I've moved!

After three years and 195 posts here in this little bloggy space, I have packed up my pile of rocks and moved to a brand-spanking new website!

Visit Cherise's new website HERE.

You guys, I can't even begin to tell you how fun it is to have my own space that is clean and fresh and new. I feel like a college girl who just got her first apartment, giddy over her first dishes.

The whole thing was a birthday gift from three of my favorite people in the world.

My husband bought the domain name and template, and our dear friends Kelsey and Avery camped out for hours on our living room floor, showing me the intricacies of widgets, email forwarding, backups, and installation.

To all three of you from the core of me--thank you for showing me love.

The new website has a sweet little email subscribe form so you can get my posts in your inbox--easy peasy.

Goodbye, Blogger! It's been fun.

Photo credit: http://www.prossersmoving.com/ 

The scary-ness of calling yourself a writer

Unless you’re Mariah Carey, it’s a intimidating to say “I’m a singer”. I mean, someone might ask you whether you’ve got an album. Or [horrors!] ask you to sing on the spot. Like, right now.

It can feel just as scary to say, “I’m a writer”.

We squirm, wondering what qualifies us to have the audacity to consider ourselves real writers.

Is it when we publish that first book? Is it when our blogs reach some magical number of followers or has a post that goes viral on Facebook?

In our capitalist society, the mark of legitimacy is often a paycheck. I mean, I may love to dabble in watercolor, but it’s hard to say “I’m a painter” unless someone is willing to plunk down cash for one of my pieces.

But technically, this describes an author.
A writer, when you distill the definition to its core, is simply one who writes.

I must diligently hack off the extra words that try to attach themselves like barnacles to this pure definition. Those extras turn “writer” into Professional Writer, Technical Writer, Popular Writer, Freelance Writer, or even Successful Writer. Descriptive? Maybe. But they can also set an impossible standard of success that can make me say, “oh no, not me. I’m not that.”

I must remind myself that no athlete began with a gold medal, and most never win one.

I remember that applause is often a fickle measure of worth.

I have to zero in on the fact that I like writing, and that the joy of doing something should be enough to keep doing it.

I am a writer, not because I am the best writer the world has seen (ha!), or the most profound, or the most well-known or prolific, but because I choose return and turn my insides out again on a page.

I am a writer, not because I do it perfectly, but because I do it.

And as I operate in the truth of who I am, I will become.

Original photography by Quinn Dombrowski

Today I'm actually joining a larger discussion over at Kate Motaung's blog about the book On Being a Writer by Ann Kroeker and Charity Singleton Craig. I stumbled on the conversation last week as I browsed through my feed on Bloglovin', and it scratched an itch I didn't realize I had. 

Lately, I've been doing some hard thinking about this writing thing. I've been asking myself some hard questions, like "why do I write anyway?", "what are my motivations?", and "what should my writing give you, the readers?"

More on that later. Thanks for coming along as I process. :)

My life is like the movies

I have a crazy story for you. 

It was lunchtime a few weeks ago on a workday. I was chasing the last of my food with my fork when I got an odd text from my friend, Macie.

“Cherise, have you ever been to Pine Cove?”

And then, two seconds later—“And did you ever live at [insert address]?”

Um…yes. I had been to that family camp many times, but not since I was in high school. And that was my old address.

Immediately, my mind started running through bizarre explanations for why she might be asking. Did the camp release some ancient video online that showed pictures of me? Did I lose something at Pine Cove that had my old address in it? Why would she have it?

The truth was stranger than I guessed.

Macie is the kind of girl to whom encouragement is like air: she breathes it in eagerly and then exhales it to everyone around her. Just standing near her is like a fresh breeze to your heart. When I met her, she was a week away from marrying one of my hubby’s best friends. Our apartments stand facing each other now across the street, just right for five-minute conversations if we happen to be getting home at the same time.

Because words hold such weight for her, she has kept a growing stash of encouragement in a burgeoning drawer somewhere in her house. On the day of the weird text, she’d been doing some spring cleaning and decided to sift through a stack of notes from 2003, the year she had become a believer in Jesus.

One of the notes was from a camper she met while working at Pine Cove as a counselor. It was written in careful cursive on notebook paper decorated with gel pen swirls.

