I Love You Mom! See You Next Week!

Dear Mom,

When I scheduled this long speaking tour on the West Coast I didn't realize I'd be gone over Mother's Day. I'm so sorry I won't be having lunch with you and Dad. Or sitting by you in the glider listening to the melodies coming from your assortment of backyard birdhouses, bird feeders, and bird baths. Or checking out the progress of the spring blossoms in your tidy little perennial garden. Or laughing with you at the antics of great-grand-baby Marcele, your namesake. 

I haven't forgotten I promised you multi-colored impatiens, tuberous begonias, and mixed coleus for your Mother's Day gift.  But I've decided to postpone their arrival until I can be there to help you plant them and brighten up the shady side of the "back forty." I figured that would be okay with you.

We've had fun the last few months, haven't we?  This month, of course, we're thrilled to be able to celebrate Dad's returning health after successful chemo treatments.  But even during the days and weeks that were wrapped in the dark fabric of fear, there were threads of gold in that fabric, weren't there?  Remember the long afternoon we sat at a round table in the hospital waiting room, drinking vanilla soy lattes and talking about your high school boyfriends, your first date with dad, and the girl that made you jealous when she asked him to dance? I thought I'd heard all those stories before, but so many new details emerged during those slow hours of waiting.

You were quite the feisty lady at eighteen when you married Dad!  By twenty-one, when you gave birth to me, you were in the midst of a Honolulu adventure with your handsome navy sailor (and surfer) husband, Bob Barry.  Apparently you and I (young mom and baby girl) thoroughly enjoyed our lazy days playing in the sand and water of Waikiki. It was fun to look again at the old Hawaii photos, though I must admit you looked a lot better in your bikini than I did in mine!  (Bikinis and diapers are never a good combination.)

One thing I enjoyed discovering about you this winter was how much you love "sparkles."  In the past, sparkles--as in sequins, rhinestones, and shiny fabrics--were reserved for cocktail dresses or mother-of-the-bride attire.  Since you haven't been deep into the party scene (at least not since I was born) I've never seen your sparkly side. But those black glitter Tom's shoes I gave you this winter apparently opened your eyes to a whole new world. The world of casual sparkles!  Va-va-voom!  Dangling earrings. Sequined t-shirts. Silver purses. Cobalt-colored skinny jeans with studded pockets. Seriously! You shimmer now, Mom--from head to toe--and I love it!  

Not so dazzling, but even more impressive, is your willingness to brush up your long-neglected typing skills on the hand-me-down iPad you just received from your daughter (that would be me).  I never blamed you for not writing emails on Dad's old clunker of a computer.  But I was hoping you'd move outside your comfort zone long enough to send me an email or two on the iPad.  And you did it!  I love it every time I receive an email from "Leah Marcele."  I was grateful when you started sending your single sentence messages.  But holy cow, Mom, this week your emails have been downright newsy--with splashes of humor, even!  Thank you, thank you, thank you for inspiring me with the model of a woman who keeps on growing and changing. I hope I'm still learning new skills when I'm a month shy of 83!

You know that wherever I travel in the world I snap photos of beautiful flowers.  Even if you and I didn't look almost exactly alike, we could probably prove our mother/daughter connection simply by the intensity of our shared passion for flowers. True, I just photograph them while you actually grow them...but still.  So, for Mother's Day I was going to send you a collection of my ten favorite "global flowers."  Unfortunately, some evil spirit descended on my computer and blocked access to my ALL MY PHOTOS. Yikes!  I'm sure my personal computer angel will find my photos for me when I get back home, but I had to come up with a different plan for Mother's Day. 

So, my patient travel companions will tell you that throughout this week, in between speaking engagements and meetings, I've repeatedly wandered away with my iPhone in search of flowers. I'm glad we've been hanging out in places like Phoenix and Orange County and San Francisco, where there actually are flowers in May. I didn't capture any truly spectacular shots (it's hard to be artsy when you're in a hurry) but the flowers I photographed make me happy--and I know they'll make you happy too.  So I'm sending you a collection of my favorites from the week.  Sit back, Mom, and let these bits of beauty feed your soul.  I love you and I'll see you next week.

