be the change.

this is going to be pretty quick. a couple weeks ago, i was given a challenge to participate in a secret mission to end poverty.  i jumped at the chance, and this is what resulted. 

i am going to ask you something. something simple, really. what would it be like to not have shoes? i know it's something we take for granted and for most of us, it's pretty hard to conceptualize. however - today there are over 300 million people in the world who do not have shoes and are forced to walk around horrible conditions. not only is this unsafe physically, but the ramifications of looking down constantly holds a negative emotional effect as well. it's demeaning and robs these people of their dignity and confidence. 

it doesn't have to be like this. 

Soles4Souls is a Nashville based charity who has one mission - get shoes to people who need shoes. a couple weeks ago wayne elsey, founder soles4souls, and anne jackson, author of mad church disease, brainstormed about ways to get this message out to as many people as possible using social media. they came up with www.50000shoes.com - a website challenging people to donate 5 bucks. yeah - that's it. 5 bucks. this in turn would buy 2 pairs of shoes and provide protection for those in need. 

this doesn't end here, though. this morning, at least 150 bloggers will blog about this campaign and spread the word via the internet. we need you to turn around and spread the word to those  you know. here's the math: 

if 500 people influence 10 people to donate, and those people influence 5 more, that's 50,000 pairs of shoes (remember - 5 bucks buys 2 pairs!)

please help this become a reality. anne and wayne believe we can raise enough for 100,000 pairs, and i wholeheartedly agree. i have seen what happens when people come together for change and truly believe they can make a difference. 

oh and, you can win a trip to Mexico. 

if you donate online, you are automatically entered for a chance to travel to Mexico to give shoes. can you imagine giving someone their first pair of shoes???

i said it was going to be quick, and i speak the truth. 

50000shoes.com - donate today. 

tell your friends. 

change a life. 

Quiet Beauty

The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words from the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How will I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament. 

-Soren Kierkegaard 

We took the youth to Martha’s Kitchen today. A couple of churches in the area got together and did a “Top Chef” type event - each making key dishes to serve to the homeless in the area. I wasn’t able to really speak to any of the people who came and ate, because I was busy serving them food, but I was able to look into their eyes. I saw a lot of brokenness. I saw men and women who, for whatever reason, were now outcasts of society. I saw the question in their eyes; the wondering of why we were doing what we were doing.

It broke me.

When everyone had been fed, and when most of the people had left for the evening, a man came with a tupperware box for leftovers. We gave him as much as he could fit into the container, and as he left he turned around and said, “Thank you for what you are doing. I wish more churches would get involved in something like this...the people need it. Churches need it.” 

I sat there stunned. Yes! Yes. This is so true. Russ, sitting next to me, chuckled and said, “Absolutely. I would even go so far as to say the church needs it more than the people.” The man smiled, nodded, and said softly, “Exactly. I would have been a lot more involved in the church I went to had they done stuff like this.”

There’s this girl in our youth group. Just recently, she came to know Christ. In the span of a week, she trusted Him completely and followed through in baptism. She was there tonight, standing next to me, serving these people with absolute joy. As we were headed to the car later in the evening, she said, “Well this was kind of disappointing.”

I asked her why. She then said, “So many of the youth were just hanging out in the shade-not wanting to help. That’s sad.” 

Russ looked at her and said, “Well, there are three types of people in the world. Those who are ignorant, those who see what is going on and refuse to do anything, and those who see what is going on and determine to everything they can to stop it.”

She looked at us and smiled - “That’s going to be me. I am going to do something.” 

I thought about these two situations a lot this evening. Two outside observers - two different worlds - one realization. 

Dorothy Day once said, “The true atheists is one who denies God’s image in the ‘least of these’” and I can’t help but wonder exactly what type of image we are giving off as a church. Think about it. Are we truly showing His love? Truly? 

If we are, then newspapers won’t have to come out when they hear a few churches are ministering to the homeless. They won’t have to, because it will be so common place that it isn’t news anymore. It’s not an event, it’s a way of life. 