It was chatty, talking about summer plans to go camping and about how the writer was about to get her driver's permit. It told Macie she had a beautiful heart and that the note-writer was praying for her. 

It was signed, “Cherise Beekman”.

Y’all. That camper was ME.

It's seriously like a movie! I can picture it in lights: “Girl discovers that she knew her friend before she really knew her.” We had a first class freak out on the phone as we uncovered our secret past.

That summer in 2003, my dad had been out of work nearly eight months. My sweet grandma had died of cancer only a few weeks after the layoff, and our family had been feeling the strain of change, grief, and uncertainty. Some kind person paid for us to go to Pine Cove as a family. The counselors were wonderful—so grown up and so kind to the bony fifteen year old and her three younger sisters.

One of them was a bouncy person with flaming hair and a big smile who went by—wait for it—“Hip Hop Anonymous”. Isn’t that a great name for her?

So our friendship didn’t actually begin in 2008 when Macie bounced in to Jenny’s apartment with leftover wedding shower cake to share. In reality, I met Hip Hop Anonymous in 2003, before our husbands ever laid eyes on each other and before Macie ever joined our church!

God knew we were meant to be friends. J

Finding community in your mailbox

If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom! This post is an invitation to join in on something that really was an awesome experience for me last semester. It was so much fun that I’m doing it again! 

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Community used to be so easy. 

As a kid, Mom made our play dates with families who became like cousins. We had sleepovers, played for hours in blanket forts, and made friendship bracelets that we swore to never remove. "Pretend" was the game, and we created stories elaborate enough to put any soap opera to shame. 

Even after friends went home, my sisters were there. Living with someone binds you together in a million little moments. They blend together, creating a foundation of shared culture. In it are a zillion nuances of understanding that go comfortably unspoken and you hardly have to work at being understood.

Then I grew up and moved out.

Suddenly there were no sisters, no one to put that hangout on my calendar for me. I had to find community for myself.

It has been anything but easy.

At times I flung myself into ministry, thinking this was fellowship. I poured myself into other girls, draining my emotional reserves, never realizing that the way to receive is to come empty, not full and self-sufficient. 

At other times I recoiled, stung by indifference or careless words. Rejection left bruises, and I erected walls to protect myself from more bruises.

But Jesus has been pulling those walls down with his love, helping me forgive and try again. And again.

Seventy times seven.

He has also shown me that community doesn’t always look the same. Life stages come and go. Sometimes community matches the classic images of a cup of steaming coffee in a quiet coffee shop...but most often it doesn’t.

Sometimes it means dashing across the street for a hug because you caught a glimpse of her taking out her trash.

Sometimes it means ditching all your well-made plans for the evening to watch her kids so that she can connect with her mom.

Sometimes it means giving grace and understanding when she can’t return your text for three weeks, or cancels the lunch date for the second time.

And sometimes? Sometimes community looks like writing a card to another woman you’ve never met. 

Last semester I impulsively put my name on a list with a group of other bloggers who decided they were tired of junk mail, who believed in the power of words to encourage. 

As Kaitlyn, one of the organizers put it, 

"Here's the thing: We all use our words in conversations and blog posts and tweets every day. We're already spending them somewhere, but there are times we each need a pick-me-up. We can use our words--our written words--for good."

A week later I received an email with a list of seven other women and helpful instructions. Each week I wrote one note to one of the girls on the list, and each week I received a note from one of them in the mail! 

 It takes no more than five minutes to write a card. Each week, I had so much fun browsing the next woman's blog and twitter feed, looking for clues that would tell me her hopes, her fears, her quirks. I often prayed for her, and it made me feel connected in a way I thought impossible via the internet. 

Because sometimes community is found in your mailbox.

If you want to try it out, sign up HERE. (And don't wait, because the form closes tonight around midnight-ish!)

Five Minute Friday :: Welcome

Every Friday in the blog world, there is a community of writers who gather around a single word. They set aside five minutes, buckle down, and simply write. They write the first things that spring to mind, recklessly putting words down without editing, second-guessing, or fearing what the other bloggers might think.

Some Fridays, I get to join them. When I do, I get the sense that the thoughts in my head, no matter how rough and uncut, are worth sharing. I relish the chance to speak life into another woman's blog, and tell her that her thoughts are valuable too.