Finally, The Book I’ve Been Praying For!

 Years ago, when the leadership at Willow Creek Community Church wanted to respond wisely and compassionately to extreme poverty and the AIDS crisis, we challenged our entire congregation to read Dale Hanson Bourke’s books, The Skeptic’s Guide to Global Poverty and The Skeptic’s Guide to the Global AIDS Crisis. We knew there would be a time for more in-depth study, for decisions about strategies of engagement, for vision trips and serving opportunities and fundraising. But first we had to break through myths and stereotypes and ignorance. We had to provide a basic understand of issues, a common language, and a solid foundation upon which to build. My husband and I had known and respected Dale for years and were not surprised to find in her books the perfect starting point for our congregation.

Fast forward a few years. While happily engaged in ministry partnerships in several African countries, I was surprised by a divine nudge to turn my attention toward the Middle East. I began traveling to Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Israel and the Palestinian Territory. I met Arab Christians who challenged me to learn more about the Middle East, particularly about the ongoing conflict in the Holy Land, which they described as sending ripples of tension throughout the region and negatively impacting their lives. I decided to accept their challenge.

I started by reading book after book after book, piecing together dates and wars and migrations and political perspectives in an attempt to better understand this ongoing conflict. I traveled repeatedly to the Holy Land, not just to visit the traditional holy sites, but to learn from thoughtful people on all sides of the issue—from Israelis and Palestinians, from Christians, Muslims and Jews. Along the way, my heart was broken by the pain that decades of hostility has produced in the lives of all the people in the Holy Land. At the same time, I was captured by Jesus’ call to his followers to love their enemies and by the blessing he spoke upon peacemakers (Matt. 5:24, Matt. 5:9).

As I began telling others about what I’d seen and learned, I came to dread the moment when I’d be asked for a “simple book—a primer—to help me get started.” I dreaded that moment because I had no good answer. I’d recommend Elias Chacour’s book, Blood Brothers, which is a powerful call to reconciliation and peacemaking in the Holy Land. But in terms of the basic facts of the current reality, there was nothing. Most books about this conflict assume too much background knowledge or confuse readers with too many details. Worse yet, many offer a clearly biased perspective, a black-and-white assessment of good guys verses bad, which does not lay the biblical and essential foundation for peacemaking.

I could think of only one solution to this problem of the missing book: Dale Hanson Bourke. As soon as Dale agreed to travel with me to Israel and the West Bank, I started praying she’d be inspired to write about what she saw and learned. I knew it would be the most difficult project she’d ever written on, not just because it’s a complex story, but because it’s a painful story that taps into individual and communal traumas of two distinct people groups. To write this story in a way that would honor all the people in the Holy Land, and serve beginners on the peacemaking journey, would require equal measures of intellectual rigor and empathy, the mind of a dogged researcher and the heart of a passionate Christ-follower. Fortunately, that’s exactly who Dale is.

The Holy Land is not the first place Dale and I wept together as we listened to the stories of people whose lives have been shattered by violence. Nearly two decades ago we walked together through the rubble of war-torn Bosnia and committed ourselves to upholding the cause of suffering people through reconciliation and peacemaking.  It was in that spirit of shared passion that I invited Dale to join me in the Holy Land.  It is also in that shared passion that we have both decided to join the growing chorus of pro-Israeli and pro-Palestinian voices, confident that as we submit our hearts and minds to the spirit of Jesus, we will find the way of peace.

I’m so grateful that Dale wrote the book I’d prayed for.  In fact, this blog is taken from the forward I wrote for Dale’s book, The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict: Tough Questions, Direct Answers.  Please read this book!  Order it right now! It’s not about taking sides. It’s about listening, learning and prayerfully becoming part of the hope and healing needed in the Holy Land.   