In the middle of all of this, I spoke to another dear friend on the phone who is experiencing just a bit of spiritual warfare concerning her speaking to her church this Sunday. She told me, “Church has become a place where people check their brains at the door and sit in a service for fifty minutes and listen to whatever message the preacher has. Sunday is the only day where people allow themselves to be absolutely brain dead, and people wonder where God is on Sunday mornings. He’s not in church. He’s not in church because no one invites him there anymore. If you want to go where God is on Sundays, try the soup kitchens, because there, people actually want to hear what he has to say.” 

I think the key here is that church has become a place. Not until Constantine was Christianity supposed to be organized. Read Acts. We are supposed to be a living, active example of Christ’s love - reaching out to other through our community of believers. 

I know this a lot to digest, and to be honest, I’m still working through a lot of what has transpired these past few weeks. One thing is for certain: I don’t want to be comfortable. I desire for God to continue to reveal his glory through still whispers and magnificent thunder. I desire to be used. I desire to look into the eyes of those considered less than me, those in which society and time has forgot, and show them that there is One in me who sees their beauty. 

Wrecked of the Ordinary

I have 28 pairs of shoes. 28. I sat in my closet today, counting with tears welling up in my eyes. This past weekend Russ and I went to my family’s church in New Braunfels, and in typical God-fashion, the sermon was something that resonated with me deeply. Rusty challenged us to go home and count our shoes. To look around and notice our priorities and understand that to the world, we are rich.    He counted. He had 20 shoes. A middle aged man with twenty pairs. The boys in his family equaled almost 50 pairs. He was broken. 

I was too. The only thing I could think of was my “necessity” for these shoes at the time I bought them. 

Oh. I need a new pair of black heels. Done.

I need some more tennis. Done. 

These flip flops are so cute. Done.

I read a friend’s blog today where he mentioned that since he truly began following Christ, his life has become a little more wrecked every day. I can relate. Suddenly, these 28 pairs of shoes don’t seem exciting, they seem almost ludicrous. Excessive. Selfish. 

Since Russ and I have come back from Lake J, it seems like God is continually bringing us to new realizations. Elizabeth mentioned to me the other day on the phone that it’s almost as though God is dropping atomic bombs on us left and right filled with His presence and His power. And this is such a good thing and I haven’t ever experienced a tangible feeling of constant movement on His part like I have these past few weeks. Because of this, I am so wrecked of the ordinary. 

I want to stay this way. In Jesus for President, Shane Claiborne’s mother is mentioned. She says that there is no more dangerous place for a Christian to be than in safety and comfort, detached from the suffering of others. This breaks me. We always hear about the dangers of apathy and complacency but do we honestly know when we ourselves have fallen victim? 

I don’t think so. Apathy weaves itself around the soul and takes root in the heart. Usually, apathy shows itself as a silent killer: you realize that you have become apathetic; you may even try to desperately separate yourself from the overwhelming urge to just sit, but it never leaves. And you just sit there. Apathy just plays that one chord song over and over again...never really desiring anything different. 

And then you count your shoes, you take a look around your apartment stuffed with things and nonessentials and fancy accumulations and you wonder. Is this all there is? 

He replies, “Sell your possessions and give to those in need. This will store up treasure for you in heaven! And the purses of heaven never get old or develop holes. Your treasure will be safe; no thief can steal it and no moth can destroy it. Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be.” Luke 12:33-34

and

“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” Isaiah 1:17

and

“Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you.” James 1:27

How can we not care? How can we not hear these words and realize that there is more to life and God is calling us to a deeper and more intimate relationship with Him where we truly act out what it means to be a Christ follower?

“Let’s pray that God would give us the strength to storm the gates of hell and tear down the walls we have created between us and those whose suffering would disrupt our comfort. May we become familiar with the suffering of the poor outside our gates, know their names and taste the salt in their tears. Then when the ‘ones God has rescued’, the Lazaruses of our world - the baby refugees, the mentally ill wanderers, and the homeless outcasts - are seated next to God, we can say, “We’re with them.” 