This week, the word is Welcome. I want to welcome you to join in too! If you'd like to see what the party is all about, head on over to Kate's place by clicking this link. 



WELCOME.

There she is at an open doorway, face hot with sweat and road dust. She stands uncertain, with one hand on her stomach like pregnant women have a habit of doing.

I had always pictured Mary bounding eagerly down that last mile to Elizabeth's house, bubbling with anticipation. But what if she had been clammy with nerves? Elizabeth lived nearly 100 miles away from Nazareth, and it might have been years since the last visit. What if her stomach had churned and heart had thumped as she willed herself to walk the last two feet through the older women's door?

After all, she was probably an embarrassment to her mother now. Her cousins back in Nazareth might have whispered and looked at her sideways as she passed on the street.

I am the Lord's handmaiden.

Did she second-guess her surrender now that no one understood?

"Hey--Elizabeth?"

Suddenly Elizabeth was laughing and crying and embracing her--sweat and all--against her own swollen belly. Her face glowed with welcome and the secret that Mary hadn't told, but that she somehow already knew.

"Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear!"

The older woman was stopped by a thought, but it was one of humble wonder, not judgment. "But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?" Laughing, she clasped Mary's hands and pressed them against her own pregnant bulge. "As soon as I heard your greeting, the baby in my womb leapt for joy!" They were both laughing now. "Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!"

The words pouring out of Elizabeth's mouth were like sweet milk, flowing over Mary's fears and the bruises of rejection. The welcome in her embrace was healing and Mary felt herself bubbling over in praise. Suddenly it came out in tumbling, ecstatic poetry.

Her Magnificat.

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To read how other writers interpreted the word "welcome", click here!

What if God DOES give us more than we can handle?

What do you say when your friend gets arrested for accidentally forgetting the item at the bottom of his cart before he walks out the door? What words can you possibly find for the friend awash in grief because her grown up sister suddenly drowned last week in a creek?  How do you answer the why in their tired eyes when a couple sits across from you at your kitchen table, describing how a house fire destroyed their home that morning?

And in case you're wondering--yes, all of those things happened last month to people I love. 

September was rough. 

When the lives of people around us are messy, when the pain they feel is bigger or different from any we've ever walked through, we get scared. It's uncomfortable, right? So we want to fix it, to say a magic word that will suddenly make it all better. Maybe we just want to be the hero.

Whatever the reason, if you feel the urge to tell them, "God won't give you more than you can handle"...just don't. 

The first reason is that it's simply not true. God DOES give us more than we can handle.

We know this from personal experience. Anyone who has ever had an EBD (emotional breakdown) knows that there are days we just. Can't. Deal. Life is chock-full of stress, and it only increases as we grow into our adult lives and accumulate more responsibilities.

But stress or tragedy in the lives of people who follow God is nothing new. What about Joseph, trafficked into slavery by his own brothers? What about Job, who lost his wealth and his kids all in one horrible day? What about Moses, terribly insecure and shaking in his bare feet when God told him to lead millions of people out of a country where they'd been slaves for 400 years? All of them were handed far more than they could handle.

Telling someone that they'll never be given more than they can handle feeds several lies:

1. It sets up an unrealistic expectation that life will be relatively easy for those with faith.

This sounds great, and is a key part of the Prosperity Theology preached by many. However, it is the complete opposite of what Jesus actually told his disciples to expect. Jesus said that "in this life you will have trouble" (John 16:33). He also declares that "if anyone would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me" (Mark 8:34).

 Faith in God does not guarantee an easy life. In fact, the sheer number of verses calling believers to self-sacrifice, suffering, and endurance indicate the opposite.

2. If you do find yourself falling apart, it must be because you don't believe strongly enough that you have what it takes. 

This is such a terrible lie, straight from Hell. Not only does it further isolate the person, it also piles a heap of guilt on an already painful situation.

There is definitely a Biblical call to stand firm on the promises of God. But did Jesus promise an easy life? Did he promise that you would never have a meltdown or feel depressed? We must be careful that the promises we are claiming are actually from the Lord. (See point number 1.)



One of the reasons that folk theology takes root and gains popular acceptance is because it sounds so much like the truth. Telling someone that God won't give them more than they can handle is almost  a true statement.