Looking Into A Mirror

by Guest blogger: Kellye Fabian

Kellye Fabian is a mom, writer, leader, and lawyer at a Chicago legal firm.  In 2009 she co-founded the Willow Creek Legal Aid Ministry, which provides free legal services to people who cannot afford a lawyer.  Since then, she and the Willow legal team have served thousands of clients, many of whom are undocumented immigrants who attend our church and/or live in our community.  Kellye has seen first-hand the impact of our broken immigration system on hundreds of families.  She has written and spoken extensively about immigration reform and used her experiences to broaden the understanding of church leaders, lawmakers, and anyone who will listen!  Lynne

People have asked me why I am so taken with the undocumented immigrant.  There are law-abiding people who need your help, they say.

Good point.

Why do the stories of the undocumented immigrants touch the deepest parts of my soul?  Why do I remember their stories more vividly than all the others I have heard in my work at the Willow Creek Legal Aid Ministry?  Why is it that I can still see the eyes of the undocumented immigrants when I close mine?  Why do their stories, so different from mine, seem like part of my own story?  After all, I grew up downtown Chicago in a upper-middle class white family.  I have never gone without anything I need.  I attended the best schools and enjoy any number of privileges.  The undocumented immigrants I have met have experienced a very different kind of life, one with very little schooling, if any, and even less privilege.

For example:

Mario grew up poor, in a tiny village in Mexico.  At age 16, his alcoholic father disowned him because he was not “manly” enough.  His father beat him and told him to leave and never come back.  He even told the corrupt local police to arrest Mario if he was ever found near the house again.  So, one night in the darkness, Mario crossed the border illegally into the United States, a place he had heard about since he was a kid.  Now, four years later, he wants to become “legal” so he can go to college.

Louisa is a single mom who, along with her two kids, lives with friends.  She left Mexico because she had no way to support herself and the kids after her husband left them.  They were smuggled into the United States, hidden in a dark, suffocating truck bed.  She came to the Legal Aid Ministry asking what to do about the traffic ticket she received.  She had failed to come to a complete stop at a stop sign and was also cited for having had her youngest strapped into a too-small car seat, a car seat she was able to afford only because a neighbor had put it out on the curb as garbage.

Leo dreamed of coming to the United States for better work.  So he did, but without working through the normal, legal process.  The prospects here were just too tempting.  Now, twenty years later, he has a wife and two kids, each of whom is a citizen.  But he lost his job and can no longer provide for his family.   He wants to know what his options are for citizenship or residency.  

Despite our vast apparent differences, the expression of hope I saw on Mario’s face is etched into my brain.  Louisa’s heartbreak feels like my own.  Leo’s desperation seems familiar to me.  Why?  Why can I not turn away?  Why do I love Mario, Louisa, and Leo?  Because when I look at them, I feel like I am looking into a mirror.

I have been undocumented.  And there was nothing I could do to bring myself into compliance with the law.  No amount of paperwork or legal arguments would secure my citizenship.  I had broken the law and the longer I lived, the more laws I broke.  Sometimes I felt justified by the circumstances, which were beyond my control.  Sometimes, I was just too tempted and gave in to the prospects.  At times, it was as if certain laws were enacted just for me to break them.  So incapable was I to remedy my situation that someone else had to intervene on my behalf – to the point of death on a cross, nails through the wrists, blood running freely.  All of this when what I deserved was to be deported, sent away, never to be reclaimed.

Instead, I received eternal citizenship and an all-access pass.  So how can I tell the undocumented immigrant, “I can’t help you because you broke the law”?  How can I say, “You’ll have to just figure this one out on your own”?  How can I feel anything but compassion?  How can I turn away?

Why am I so taken with the undocumented immigrant?  Because I have encountered the grace of God and it has brought me to my knees.