-Shane Claiborne

Ears Wide Open

 

We just left Lake J. We’re back on the road - driving through rolling hills and rain and plenty of restroom stops. I feel as though I need to make a disclaimer before I even begin to sum up my thoughts. 

It’s going to take awhile for me to process what exactly happened this past week. But know this: God moved. The sleeping giant is most certainly stirring. And while there is no possible way for me to fully explain what God is doing in my heart, in Russ’ heart, know that we will certainly try. 

It was about three and a half years ago, and I was having a hard time falling asleep in the stuffiness of my bedroom. Russ and I weren’t married yet, I was in the middle of my first teaching job, and I was restless. 

That night, as my eyes attempted to stay shut despite my mind going 90 mph, I heard a voice so clearly I couldn’t avoid it. 

I am going to use you and Russell.

My eyes opened. I shifted in my covers and waited. Did I just hear what I thought I heard?

You will be used to reach thousands. 

Right about now I started freaking out. My hands started sweating, my heart began beating faster, I glanced at the clock: 2:00 AM. Then I hear something else. 

Isaiah 55 - read it. 

I argued for about three minutes, what with the light already being out and me already being snug in my covers, but I realized fairly quickly just who I was arguing and well, that I would never win. 

I opened my Bible and started reading. This is what stuck out to me in stunning clarity:

Surely you will summon nations you know not, and nations that do not know you will hasten to you, because of the LORD your God,the Holy One of Israel,for he has endowed you with splendor. (v.5)

What strikes me the most about this verse is the ending. It’s what you would call a cumulative sentence - everything is at the beginning. However, we could miss something big here. What  hit me in between the eyes is “because of the LORD your God...” 

Yeah. That little phrase packs a punch. Because of him and his work in our lives, we would accomplish these things.

Do you believe me now? I heard him say. 

I went to bed with a smiling heart and big dreams. 

But, like always, life gets in the way. He’s brought me back to that verse numerous times, and reminded me that what I think I have planned pales in comparison to his dreams for me, but I can be just as A.D.D as the best of them, and I forget these promises. Until this past week. 

It was Tuesday night, before Laren got on stage. Before Sean and the battle cry on injustice. It was just me and God. 

I have something for you. 

I closed my eyes. 

Isaiah 55

I have to admit. I wondered. It’s not like I hadn’t read it before. But I opened it anyway, Looking for what He had to tell me. And there it was. 

Come to me with your ears wide open. Listen, and you will find life. I will make an everlasting covenant with you. I will give you all the unfailing love I promised to David. (v.3) 

I read it about five times, back to back, with tears in my eyes. Because you see, this was just a step in what he had for me. This was only a piece of the puzzle. But I had to listen. 

It came this morning. 

It was the last worship service before we packed up and left. I was tired. The past two nights had taken their toll on my emotions, and I was spent. But I wanted more. 

Eddie started playing “God of this City” and immediately I started weeping. For every line, there was a different scene played out in my mind.

You’re the God of this city - A child is trafficed into slavery every two minutes. Some even in the United States.

You’re the Lord of this nation - Over 90% of the rebel army in n. Uganda are child soldiers

You’re the King of the people - North Korea has one of the most secretive states and leads the world in punishing those who practice the Christian faith. 

You are - But yet, God is bigger. 

And the whole time we’re singing this song, I can’t even spit a word out because I’m absolutely broken. And then, I hear it. 

Tell our story. 

A peace comes over me. I suddenly know what God was wanting to tell me. Tell our story. 

Âbsolutely. 

But that’s not all. Throughout this whole week, the one thing that has echoed repeatedly is the necessity and willingness of sacrifice. Of leaving everything. Of taking that step of faith. Of pushing back doubt and appreciating friends who will push back with you. Of having the courage to dream with God. And knowing that dreaming with God usually ends up with your life being wrecked and exciting and hard and adventurous and breathtakingly serene. 

Russ and I are still processing what God did, and what He is asking of us. I have a feeling though we are on the brink of an incredible adventure.

Battle cry

Last night was...epic. 

I knew something was going down. I felt tension rising - even the clouds were unstable. Around two o’clock, when the thunder crashed against the mountain tops and the sky was about to weep, my heart began singing its own song. Be ready, it said. 

