In Prison without a Cause

Maybe it's because I was just on a hiking trip or because my friend Cathy recently went to Uganda, but this article captured my attention.

What in the world is going on here?  Why are these guys still being detained?  The whole story is crazy and raises more questions than it answers.

It is difficult to stomach terrible things happening to people who do amazing work.  It is much easier to draw a line and say "these are the good guys and these are the bad guys."  It is hard to process that there are some countries in the world where being a U.S. citizen is not going to help you and can, in fact, make it worse for you.  It is even more difficult to think about the numbers of people around the globe unjustly thrown in prison and staying there.

Not a happy story.  Not things I want to think about with my husband planning a trip to Kenya.  But when I am grappling with stories I find incomprehensible, I try to imagine how I would feel in those situations. And I think those people around the world sitting in rotten prison cells for no good reason should not be forgotten. It takes real bravery to fight for people wrongly and arbitrarily imprisoned when the stakes are ... wrongful and arbitrary imprisonment.  I am not sure I could pull out that kind of courage from the depths of my soul.  But some people, thankfully, can.

http://www.amnesty.org/

Do One Thing Every Day That Scares You

That is a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt.

It makes me think of my friend Cathy, who I think lives by this more than almost anyone I know personally.

Cathy is an inspiring woman.  When you are around her, you immediately feel the power of her joyful, loving spirit.  You feel her excitement and passion about whatever it is she's doing that she believes in.  You feel her interest in and love for you and others around her.  You experience what it is like to know someone who is "real."  She is a great mom, wife, and high school teacher.  She pours herself into everything she does. Tomorrow, she begins her travels to Uganda.

 I have mentioned before that she has been convinced that she is supposed to mother all kinds of children.  She lives this in so many ways Stateside, but her heart is also tugged in the direction of Africa.  For a few weeks, she will be working with teachers, bringing them new supplies and ideas.  She will be reading bedtime stories and tucking kids in who don't have their own mamas.  She will be continuing to build relationships with some special kids she already knows.

It is really difficult to leave your precious family and the safety of your country, even if you are super excited about your adventure.  It takes a lot of courage and faith.  If you think of it and this is the kind of thing you do, please say a prayer for Cathy and her family during the next couple weeks.  I also hope that her stepping out to do something scary-but-chance-of-a-lifetime inspires you too.

Friend of Refugees

This month, if you remember, is kind of a hodge-podge of highlighting needs in one's own community.  Also, if you remember, I have this side gig....

I have mentioned Pam before in passing, but you have no idea how much I owe her for what I am able to do.  Years ago, our church decided to sponsor a refugee family after my  "boss" came to speak about sponsorship (this all predates our days at CCUMC).  Pam took the reins on that, and fell in love.  She started seeing the needs of New Americans in the community, and just made this what she does. It's not a side gig for her.  It is her.

There are probably refugees, or at least people who are new to America, in your community.  They would love an American friend, I would venture to say.  It is difficult to communicate cross-culturally, but in my opinion, beyond rewarding.This kind of thing may not be up your alley, but I think you might find yourself inspired in some way by Pam.

Discovering a Fearless Eye

Inspiration comes in many different forms. I am inspired by courage and perseverance. I am inspired by humble and steadfast love.  I am also inspired by artists who use their talent to shine a light.

My side gig is with Interfaith Works Refugee Resettlement.  On their facebook page today they announced a show that would be held by photographer Sarah Averill at a New American owned laundromat in the neighborhood.  She has been taking pictures of New American residents for over a year and is exhibiting the final product this evening.  I wish I could go.

Her blog Under a Fearless Sky moved me.  Deeply. Like a great song or meaningful experience.  Or the work of art that it is.  She not only documents daily life in Northside Syracuse, she travels around the country noting the humanity of humble people. As I explored her site I found myself mesmerized by her stories and images of people who might normally go unnoticed.

She notices.  She photographs them.  She introduces them to us with dignity and honesty.

If I were given the opportunity to choose a talent, I would choose photography or painting or drawing or something that records life in such a quiet, consuming, lasting way.  Instead, I content myself by discovering the work of people like Sarah Averill. And sharing it with others who will appreciate it too.

Giving When It’s Hard

Today's post is written by a friend who is more like a sister to me - Courtney.

She deserves her own inspiring woman post. I asked her to write about her work with women with addictions, to give us a glimpse of what that is like.  She provided me with this very honest and beautiful essay about volunteering as a group leader:

I want to sit here and say that giving of my time, money and talents is natural, easy and fulfilling.  Of course it can be, on that right day, in that right light, and given unspoiled circumstances.  But often, most often in fact, it’s not.  Mostly it’s hard, dirty, boring, frustrating.  All those emotions you don’t think of when you call up your local agency and ask if you can be an answer to their prayer.  What did they pray for exactly?  A warm body?  A punching bag?  Sometimes either of those titles would fit.  So why do I go back?  Why do I continue to rearrange my schedule, make my kids wait, ask my husband to give?  Because that’s what we’re made to do.

