My house is ripped up and compared to my regular life it’s highly inconvenient. But in comparison, it’s not. Not really. My rubble is organized. It’s creative. I planned for it and paid for it. It’s even government sanctioned…I have a permit for it. I have a truck coming to take it away. And there’s no one under there, dead or dying, reaching out with an empty hand or a gasping plea for help.

Haiti. Death, injury, disease, trauma, government, shock, displacement, refugees, exploitation. And that was off the top of my head. For nearly 15 years now my life and work have linked with people in difficult and sometimes dire situations. I would never presume to “get it”…to relate, understand…especially in this situation. That might be the height of arrogance. But in my humanity I have been caught differently with this one…the intersection of reality and my heart and things brewing right now. The inclination is strong to find a way to “do something”…“to go.” And for some people, that is entirely appropriate and needed. For all kinds of reasons, that’s not really what I should do right now. But one thing I do know is that moments create movements. Some moments live in their own kind of time…they are part of and they are different from…and they need to be honored as such. And even when they are part of something else it can all be so imperceptible. But in their coagulating they create something. I have been here before. Each time it’s different but hazily familiar, and somehow that sense is instantly recognizable. I know this place. I’ve been knowing it for some time. And I suspect that, in your own life, you do too.

I don’t often carry Bible verses in my mind, but I do carry images I see when I read them. Among the most vivid is the Old Testament story of when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River. After they were safely on the other side, they gathered stones and created memorials. These stones represented reminders for them. I can see them, walking, deciding which to put down and leave behind, which one to carry…gathering them together and telling the story. I have released and collected some stones over the years…some literal, some figurative…some I’ve selected, some were given to me. Some of them carry meaning, but mostly the meaning is in the story. I’m not sure yet what I will “do” around Haiti and what is happening there. But one thing I do know…I will save some of those stones in my front yard. It is part of my movement right now. It’s part of Haiti in my life. And those stones and broken bricks in Haiti…they’re not going away any time soon.

©2010 Mindy Danylak

Relationship Disaster: "Twilight" or "Sadomasochistic Teenage Erotica" ?

There is a lot going on in this recent blog entry from Kimberly George and some of you may be drawn to other parts of it, but I wanted to share the following section about the violence at work in the "Twilight" stories. While I admit to not having read the series, I very much share Kimberly's concern about models for relationships -- and this is not the first time I've heard the word "heroin" in a description of Bella & Edward's relationship. For those of you who have read these, what do you think?

What Twilight Has to Teach: Today’s Normative Gender Restrictions and the Marriage of Sex and Violence

As we talk about normative gender restrictions, I think it’s important to highlight one extremely popular script currently in vogue, particularly for teenagers: the bestselling Twilight books and movies. The second book in the series, New Moon, just came out this fall as a movie. The gender stereotypes in these stories are as damaging as any of the religious beliefs around gender we have so often analyzed on our blog. Here, I will restrict my comments to the original book in the series, Twilight, which is the only one I have read, but reading summaries of the others in the series has assured me the problematic gender scripts only get worse.

The drama of this original, bestseller revolves around the awkward Bella and the “god-like” Edward falling tragically in love. She is the new girl in town who wins the attention of the aloof, mysterious sex symbol. He is a 108-year-old vampire in teenage form who is disturbingly volatile and controlling, but only because he “loves her” and is trying to “protect” her. Our vampire-hero is so intensely moody—the reader late finds out— because he is edgy from fighting his vintage patriarchal battle: Bella’s so darn attractive to him, that he is in immediate danger of losing all control, dominating her, and leaving her dead. And so we read on—never quite sure if Bella will end up being a bloody mess should the teenagers decide to consummate their relationship. The intimacy in this book is like heroin—thrilling, dangerous, and flirting with death—and the drama of it makes Twilight a page-turner.

I am horrified, to say the least, by the 498-pages of dysfunction that passes as romantic entertainment in Twilight. Just when did “sadomasochistic teenage erotica” (as my colleague Kj Swanson terms it over at her brilliant blog) become so overwhelmingly popular? Twilight is unabashed in its reflection of some of the worst elements of our culture’s patriarchal dysfunctions: domestic violence patterns, eroticized violence deemed “romance,” and harmful power differentials between men and women that are either not noticed or are mindlessly condoned. In fact, the power differentials in this book are the very foundation of its plot. Bella is constantly being saved and infantilized by Edward; his moods continually switch from angry to intimate like a typical perpetrator; and the reader awaits whether the sexual tension between the characters will lead to Edward enacting violence toward Bella. It is her sexual attractiveness that arouses his desire to suck her blood and kill her. Because of how attractive she is to him, she is forbidden to initiate any physical relationship. It all must be led by him, and she must risk her life during any moment of intimacy.

And this is what teenagers (and many adults) are imbibing?

What's underneath you?

I moved the furniture around last night. Again. We have lived here for over a year now and I've never felt like that room quite made sense. There's an uncertain center, no entry, poor lighting, uneasy features. Every few months I get to thinking that it really might feel better if the furniture were arranged differently. And it has, sort of. But the other night, I think I finally got it right. I moved the rug.

©2007 Mindy Danylak