So I was. 

Every night a different NGO has spoken. First night was Zach Hunter, a 16 year-old abolitionist. Tuesday was Charles Lee of Just One (www.just4one.org) and last night was Invisible Children. 

Before Laren got on stage, though, Will walked up to introduced Sean so everyone could hear the story of Falling Whistles. It was short. As Sean began walking off stage, Will pulled him back. A couple weeks ago, they had a conversation about Falling Whistles and the slogan: “Their weapons; our voices.” Back then, they had discussed the implications of a bullet whistle - symbolizing both sides of the token and making a heavier statement. 

Last night Will gave Sean a gift of the first ever bullet whistle. When he handed it to him, he said, “Wait. Blow it.” 

Sean took a deep breath and blew - a sound like no other pierced through the auditorium. Immediately people started cheering and clapping. 

Will turned to the audience, and I honestly don’t remember what he said, but I do know that he asked if we were willing to stand with Sean and Zach and Dry Tears and Invisible Children and Justin and Kira and everyone else who had presented, to stand and blow our whistles on injustice. 

God moved. I felt it in the breeze coming through the back doors. With tears in my eyes and my heart finishing its song from earlier in the day, I blew the whistle as loud as I could.

Injustice rests only in the shadows. Last night, the whistles pierced through the darkness and moved the heart of God. The battle cry sounded. 

There’s a striking beauty in being uncomfortable. Not many will dirty their hands in an effort to spread love and fight for the cause of the widow, orphaned, or houseless. However, the beauty comes in letting go and trusting that God knows above all. The beauty comes in looking around and seeing a community of believers ready to fight the battle with you. Taking that step has never looked so serene. 

So here I sit in the cafeteria, empty save for workers taking their lunch break and a few friends talking in the corner. I expect something else will happen tonight. In the distance, the clouds are beginning to gather. The faintest sound of a beating drum is echoing in my heart. 

The battle has begun.

We are the lost ones?

Stephen Christian once said that we could change the world, and strike a chord within people. Rewriting history - regardless of us being considered a “lost generation” by society. Today, Russ and I went to our friend Sean’s breakout session about his time in the Congo. His first question? Why are we here. What causes us to care. And, do people around us care the same. If not, how can we make them? We are now the largest generation in history. 70 million people strong. And, we have the most resources of any people in the history of the world to make a lasting impact. 

Some facts. The Congo is the size of Eastern Europe. Bringing it home, if you were to take Mississippi, and draw a line that separates everything east - you would essentially have the country of Congo. This whole country - the size of England, Germany, Scotland, Spain, etc...only has 200 kilometers of road. Getting somewhere that only takes fifteen minutes by plane could take up to eleven days by moto (a bike). 

1500 people die a day.

5 million have died since 1998.

It is the bloodiest war in history - the most rape and the second highest number of child soldiers. 

He went in to gain knowledge about what was going on. He planned to stay for about a week and ended up there for almost two months, researching and talking to rebel leaders and meeting children ravaged by war. At one point, a rebel leader looked at him and said, “You can’t see them, but they can see you.” Sean asked him to clarify. 

The guy responded, “There are hundreds and hundreds of kids in these woods with their gun pointed at your little white head.” 

Still, he knew their story had to be told, so he stayed. Text messaging his family that he loved them, and beginning to chronicle his journey in a blog. (What I linked to in the previous entry)

One of the most riveting and gut-wrenching stories from his trip is of the falling whistles. You see, in the Congo, kids too young to hold a gun are given whistles to wear around their neck. Their job is to blow them as loud as possible while going into battle. They are the front lines. If they fail, their job then becomes to take the bullets and build a human barricade with their falling bodies. Hiding behind these kids, shot to death and piled on top of each other, the rebel army can fight. He heard this story and broke. That night, with tears streaming down his face, he wrote in his blog, “With falling whistles their only hope is to feign death or accept it. But fall they must.” 