(See this post on undocumented.tv also!  http://bit.ly/nqyU9W)

To read more of Kellye’s writing on immigration click here: http://www.justhangingontograce.blogspot.com/search/label/immigration

Or visit Kellye's blog, What Does Jesus Have to Do with It? at http://kellyefabian.com
You can also follow Kellye on Twitter: @kellyefabian

To learn more about the Willow Creek Legal Aid Ministry, please go to www.willowcreekcarecenter.org/get-help/legal or email legalservices@willowcreek.org. 

Immigration Reform: It’s Time!

Note: Wednesday, April 17: Evangelical Day of Prayer and Action for Immigration Reform
 
I’ve written in the past about how God used Willow Creek’s Spanish-speaking congregation to nudge us into the immigration reform debate.  In the March/April 2013 issue of RELEVANT magazine I wrote this:

In 2005, the U.S. population was 296 million. The Pew Research Center projects that by 2050, that number will be 438 million—and that fully 82 percent of that growth will be due to immigrants and their descendants. 

Some of these immigrants may be like the hundreds who attend Willow Creek’s Spanish-language church, Casa de Luz: hard-working parents who came to America escaping poverty and seeking a better life for their kids. In desperation, they crossed a border illegally; now they live each day with guilt for breaking the law and fear they’ll be found out and deported. My husband and I believe God has entrusted these families to us and to our ministry, and we have felt compelled—despite criticism—to advocate for comprehensive immigration reform.

We hope younger evangelicals will look closely at the pain and potential in the immigrant community and pray, “God, what is mine to do?”  

Bill and I are grateful that over the past two years, evangelical groups have played an increasingly prominent role in advocating for compassionate and just immigration policies. Last summer 150 leading pastors, denominational heads, and thought leaders signed the Evangelical Statement of Principles for Immigration Reform. People of faith later penned open letters to the President and congressional leadership calling for timely action on immigration reform. 

Thousands of people in churches throughout the country responded to the “I Was A Stranger” challenge, reading 40 Bible verses related to immigrants and immigration over 40 days. Increasing numbers of American Christians have become convinced that the Bible speaks powerfully to the current immigration debate. 

On April 17 in Washington DC, a unified evangelical voice will call for a biblical vision for immigration reform that respects the rule of law, reunites families and upholds human dignity. 

My husband, Bill, will be one of the speakers in DC, along with dear friends like Stephan Bauman from World Relief, Rev. David Beckman from Bread for the World, Noel Castellanos from CCDA, Dr. David Anderson from Bridgeway Community Church, and many others. 

For more information about the event or to register click here.  

If you can’t go to DC but would like to support the event on social media, click here. 

If you wonder what other evangelicals are saying about immigration reform, there's a great Washington Post article here. 

Many in the evangelical community believe that NOW is the time for compassionate, comprehensive immigration reform.  But it won't happen unless we speak up.  If you can't be in DC on Wednesday--as I can't--please use your FB, Twitter or Blogs as tools for advocacy.  Figure out what is yours to do, and then DO IT!

If you want to read a bit more, here are some of my past blogs about immigration: 
Why Don't They Just Come The Legal Way?
Mother of Exiles
Bill's Introductory Comments for the President's Immigration Speech
Dios Con Nosotros: God With Us 

Belated Reflections On Easter and Unexpected Holy Moments

For those who view the yearly calendar through the lens of Christianity, the weekend that starts on Good Friday and ends on Easter Sunday holds undisputed honor in the hierarchy of holiness.  On this weekend in history God incarnate yielded to the harshest of human deaths—and then miraculously undid it.  Undid death!  Overpowered it!

This holiest of weekends is indeed worthy of candles, flowers, musical extravaganzas and prayerfully prepared sermons.  Two weeks ago at my church, the carefully crafted services moved many people—including me—toward a deeper surrender to the ongoing power of death and resurrection. 

But as I think back on that weekend, the sanctified pageantry—powerful and moving as it was—is overshadowed by two simple and unexpected moments.

