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.