However, the truth is that God will never give you more than His grace is sufficient for.

The Apostle Paul had a struggle that seemed to crush him. Three times he pleaded with God to take it away, but each time God said, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Not only did God promise to give grace that is enough for all I need, he even seems to say that the best circumstance through which to display His power is our weakness. What kind of crazy, backward display of power is this? But that is the mystery of the majesty of our God.

The truth is that God never intended you to handle it alone. 

Our loving Father wants us to rely on Him, and not on ourselves. Our natural normal state is not independence, as if God wanted us to eventually remove the training wheels of His love and grace. Our natural, normal state is deep, constant dependence on Him for every need, every moment.

Our natural state is also community. Even about Adam, a sinless man in a perfect, pre-curse world, God said, "it is not good for man to be alone." (Genesis 2:18)

I firmly believe that one of God's primary and most tangible expressions of grace to believers is other believers. When we, as the Body of Christ, are all built up into the unity of the Spirit, we share one member's pain as our own. We bear one another's burdens.

The truth is that God loves us so much that he is even willing to allow painful circumstances in our lives to bring about this intimacy with Himself and within his Body. 

This is a delicate topic. I was so nervous to bring it up that I almost skipped it entirely.

I realize that it would be completely arrogant for me to look at anyone's pain and assume that I know the reason God allowed it. When God allows cancer, or sexual abuse, or a house fire, or a machete massacre in a Nigerian village, I have no words.

And friend, I don't know the "why" behind your story of loss.

But I know that the ultimate good for humans--the absolute best thing that can ever happen to us--is to know God. To see Him for who He is, to experience His greatness and love, to become intimate friends with the Creator who call us His own--this is the best, most joyful thing.

Your loving Father might allow pain and loss in order to bring you into the deep intimacy with Himself and his Church that is your ultimate good.

Paul described this experience in his own life like this:

8 We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters,[a] about the troubles we experienced in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired of life itself. 9 Indeed, we felt we had received the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God,who raises the dead. (2 Corinthians 1:8-9)

I firmly believe that there is no evil or pain that God cannot redeem for our good and His glory.

After all, the brutal murder of an innocent man named Jesus was the way God chose to bring salvation to the world. 

When Bold is Not Beautiful (How to Play Nice Online)

There is something about anonymity that makes people bolder.

Have you ever seen the gritty secrets posted on one of those completely anonymous "spill your guts" forums? The darkest things can come to light when no one can trace them back to you.

I'm sure we've all seen those passive-aggressive statuses or tweets.

Even when not anonymous, an interface like the internet can remove the fear of confrontation that many of us have. Suddenly we're not yelling into a person's face, we're just using ALL CAPS for emphasis. We're not being snarky in someone's living room, we're just using *sarcastic font* to show how idiotic his blog post was.

Bold is not necessarily beautiful. 

Even if we're pretty nice folks online, the ease and speed with which we communicate online can make us careless. The blinking cursor means we can't see the hurt flicker across her face, or the way he just folded his arms. It's hard to know when we've gone too far into the tender territory of her heart.

In the three years that I've been blogging, most of the reactions have been positive, but some have cut deep. In those moments, as I scroll down through barbed text or well-meaning platitudes, it's a hard choice to breathe deep and remember grace. Grace for them and grace for me--because I'm not guiltless either.



I'm sure that wiser people could add to this list, but here are a few things that Jesus has brought to mind as I've wrestled with how to do community in this age of simultaneous connection and technological distance.

#1--Assume the best

My mom was right about this--most offenses will be erased before they even start if I begin by believing the other person meant well. Seriously, this works! I've been employed in customer service positions at a bank, a hotel, a restaurant, an ice cream shop and now at a university, and nothing diffuses stress in the other guy more quickly than feeling like you get them. When you give them the benefit of the doubt, you extend grace.

Remember, no one is the villain of their own story. 

Did the person sound impatient? Assume that they are feeling pressure from someone else, or at least that they are frustrated with the situation and not with you.

Did their post come across dogmatic or abrasive? Assume that they have a good reason--a back story--for feeling so passionately about the subject.

Did they sound as if they intended to hurt you? They probably didn't. Even if they did, this should evoke pity in us for the wounds they almost certainly have. Hurting people hurt people.