God has created us with eyes to look beyond ourselves, with ears to listen to the struggles of others and with shoulders to bear the burden of one beaten by life’s circumstances.

If we deny this purpose and mission for our time on earth, we cease to grow properly.  We become the ingrown toenail of ourselves, growing deformed under our skin.  Red, swollen, hurting, irritated, bothering. 

I currently work part of my week at a homeless shelter for women and their children.  The Charis House located in downtown Fort Wayne, Indiana, is a refuge for women who have nowhere else to turn.  On a day to day basis, the atmosphere is of gratitude and filled with God’s glory and love.  But some days, there is resentment, anger, aggravation and depression.  Some days the women I work with sleep through my class, tell me I’m not worth their time, and curse me under their breath.  The information I bring, though possibly useful, is seen as another burden in their already troubled lives.   No thanks are given, or even considered.  

So why?  Why do I love these women like they were my own family?  Why do I continue to reach out when my proverbial hand is slapped raw?  

Because that’s what Jesus did for me, and will continue to do for me.  How many times did I refuse His Grace, His Glory, His Truth?  This is the immature nature of our sinful selves that will only be cured upon His command.  Until then, I’ll give what’s been given to me – even when it’s hard.

Putting It All On The Line

When I was leafing through the May 2, 2011 TIME 100, World's Most Influential People issue the other night, I noticed among the Obamas, Justin Bieber, and Oprah entries a name that stands out. Aung San Suu Kyi.

Do you know who she is?

My side gig puts me in contact with a lot of Burmese people.  They are probably the largest people group coming to Syracuse recently. It can be frustrating work, because communication is almost impossible.  But behind the very different culture are horrible stories.  Their lives as refugees, if you can believe this, have often been less "privileged" than that of other groups.  Sometimes, there was no refugee camp at all to educate and entertain children or give out food.  There was just the running, with no rest whatsoever.  The junta ruling Burma has no rhyme or reason except that of brutality and greed. My friend Pam, THE BEST refugee worker in the U.S., has a video that leaves one shocked and horrified as it depicts the struggle of the Burmese people.  To get an idea of the background, this article paints a picture of the current political situation.

And then there is Aung San Suu Kyi.  If you read the articles, you will probably agree with my surprise that this woman is even alive.  Those governing Burma, it seems to me, do not give a hoot about what the rest of the world would think about them offing her. This lady is tireless in her fight for her people.  She hasn't seen her children in years.  She sacrificed being able to see her husband right before he lost his fight with cancer. She was under house arrest in Burma.  Even if she managed to leave the country, she could never come back in.  And she felt she had to stay and fight for her people.

I am fairly certain that at the point at which I knew my husband was dying and I could not see him again, I would abandon my efforts for change in my country.  I would pass the baton to someone else, and declare that I had sacrificed enough.  Even if there was no one else to take the baton, which appeared to be the situation Aung San Suu Kyi was in.  She understands the deep suffering of countless Burmese, and has given much at tremendous personal cost.

It is difficult to know when enough is enough. But how would I know? I have never put myself in the position where I have put so much out there that turning back seems impossible.  I always have one toehold in my back-up plan, a reserve tank handy, and an escape route in pocket.

I hope Aung San Suu Kyi will be able to see the day when her people are truly free of oppression.  When they can come home, or at least stay home, and lead normal lives.

Rhubarb Memories

An index card fell out of one of my cookbooks the other day, and it startled me to recognize my Grandma Weldt's handwriting.  The card was strangely white and fresh, unlike the other index cards that comprise the recipe collection I inherited from her.  I don't have any idea how this card became separated from the pack; in fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen this recipe card in my life.

"Rhubarb Iced Tea."  I also do not remember drinking rhubarb iced-tea with my grandmother.  My grandfather was an avid gardener, and it does not surprise me that Grandma would've been trying to find uses for all that rhubarb. I do remember her strawberry rhubarb pie, or even just "strawberry rhubarb" dumped along side meat, potatoes and veggies on her brown and yellow dinner plates as an extra little yummy at supper.  But this simple recipe: rhubarb, water, and sugar is not consistent with my memories of her.  Especially the "serve with a mint sprig" part.

