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washed in grace

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Serving With

Africa Inland Mission
Epic Church
Excel Church
First Missionary Church of Berne
Kapaa Missionary
Lihue Missionary
Muncie First Church of the Nazarene
Old Stone Presbyterian

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PO Box 80
Kijabe, Kenya
00220

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“My son, my son,” said Aslan. “I know. Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.”

Things we must discuss: One-point-five weeks ago I was sweating my armpits off on the gorgeous little island of Lamu. That place is sand and lemony fish and heat and stone alleys that spool out like a secret. I learned boatloads about coastal Swahili culture, but mostly I learned how these students of mine are knit from courage and kindness. While in Lamu, on an uncharacteristic whim, I got a beautiful henna tattoo. Turns out I am allergic to the chemical used to blacken the dye, and so now I have swollen elephant disease with pink floral skin-swirls. It’s nice. Some of our bestest people in all the earth came to visit us last week, and we are still basking in the afterglow. We fed giraffes and chased sunsets and felt wholly known and cared for. Today is the mister’s and my anniversary. I’m not exactly sure what he was thinking, signing up for my emotional control-freakism, but thank goodness he did. His patience and steadfast tenderness make my life possible. In the words of dear, wise @annvoskamp: ‘The bravest love is wildly faithful, and it falls hard again every morning.’ I have a thousand quiet stories about Todd, but this is the only one you need: When the night was a maelstrom of bullets and grenades, he tucked the kids and me in the bedroom, then hauled a mattress to the cool cement just outside the door. He sat there all night, slipping between prayer and sleep and strung-out vigilance. Resolute that any harm aimed our way must first get through him. He’s a good man.

This girl showed up in my neighborhood for one sweet, brief weekend, and I breathed the kind of lung expansion that comes from being known. Jannae did sweaty life with me in the Central African Republic. We’d sit in my back yard of dirt, on a log that was sort of still a tree in that it was plugged into the ground. And we talked all of the words till those shards of confusion and dismay burned off in the relief of understanding each other’s bones. Her sister is a chef, and so J has inherited cheffy genetics, and even in the African boondocks she plated meals that saved me. My spirit is not above rescue by stuffed Italian pastas. This past weekend, J delivered beautiful edibles from Todd’s mom, plus ziplocked gems from another soul-friend who understands my internal soup of angst and weirdness. (Thanks, @shannanwrites, for knowing how tea, peppermint soap, and thrifted hankies can feed a soul.) And J, thanks for scheming up this visit. You are the truest and kindest among us, and you will always belong to me. #lovesongforthelonghaul

Here’s to the women raising families in temporary homes feathered with palm fronds, existing in the careful margins framing paragraphs of violence. Who pound roots and leaves into dinner, who shush babies under diamond skies. Who teach their children math and stitching wounds and keeping a makeshift village alive. Who jostle each other crazy in elbow-to-elbow quarters, but choose the claustrophobia to keep watch over one another. Here’s to the women who gifted me most of what I know about being a neighbor. Who, even far from home, never stop making every human belong. #centralafricanrepublic #internationalwomensday #awalitibeafrika 📸: @todd_owens

These kids, though. Z&E (and their compatriots) are bright and stunning in their candor, and they act like the world is their problem to solve. They debate everything from the relative ripeness of avocados to worthwhile responses to an unjust global order. Plus they’re kind. Gutsy. Achingly funny. I’ve never been more hopeful about a future with them in charge. Also, PS: I understand that it’s too early for me to get serious about anyone, because hi. They’re in high school. But Zachamony needs to hold on to this girl, because if I have to choose between the two of them, I am keeping her.

The thing about book clubs is I love books and I love clubs (especially with trees and thin mints and passwords), but I just don’t have time for a book club. Yet here we are. Shannan’s latest book rolled out with the swooniest coffee mug cover, and I scraped up every word like I was starving for hope in Kindle format. And then other people wanted to read it, and someone suggested a club, and so now I am an adult nerd and possibly weirdly smug about it. 😍🤓🤩 - This week, We of The Book Club met over Tupperware lunches and @shannanwrites’ salsa, cupping the small, bright coins of our backstories like a widow’s offering. We shared quotes from the book that stuck with us, and a few of us cried a bit. (FINE, ok, it was actually just me crying, multiple times.) - But can I be blamed? No, I cannot. Just let the lush truth of these phrases roll over you: “I told them what was just beginning to bloom in me: obedience is worth the risk of failure.” - “How much bread do you have? Honestly, I didn’t have much, and what I did have wasn’t the good kind of bread. With great hesitation, I held out my slice and a half of bad bread. Wasting no time, God snatched them up, making a feast of scraps.” - (A quote of a quote by Henri Nouwen): “On the contrary, compassion means going directly to those people and places where suffering is most acute and building a home there.” - At one point I glanced around my circle of co-laborers and drank in their earnest faces. Many of them I’m just starting to know. Some of us are opposites in ways that should politely sequester us. But these shining peeps share my awkward missionaryness and my reckless belief in these gorgeous MKs, and so I fell in love with them. I am rich in people. I will not trade lives or book clubs with anyone, but I will share my (bad) bread with you. #nerdfightersunite #theministryofordinaryplaces

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