#2--Sleep on it

You know how the internet is designed for instant communication? Yeah, that. 

Because even the best-intentioned among us can be careless, give yourself a buffer. The more emotion you feel about what you are about to write, the longer the time should be before you post. (I once wrote and re-wrote and prayed over a particular response for weeks.)

Words, once released verbally into the atmosphere or digitally into the blogosphere, are no longer yours. You can't snatch them back, and they can be twisted and misunderstood and widely spread. 

Save yourself some pain: pause, hit "save", and come back later. 

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, because human anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. -James 1:19-20

#3--If possible, be personal

Ok, you slept on it several days but still feel like you should say something. Keep in mind that sometimes the internet just doesn't cut it, and we have to go old-school. 

In one of my Communication classes in college, I learned that over eighty-five percent of communication is non-verbal. 

Over eighty-five percent! Some researchers even put the number as high as 93%. That means that even the most perfectly worded email has only a 7-15% chance of communicating the fullness of your true heart. 

Many of our online friends are also real-life friends (think Facebook, Instagram...), and there's no real reason why we can't set our laptops aside and grab coffee or have a Skype date to repair a misunderstanding. 

What if we've never met and probably never will? Even then, be as personal as possible. Send a private message instead of a public comment. And in your tone, aim for conversation, rather than accusation. 

If the goal is authentic relationships and not just blog traffic, let's be relational.

Living forgiven in front of them

 In my last post, I gave a teaser about our awesome Friday night. Thanks for patiently waiting! I always overestimate the amount of blogging time I'll have while we're over here in Milan.  (I mean, who knew we'd need silly stuff like sleep and food, right?)

Every evening after English Clubs, we go as a group to a local restaurant and invite the students to join us. The conversations we enjoy over food are often quieter and more personal than any we could have in the short break time during English Clubs, so we were excited when a large group joined us on Friday.

That particular night, we had an additional attraction: bowling! I'm terrible at the game, but I *almost* got a spare once, and laughing makes you bond with people, right? I don't mind being the joke. :)

Stylish, no?

Srike celebration!

"Giorda" is apparently the only logical way to spell my hubby's name...

After bowling, we headed over to the food court. I was with a sweet, talkative girl I'll call Rose, and I decided at the last second to join her group at "The Wild West". It's Italy's attempt at Tex-Mex, and while their guacamole leaves much to be desired, they do have pretty good nachos.

As the four of us at our end of the restaurant booth talked about the civic role of the Catholic Church in Italy, our studies, and our families, I was praying. I was listening intently, trying to hear past the surface and understand their hearts.

Usually, Italians are very reserved, and they have a hard time sharing personal details or discussing deeper topics. But if you listen well, there are often clues dropped about painful circumstances in their lives that can help you have a deeper conversation with them later.

Rose told how her mother had suddenly become very devout after visiting a shrine in another part of Italy. She now goes to church daily, as well as praying an hour every evening.

"How do you feel about the change in your mom?" I asked.

"Oh, it is fine and good," she said. "I like that she chooses this herself. It is not only religion. There is no person forcing her to do this--she decided it on her own. I think there is big difference between religion and a faith."

"I agree," I said. "When I was little, it was easy to believe in God because my parents told me. Later, I had questions and I found the answers when I read the Bible for myself. My cousin told me that it is ok to have questions because if something is true, it will still be true after you test it.'"


The conversation shifted and I listened for a long time. Then one of the guys said, "Wait--I want to hear you talk. Tell us about Texas." They listened, disbelieving, as I described the distance from Houston to Dallas, the variety of foods and cultures represented, the fact that not everything is desert, and the country dancing. The conversation was about to veer into an animated debate about Wild West shows when the same guy said, "No, this is OK, but tell us something else. I like to hear your voice. Tell us whatever you like."

Could I have asked for a more perfect chance to tell how God has changed me?

So I told my story.

How I used to find my value in the fact that I was a good student. How I thought my family was perfect. How my Grandma died. How Dad lost his job. How God helped me forgive my parents completely because I have been forgiven. How I now know that my value comes from the fact that I'm loved by God--not from what I do.

As we paid and walked out of the mall, Rose said, "I can feel everything you said. It is so similar to my life!"