On Saturday following Good Friday my daughter, Shauna, helped officiate a hastily scheduled wedding. The father of the bride had been battling cancer; his oncologist told him that if he wanted to see his daughter married, the scheduled summer wedding would be too late.  Hence, this unexpected Easter wedding.

Before the service, Shauna sat with the father, holding his hand while he told her his own Easter story: Almost thirty years earlier he’d given his life to Jesus. For the next fifteen years he attended church alone; then, finally, his wife joined him and she too met Jesus. Later his kids came to faith, and now he was about to welcome a Jesus-following son-in-law to the family. 

After that conversation, the father walked his daughter down the aisle, slowly and with great effort.  Then he reached up and placed both hands on her cheeks. In a frail voice, he spoke words that only she could hear.

During the ceremony, when Shauna addressed the young couple, she acknowledged the pain of the situation.  “This day of your wedding,” she said, “is tucked between the lament of Good Friday and the celebration of Easter, and is a poignant reflection of what your family is experiencing. You are beginning your marriage in a remarkably tender place, holding in one hand the sorrow of impending loss, and in the other the joy of a new beginning.”  That evening, Shauna wept as she told me about the ceremony.

Less than twenty-four hours later, while Easter Sunday celebrations continued in churches throughout the world, I sat in the emergency room of a local hospital by the side of a woman who had been severely injured in an auto accident.  It was obvious she was in excruciating pain, so I didn’t try to talk to her, but she nodded approval when I asked if I could pray for her.  I put my hand on her shoulder and started praying. I said a few words out loud, but mostly I prayed silently, eyes closed, asking for her pain to be eased.  Her brother and several other men in the room moved to a corner and left us alone.  I felt her body relax so I continued praying.  Eventually, when she seemed comfortable, I opened my eyes.  We chatted quietly until medical personnel moved her to the ambulance.

I’d never met that woman before.  I went to the hospital because she had attended my church for years; though I didn’t know her personally, I felt drawn to be there “as the pastor’s wife.” 

Though Shauna knew the young woman getting married, she hadn’t been asked to officiate her summer wedding.  However, when Shauna heard about the last minute re-scheduling, she thought perhaps “as the pastor’s daughter” she could help facilitate the event.  She offered to help and the family accepted.

Anyone who knows Shauna and me knows we don’t show up every time there’s a need just because we’re the “wife/daughter of the pastor.”  In a large church, that would be logistically impossible.  Even more to the point, in a church where every member is called to minister on the basis of giftedness rather than on gender or role expectations, we intentionally live according to our calling and passion.  We trust that as other people also do that, the body of Christ will function as it should and people will be cared for as they need to be.   

But for both Shauna and me, where we felt called on Easter weekend was into the very roles we often avoid.  And on that weekend, those roles gave us the privilege of entering into the most profound and tender moments of two families’ lives.

It’s not uncommon to hear complaints about “the expectations placed on pastor’s wives” or “the burden of being a pastor’s kid.”  Shauna and I understand those complaints; we’ve expressed them; we’ve even shaped lives that allow us to escape them.  But here’s the other side of that story:  Pastors and their families have doors of intimacy and soulful connection opened to them that few other people have.  On Easter weekend Shauna and I walked through two of those doors.  We are still in awe of the holy moments we found. 

A Few Thoughts on Guns and a Call to Action: Redux

On February 1, I partnered with the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism by writing a blog encouraging readers to participate in an interfaith call-in day to help prevent gun violence.  Many thanks to all of you who called in!

Tomorrow, April 9, we can again challenge our Senators to take positive action. The Senate debate on a gun violence prevention package will start in earnest this week, so it’s important that we speak up now. 

There are many different viewpoints within the faith community. I ask only that you call in and support the policies you agree with.

For more information, go to faithscalling.org.

Here’s the blog I wrote in February from the perspective of a mother, a grandmother, and a traveler who has spent a lot of time in warzones. 