He’s telling this story, and it’s the second time I’ve heard it but just as powerful because he’s fighting back tears and the room full of people are wiping them from their cheeks, and I suddenly know. This is what makes us human. This connection. This urgency to act out on injustice - a sense of kairos that something has to be done. I could see it in the eyes of so many of the people in that room, and I got chills thinking about what would result. 

Once he finished, I noticed a few people crowd around his table to talk with him. It was one man that stood out though. I noticed him when he walked in, unassuming with a gentle smile and eyes that held a deep knowledge. He approached Sean, and I heard him tell him something, and then Sean broke into tears. Weeping, his hands covering his face, the man drew him into an embrace. 

It was then I realized. This man, who walked into this room on this day to hear Sean speak, is from Congo.

I’m crying as I’m writing this because I’m consistently humbled of how God moves. Be open. Be mindful. 

God is working, and He’s quickening hearts and He’s waking up sleeping giants. 

Be ready.

Just give me time

Every once in awhile, music in the background urges my pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard...). Right now is one of those moments. Violet Hill is playing and I can't help but yearn for this song to find itself on repeat. At risk of sounding just like every other person - I love this album. I have to have it. 

Clouds broke through the morning sun today. We'll see who wins the battle, but it's looking pretty humid outside as well, so perhaps there will actually be a summer storm to read along with today. Soooo nice. 

Summer has an unquenchable beauty to it. The heat almost caresses your skin when you walk out the door, and nothing compares to late nights with friends and laughter echoing off of your walls. But as with every summer, there comes a lot of self-reflection. Where have I been this year? Where am I going? What does this year hold for Russ and me and what surprises await? 

Last summer was essential for me creatively. The writing workshop I went to in July was just what this writer's heart needed - I hadn't written in so long, hadn't trusted my voice to give a worth while message. That was just the beginning. 

I wrote about my great grandfather and the legacy he left - a deep love for wide open spaces, wilderness, and my namesake: a woman who grew up on horseback and shares my passion for reading and writing.

I wrote about my experiences with students. How it took three years of teaching to fully understand the implications of cutting. How one student single-handedly changed the way I viewed cutters and their struggle to fight the addiction. How TWLOHA found a breeding ground at BHS, where hope has needed to breathe for quite some time. 

However, despite encouragement and pleas to write about my experience with Schools for Schools and Invisible Children. I couldn't. My school had become alive with awareness during 2006-2007, but for something that I was so passionate about, the words never came. I mean, how do you describe watching a documentary in class and seeing the transformation before your eyes? Hardcore kids, crying and demanding justice. Kids with five dollars to their name giving it all in a change for change jar. Students literally breaking out of a dangerously silent shell and learning what activism really means. It was all too much. Too breathtaking, too close to who I was (and still am) as a person to risk putting it out there. I think though, looking back, my reluctance to write stemmed from the belief that there was more to be done. 

There still is, but I things are finally beginning to come out. My writing is slowly experiencing a sense of purging. It took me four years to really begin writing about my time in Haiti, and I expect the same out of what my kids and I do with IC. 

This past year has shown me what social justice in its purest form looks like, what community can do to a person and just how much joy can be had in a simple dance party. For my kids and I, we have realized that family doesn't always come with blood-ties. Opposition comes at a price, but always makes you stronger. 

So...it's coming. In bits and pieces stories are going to start coming out and revealing just how much this organization has changed who I am and how I see the world. 

Violet Hill has ended and the sun is starting to peak through the clouds. I can already feel the humidity. 

It's going to be a good day.

Still Whispers

The heat was palpable. 

In the one-room shanty, family togetherness quickly became annoyances. I rolled the sleeves of my shirt up and wet the rag in the ice water held in the sink for washing. Glancing at the sky, I silently wished for a storm. 

"Girls, let's go for a walk." 

My sisters and I breathed a sigh of exasperation as we looked at our mom with disbelief. My sister Blanche glanced at me with her how-can-we-get-out-of-this look and I just shrugged my shoulders. Sometimes, I learned that the best thing was just to go along with what mom wanted. She is a fiercely loyal woman who doesn't even break five-foot-two. However, her size is by no means a match to her depth of intimidation. And at that moment, the level of intimidation was quite powerful. 