She had to leave early and can't spend any more time with our team because of a job in another city, but neither one of us wanted to stop talking.

Please pray for this beautiful girl and for the other students who were sitting close. I know from experience that only God can give hope to a family that is breaking apart.
Only God can help us forgive wounds like that.
Only God's love can silence the accusing voices that tell us we're unlovely and unlovable. 

Photons, and a safe place for my flurried soul

There is this wonderful sentence near the end of my Bible. It's dense and heady and rich like eggnog, and I've been sipping slowly, savoring each phrase ever since Easter.

In our team devotional time, we were challenged to ruminate on the words of God, let them soak into us deeply, digest them and re-digest them until they saturate us, become part of us.

Our leader actually coined a word--part Italian, part American silliness--to describe the process: "moo-care". (moo-KAH-reh) It's from "mangiare", the Italian word meaning "to eat", and "moo", as in, well, a cow.
Eat, chew, digest.
Repeat.

Not a lovely image, but accurate. So here is the verse I've been "moo-care-ing" on for about a month.

"The Son is the radiance of God's glory and the exact representation of his being..."

In 7th grade science, I learned about light. The photons that bounce off of objects into my eyes are what allow me to see the color and shape of anything I look at. You could say that those photons are the exact representation of whatever I see.

Without the radiance of light, the world would be dark, formless, mysterious.
Before the Radiance of God's glory in Christ, God was a mystery.

But we have seen him.

He is knowable.


"...sustaining all things by his powerful word."

God doesn't haphazardly breathe life, get wheels turning, and then turn His back.

He sustains all things. He continually breathes life into this universe, holds laws of physics in place so that electrons rotate at orbit and water drips downward and the earth stays tilted just so.

He sustains all things. The everything included in that tiny phrase of power spells safety and security to my flurried soul. Sand slips through fingers and things slip from my mind like so much sand, but nothing escapes his power and love.

All my crazy running-out-the-door moments.
All the am-I-enough wonderings.
All of me, sustained. Upheld. Plucked from darkness as many times as I return to it. Imbued with life not my own.

By the same powerful Word that once created life from nothing, He now sustains ours.
That Word was with God at the beginning,
And was God,
And now intercedes for you to God as He sits, victorious.

Me and my lovely teammates at dinner on Tuesday! 

Exciting things are happening here in Milan, y'all! I'll post another update tonight with lots of pictures.
(Today's post is based on Hebrews 1:3a)

Five Minute Friday::Glue

Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. You can join in here!

Today's word = GLUE

Yesterday was all unraveled and ragged. I flew out the door with my shoes barely on my feet and a granola bar in my hand. Seriously, God bless granola bar makers.

My house looks like a garage sale after all the good pickings have been picked over. Ever since our washing machine decided to re-create Noah's Flood two weeks ago, we've been living in a carpet-less home without baseboards or doors or basic organization. Just getting out the door is a feat of memory and agility. Where was my jacket again...? *wracks brain, bumps into furniture*

It really hasn't been too bad. Now that the thirteen rumbling red industrial fans and honking-huge dehumidifier are gone, at least I have a kitchen again. Even while the fans roared, we laughed about their white noise making it easy to sleep.

But yesterday at work my shoulders and neck creaked with painful lumps as the phone constantly rang and rang and rang and my throat grew dry from explaining. The papers piled up faster than I could sort them. My fingers clicked constantly, almost independent of my tired brain as the mental to-do list grew longer and heavier.

It felt like I was coming unglued. Can anyone relate?

I stumbled up the stairs to our homegroup meeting with only half a heart to be there. Heavy-eyed, foggy-brained from my desperate post-work nap, I willed myself to sit.

"Between the songs", they said,  "let's tell what God has been doing in our hearts". What have You been doing, Lord? I wondered. I'm so unglued and discombobulated.

As I flipped backward in the blue journal looking for scraps I'd chanced to record, I found the sweetest words. Words that had patched me together on another ragged, teary day in January.

"Cherise, you do not have less at this moment when you are exhausted and fighting a cold than you do on days when you are well-rested, healthy, and feel in control. You have Me in abundance at all times, and I am all you need."

Wonderful truth.