My grandmother was a quiet and gentle woman with a brood of seven children and twenty-one grandchildren.  She met and married my grandpa in six weeks time before he went off to war, when she was young and pretty and looked remarkably similar to my sister Kristy.Grandpa was totally in love with Grandma until the day he died. My grandpa was a loud, generous, busy, high-profile kind of guy.  My grandma was the gravity center of calm.  When I recall her memory, she is conjured seated at her kitchen table, with her cup of coffee, her bird feeders outside the window as busy as Dunkin Donuts in the morning rush hour.  Perhaps the men in the family are crowding around, grabbing coffee and bakery, or grandkids are running through wearing snorkeling masks and swinging badminton rackets, or she and I are sitting alone, and her fingernails click against the deck of cards she is effortlessly shuffling.  Her laugh is the sound of a bubbling brook, unable to be replicated by any other in my ears. 

My grandma died less than a month after my wedding, which she was too sick to attend.  One of my aunts or my father thoughtfully gave me her recipes when they were going through her things, and it is by far the best of her physical possessions I could have been given. I actually don't remember many dinners she cooked: Grandpa's elaborate Sunday dinners have won top culinary billing in the family.  Poor grandma probably cleaned up the aftermath of those dinners, though. Once in awhile I shuffle through her cards and wonder why she included some of the things she did, or why there were duplicates of certain recipes, and if she really tried that tomato gelatin thing.  It gives me a glimpse of her that I didn't know. There was a lot about her I may never know.  Like whether or not she served Rhubarb Tea in tall glasses with mint sprigs to her friends.

I like to think that she just recently dashed off that recipe and tucked it where she knew I'd find it, knowing how into tea I've been lately.  My grandma lived in Northern Wisconsin and like me, knows the sigh that comes to the heart when everyone else is reporting crocuses while we are looking out on a foot of fresh snow.  I'd also like to think she wants to cheer me up with thoughts that one of spring's first fruits isn't that far away: hang on, it's coming, dear.  When the market opens, I'll be sure to buy some rhubarb, or maybe I'll brave the deer and plant some myself.

Feminist writers often remind us to remember where we came from, to think about our mothers and grandmothers and how they've contributed to who we are.  We are connected to them.  Their struggles and joys are part of our story too. What strength and encouragement are the memories of your female relatives offering you today?

Getting on the Bus

This week, I have not been able to get two young girls out of my mind.  They are 12 and 15 years old, in this country for less than a month.  They don't speak English well.  They used to live in the Darfur region of Sudan, until one night the Janjaweed burst into their village with guns.  Their mother, the 12 year old, and two of their siblings were shot.  Their 18 year old brother will never walk again. They had to flee their home that night and ended up living in a refugee camp. Their story is amazing.

I learned of them when their father showed up at the Center for New Americans Monday (for those of you who don't know me, I have a side gig as a refugee caseworker aid) worried sick about the whereabouts of his daughters.  He learned that they had gotten on a city bus instead of a school bus, not knowing how to say the name of their school or their address or many words that most people in the city would understand.  So his caseworker, another caseworker, and myself started trying to track down these girls. In the end, we discovered that the girls made it safely to school and unharmed, through a chain of events I don't quite grasp the details of as a lot of non-native English speakers were involved.

After the gentleman left, we all let down our masks of calm reassurance and while we let out a collective sigh of relief, expressed how nervous we had been for this father and his daughters.  His caseworker, also a former refugee, told me stories about how her own daughter got lost on the way home from school twice when they first came to the States.  One time, a fellow church member happened upon her and took her home, the second, she flagged down a police officer and he took her home.

These girls are inspiring. Their young lives have been lived between nightmares. Yet they are brave enough to try to get themselves on a strange bus in a strange (and cold and snowy!) city where they can't understand anyone, read anything, or communicate well.  To go to school.  To get a chance a chance at a better life. School is hard enough when you are those ages, let alone in the city, let alone as a refugee from Darfur.  Plus, having been through what they have, it must be hard to even leave sight of their family members. Their courage is no small thing.

Recycled Inspiration

Today's post is a link to a July 2011 post from my other blog, an attempt.  At the time I was researching rape as a war crime for a paper, and this was written after an interview with an amazing lady.  If you want to be wowed, Google her name.  This post is a combination of yesterday's thoughts on drudgery, the spotlight on Daughters and human trafficking, and Thursday's "inspiring" theme, and I thought it would work nicely in this spot today.  Reduce, reuse, recycle.  Maybe it will save my brain.

http://tiffanysattempt.blogspot.com/2010/07/status-quo-stardom-or-servanthood.html

We Love Miss Cole

There are those who make a tremendous difference in the world in quiet, unassuming steadfastness.  Sometimes I am most inspired by their example.

 I was going to write about a human rights champion whose career inspires me so much that it intimidates me.  It felt like I needed to highlight a different kind of amazing woman today, though.