We were in the middle of nowhere in Idaho's mountains. I had absolutely no desire to experience the heat radiating off of the red-clay dirt instead of watching the heat waves bounce off the surrounding peaks within the protected walls. But, it didn't look like I had much of a choice.

As soon as we walked out the door, I was hit the a sudden breeze. The snow was finally melting on the mountain peaks and wind, crossing down from the tips, was cooled by the winter wonderland. We circled around the cow cap, my mom's face wet with perspiration yet giddy with assignment. She led us to an enclosed area of tall and magnificent redwoods whispering of secrets lost in the wind. Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. My mom stopped and closed her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. 

"Do you hear it?"

My sisters and I looked at each other. 

"Hear what, mom?"

"The wind. What is it saying to you?"

I squinted my eyes and looked at her as if was going crazy. She caught me staring at her out of the corner of my eye and she walked over where I was and quietly spoke - "Just listen, Elora. If you listen, your heart will speak." 

I smiled, but not out of understanding. My mother has always been her own person, so I wrote this time off as an example of one of her eccentricities. 

Two years later, I found myself in the jungles of Haiti. It had been a hard week, and I was aching for my family. I grabbed my journal and flashlight and as soon as the sun fell below the tree line, I opened my notebook and waited. 

I could hear it. Slowly the wind made its way through the trees and caressed my face. The rumble of voodoo drums and voices of Haitians worshipping mixed and created an odd dichotomy central to the village. I closed my eyes. 

I thought about the week. The friendships formed and the memories created. Being rushed by a wild boar. Sleeping in a hut. Experiencing poverty at the most devastatingly beautiful level and finally realizing the truth and importance of community. 

And then it hit me. He hit me. My heart exploded with the awakening and realization of true worship. Authenticity. Humility. I glanced around and watched these Haitians who had become close friends of mine dance to their heart's content, all to praise the One who gave them today. It was...breathtaking. It was eye-opening.  Voices raised around me as I joined in praise. 

That was eight years ago. The experience with my mom, ten years ago. But, it's funny how these things leave an impression on you. At the time, I couldn't have told you that wind rustling through the trees would hold any significance on my life. However, since my trip to Haiti, I've come to realize that God tends to speak to you in the weirdest and purest of places. For me, it took traveling to an impoverished country devastated by years of trials yet rich with faith and hope to understand that He is real and moving and pursues us relentlessly.

Still whispers spoken to us in the wind - it's quite romantic if you ask me. Very much what the Lover of our souls would do. 

What do you hear?

The Thud of Grace

I often wonder how she felt. 

Standing there, caught in her shame, there was no way to hide. 

No chance of passing the blame - she was caught in the act. 

No chance of getting out of punishment - these guys meant business. 

But, so did He. 

He already knew her. He knew her habits, her vices. He also knew her dreams. Her secret longings. Her desire to be beautiful and to feel beautiful. Yeah, he knew all about her. And he still loved her.

I often wonder how she felt; humiliated and scared out of her mind. Her eyes darting towards the jagged stones held by the hands of men - many of whom she had already met before. Many of whom she had already...known before. The cat calls and hissing of men and women in the crowd, the plea for justice in the form of stone against flesh, none of these could distract her attention though of this man standing next to her. 

Majestic yet simple. 

Fierce yet serene.

Jealous. Oh my, he was jealous.

A voice cried out, "Abba! We caught this woman having sex. Adultery! Fornication! It wasn't even her husband! According to Moses, we shall stone her." He threw a furtive smile towards his friends. "What say you, LORD?"

Silence. 

A few chuckled. She groaned inwardly. They had him now. All he had to do was mention this thing of...grace and they would have him trapped. She was a slut. A whore. A good-for-nothing piece of trash who gave away her body for a few scraps of bread and measly change. 

Every one waited. 

Quietly, he stooped down and wrote in the sand. 

She braced herself for the first stone's impact. 

His voice shattered the silence, "Okay. True. She has sinned. Let the one with no sin throw the first stone."