Beach Walking, Chemotherapy and IRL

For over twenty years Bill and I have owned 1100 square feet of beach cottage on a bluff overlooking the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Built in the early 70s by an elderly Dutch couple who liked all things short and simple, the cottage is small and square.  But the windows that stretch from foundation to peak are filled with a massive view of water and sky.  And the winds that whip up from the western plains, huff and puff through Chicago, cross the lake beneath a studded sky, and swirl fiercely up our sandy bluff prove no threat to our sturdy little cottage. She stands secure and steady through it all.  

Unfortunately, the scraggly trees that surround the cottage are not so sturdy. Yesterday, as often in the past, my husband and I followed a meandering trail around the cottage, snapping fallen branches into lengths we could haul with our wheelbarrow and toss over the edge of the bluff.  

Technically, it was a spring day, but the wind was fierce and damp.  Even the birds stayed away.  A few sprouted bulbs were the only hints of warmer days to come. 

Less than three hours from our home in Illinois, this cottage has been a refuge for our family. It’s where Bill spends most Mondays, recuperating from preaching weekend sermons. It’s where I’ve written a few books I’ve never published and a few articles I have. It’s where family and friends gathered before then-28-year-old son Todd took off sailing around the world for two years.  It’s where Shauna wept two years ago when her doctor called with news that her unborn baby might have serious health issues.  (Oh, the joy of Mac’s healthy birth!) 

It’s where we’ve all walked for hours on the beach, sometimes playfully, sometimes prayerfully.  Cold as it was yesterday I couldn’t resist the siren call of the sandy coast. 

I walked the beach yesterday more prayerfully than playfully.  My father continues in chemotherapy.  Progress is steady, but slow.   Life is always uncertain, but the next few months seem particularly so.    

How best do I lean into the various commitments of my life? 

This week my daughter posted a profound blog—"IRL"—about the tension between the “internet” demands of an author’s work and the “In Real Life” demands of family and friends.  In her blog, Shauna warns her “internet world” that even though her new book (Bread and Wine) will soon be launching and her marketing team suggests she lean full tilt into her computer community she is choosing—ahead of time—to lean into the “in real life” circle of people she actually does daily life with.  “The best of me,” she wrote, “is not my writing, not in my books, and not on my blog.  The best of me is what I give to my husband, our boys, our families, our dear friends.  And in a season that sometimes feels stretched to breaking, I won’t allow them to suffer.  My first priority is and will always be IRL.”  

I thought about Shauna’s wisdom as I walked the beach.  Though I don’t have a new book launching, I do have travel and speaking and writing commitments, as well as conferences on peacemaking I'm scheduled to attend.  Good stuff, all of it.  But in real life I also have two devoted parents experiencing a new and extremely difficult era of life. And throughout April my brother, who is usually the local, consistent presence in my parents’ life, will be out-of-state.

What does living IRL mean for me now?

After walking and pondering on the beach, I decided to cancel my April commitments—responsibly, I hope, though certainly not without inconveniencing and disappointing some people. Immediately after Easter I’ll move to the little cottage on the bluff.  Staying there will put me less than three hours from my grandsons, an hour from my parents, and thirty seconds from the beach.  Bill will head to the cottage whenever he can, and I’ll have my laptop and files and books—plenty of work to do.  I’ll probably spend a part of each day with my parents, more or less depending on the treatment decisions made in the coming days. 

I am richly blessed to have such a lovely little place to be my home away from home. I know it is a luxury and I do not take it lightly. I will stay there gratefully, doing my best to prayerfully discern what IRL should look like for me as the weeks and months pass, as life moves along. 

Last summer then-five-year-old Henry and I collected heart-shaped stones from the beach.  We’d scuffle through the sand, trudge slowly up the stairs, pockets filled with hearts.  Later we’d sort and arrange and photograph them.  Yesterday when I walked I was determined not to find hearts, but I didn’t succeed.  My hands were so cold I couldn’t pick them up, but I saw them.  There’s never a shortage of hearts on the beach—or IRL.