Nichole was my first real friend in Michigan.  I credit her with being the first person to take a chance on me in our mutual circle.  She had friends around her and I don't know that she really needed a new one.  I did desperately.  Mine were all long distance, my husband was gone most nights, and I was spending a lot of time with one very adorable but exhausting toddler.  It is a lovely thing to reach out and be a friend.

Our friendship grew and she became the person I knew I could count on for anything. She was always there, always gracious, always listening, always giving.  She and I started the Tuesday morning coffee group, and it is her table that became a haven. Nichole is a haven.  When you get to know her, you want to stay in her presence. She is the gravitational pull in the group, the one who grounds it and keeps it together.  Nichole is the first one to show up with a meal on your doorstep when you're sick, the first one to call when you haven't been around in awhile.  We all have "the time when Nichole rescued me" stories.

Nichole is the picture of how a person can make a tremendous difference in roles that aren't in the spotlight.  The mothers who depend on her for childcare know they have found a rare treasure in this woman who believes that caring for children is every bit as important as any high-powered, high profile career.  Her little friends love "Miss Cole."  She is a dedicated mother who has made sacrifices to provide what she feels are the best education options for her son.  She never forgets that children are people, and that we are fortunate to be able to be a part of their precious lives.  She supports causes that  protect childhood.  She lent me a book called Too Small To Ignore that opened my eyes to how as a society we have relegated our children to the margins.

Nichole is super humble and I hope I haven't put her in an uncomfortable position by writing this.  I sincerely feel that every now and then we need to be inspired to be content and dependable, present in the lives we live and to the people we love.

Every Elizabeth Cady Stanton Needs A Susan B. Anthony

Ready for something a little fluffier today, huh? By the way, thanks to Amanda for her super thoughtful response yesterday.  Raise your hand if you want to see her as a guest writer! (Sorry, Amanda, I couldn't help it).  Really, if any of you has a great idea for a post, or even want to write it yourself and put it in this space, please e-mail me and let me know. I'm hounding Tashmica to do a current events guest spot as well, in case anyone was thinking of tagging her it:)

Oh, I'm not done embarrassing my friends.  I would like to occasionally post about a group of women or woman who has been particularly inspiring or supportive.  Because we all need to be inspired and supported.  Maybe I'll just settle on Tash for today, since she's not easily embarrassed and has herself out there in public spaces.  So, forgive me, Tash, but the spotlight is on you, babe.

True story: I barely knew Tashmica, just by rubbing shoulders at MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers, a faith based mommy support group thing). I thought she was funny and vivacious and she had these Genocide Intervention bumper stickers plastered on her minivan.  You must understand that at the time, NO ONE in that MOPS had any such thing on their bumpers.  Or anywhere else.  One day we were cleaning up after MOPS and I, no joke, walked up to her and said, "Do you drink beer?"  At a MOPS function at a conservative church.  I have no idea what came over me.  The Holy Ghost, I think. I proposed that she had a cause, I had a cause, we could learn about each other's causes over beer, and that we would be friends, I just knew it.

Delightfully, she accepted.  2 MOPS moms met at Harper's, a college bar on the strip in East Lansing and drank Sparty beer talking about genocide and trafficking.  We were the only people in there not looking for a hook up, bent over our one beer each because we had to drive home to our children, conspiring how to save the world. 

You must understand that up to this point in time, I had never conspired to save the world.  Or much of anything.  Ever.  Tashmica was literally a person who changed my life.  She has given me courage, motivation, inspiration, and undying support.

She was single-handedly and doggedly running a self-started non-profit organization in Lansing to stop genocide, specifically in Darfur.  While helping her husband run the family flooring business (Heritage Flooring, represent!) and bringing up 2, and then 3 little boys.  She demonstrated to me how to juggle, how to let the little things go, how to throw yourself into life, how to face down failure, and how to do it all looking great.  Well, I'm not sure I mastered that last part, or really any of it, but I learned.  I was inspired.  I read the news more, I researched more, I listened more.

The other thing about Tashmica is that she unfailingly supported me.  She totally involved herself in my little Michigan Chapter of Women of Purpose (future posts on that are coming). And even more noteworthy, she listened to me for hours when I was in Crisis of Faith, 2.0.  And she never stopped believing in me or my faith.  She seriously was one of the reasons I made it through that valley with faith at all.  She never judged.

She now is living out her talent working for the Nyaka Orphanage in Uganda, Stateside.  She has been through a lot of messy things in her life, and not just survived, but managed to change people's lives.  She advocates for victims of abuse.  She's still a mommy and a wife.  And she's still a dear, dear friend and I can't even do things like start a slightly controversial blog without her weigh-in.

So everyone, be inspired! And now I have to put all Tashmica's links over on the side of this page.

*Title reference? If you don't know, we'll feature it on the next fun feminist facts day.