She closed her eyes, tears making rivers down her cheeks.

Thump. 

One stone hits the ground with stunning finality. The man who dropped the stone, shoulders slumped, turned around and walked away. 

Thump.

Another stone fallen; another man turned to leave.

One by one, the stones hit the dirt. The woman - was she amazed? Did she have the strength to stand under the weight of a sin forgiven? 

Quietly, without much ado, the men left . Only He was left. 

"Where are your accusers? Did no one throw a stone?"

She managed a whisper, "No, Lord."

He smiled. "Neither do I. Go and sin no more."

I often wonder how she felt. 

With the thud of grace ringing in her ears, did she dance? Did she sing? 

Or did she cling to His hand? In desperation for love and acceptance, did she for the first time feel beautiful? Did she see her worthiness as far more than pearls as He gingerly wiped tears from her cheek? 

I'd like to think she did a little of all of these. I'd like to think that humbled, she fell at His feet and wept the bittersweet tears of redemption. I'd like to think that when she was done, she finally felt what it was like to be forgiven. 

To be free.

Reason #356,446,768 why I love music.

Russ and I went to a local show the other night, and it reminded me just how much I love music. The bass pulsates in your chest and the drum beats out a melody so intoxicating you can't help but move in some way...
I love it. 
What I love most is the connection. So many people, so many different backgrounds and beliefs. There's the sixty-year-old in a tie dye shirt, jean cut-off shorts, and a bandana around his gray hair singing his heart out in the corner. There are the two ladies up front - swinging their hips and attempting to get others around them just as excited as they are. Then there's the wedding party. Friends torn apart by distance and time brought together for one weekend, and man are they enjoying the show. There's the mom and her two boys, and there's the three teenagers up front stealing shots on their camera phones and dancing to their hearts' content - not even caring that those behind them could be making fun. 
I know these people. I know them because of their actions; I know them because of what they drink; I know them because of how they dance. I know them because in the close quarters of a local joint, their conversations become my conversations. Their stories my stories. 
It's incredible to me.

Two weeks ago we had a benefit concert for Invisible Children. Russ and I were chilling at the IC merch table when this guy approached asking about writing a letter. We couldn't find a pen (like every other pen that wanders off...) but he said it wasn't too big of a deal and he'd come back after his band played. His band, The Thirty, had been a last minute replacement after one of the others bailed on us. 

We got lucky. 

Their music was passion driven; their heart visible through lyrics and attitude. I loved it. Russ loved it. Other students who are self-proclaimed musical purists (whatever that means) loved it. Basically, this band brought the people together in a way that no other band had been able to that night. I smiled. This was what music was about.

When their set was finished, David was faithful to come over and write some letters, as promised. Grabbing several sheets of paper, he glanced over at our table and said, "So...is there any one here who can tell me the whole background to this thing?"

It was all we needed. Within seconds, he was surrounded by Sarah, Susan, Claire and Kimber - telling him the story of IC and what this whole movement was about. Slowly, I started getting letters from him handed to me by the girls. 

"This isn't fair." 

"Children shouldn't be soldiers."

"Stop the war."

All very well-meaning and straight from the heart. Slowly, however, these letters became more desperate. Before my eyes, I was seeing a transformation as someone else heard about the atrocities in n. Uganda to the tunes of Cute as a Button. It was...epic.

Now, this band is on tour across the MidWest and places the Africa hat they bought from us on their merch table at every show. Joining the movement and spreading the story. Word.

Then...Rosalyn. We screened the movie in between Everthorn's and Cobra Legion's sets, and we weren't sure how many people would stay to watch. However, once again, the pull of music overpowered peer pressure. In between singing and rocking out and breaking up a fight from the stage, the lead singer of Everthorn pleaded with the kids to stay and watch the video...and they did. 

As the video played, and as the tears fell and as the laughter rippled through the room, I took a deep breath and smiled. 

Looking across the crowd, the differing backgrounds and the moment of simultaneous clarity despite relationships, was almost overwhelming. 

THIS is why I love music, I thought. THIS is why I love IC.