He is not diminished if I am depleted, and He holds even my unraveled, unglued moments together by his powerful Word.


Side note: My homegroup will notice that this journal entry wasn't what I shared last night with the group. It felt like a personal hug from Jesus for that moment, something just between the two of us for me to feel his love while I shared something else out loud. But now, in the light of a new day, it seemed  appropriate to share.  I hope someone else will feel His love in the middle of an unglued moment like mine. 

My new Chinese friend

Have you ever lived overseas?

I'm not talking about a vacation packed with non-stop pictures and travel and fun. I'm talking about a time long enough for laundry to be done, long enough for grocery shopping routines to form, long enough for lonliness to set in.

  Someone once told me that the number of calories an immersed language student burns daily from sheer mental effort to understand and be understood is equivalent to what a bricklayer would burn if he worked eight hours in the sun. I believe them.

I had the chance to spend half a year overseas after high school. The mental exhaustion was intense. The new language was an extra layer of difficulty that had to be peeled back from the most ordinary of tasks. I remember searching for words, lining them up in my mind, rehearsing them over and over as I stepped to a desk or cashier and hoped that the other person would be kind.

Now I am the person behind the desk. In my new office, every other visitor speaks with an accent. Their syllables halt in strange places and their faulty intonations make commonplace words sound like music.

For a long time, I have enjoyed tiny slivers of interaction with internationals--a few minutes on the bus, visits with a Chinese friend who now lives 3 hours away, or a Turkish friend who is very busy with her baby. Because our ministry focus is on a student homegroup that has mostly American students (by accident, not design), there just hasn't been the opportunity to interact very much.

Now, not only do I get to see and talk to foreign students every day at my job, I have a new friend from China! Lynn* is a first-semester graduate student from Shanghai, and she is my new conversation partner. Several months ago, she jotted down her name on a sheet of paper at an international student welcome event to ask for an American friend. We got connected, and I'm so excited to get to know her!

I'm sure I'll have plenty more to tell as we get to know each other, but for now, please pray for our friendship, and for Lynn as she adjusts to American life and our (very!) strange language.

*Not her real name

Five Minute Friday: "Write"

I follow a blog by a mommy from South Africa. She writes real and deep and often, and I get courage from her going into the mothering world ahead of me.

Every Friday, she hosts a kind of free-write flash mob on her blog. This is how she explains it:

 

"On Fridays around these parts we like to write.

Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for fun, for practice, for joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker. We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat. All on the same topic. Not sure how to participate – the step-by-step directions are over here: Here’s how we do it:

1. Write for 5 minutes flat with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing.

2. Link back here and invite others to join in .

3. Go and tell the person who linked up before you what their words meant to you. Every writer longs to feel heard. OK, are you ready? Give us your best five minutes for the prompt: - See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2013/07/five-minute-friday-beautiful/#sthash.ub47n92a.dpuf"

 

 

SO...here is my unedited, five-minute contribution to the fun! The prompt: "WRITE"

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

A word spoken is a magical thing. Released into the space between speaker and hearer, it has the power either to create or destroy. Its meaning can be lost in tone or word choice, misconstrued by insecurities or word choice, forgotten or remembered for years. But it can never be unsaid.

 

All this power for a spoken word, that lasts only a moment in the vibrating air.

 

But a written word—or a string of them? Well, that has power with permanence.

 

Last night I began reading “1985”. Somehow I managed to skip reading this high school literature staple. I’m only three chapters in, and already I feel sick on behalf of Winston. He is caught in a world without tragedy or love, where truth is lie and he is not even sure of the date.

 

Knowing he commits the ultimate crime, he begins a journal. He writes. It is a physical extension of the few cubic inches between his ears that, until now, has been his only private domain. He writes in fear, but with reckless courage, because words on a page have the power of permenance to condemn him and make his thoughts real. He writes for a future that may never acknowledge or know him.

 

I feel thankful for a world without Big Brother, without a telescreen watching my every move. I can think without crime, write without fear.

 

But Winston has reminded me of my power.

 

A few taps, and words exist in a cyberspace that never forgets. A few careless keystrokes can have the power to build up or destroy in a far more permanent way than simply talking.

The Exodus of Exodus

Exodus International is the largest ex-gay Christian ministry and, at 37 years, one of the longest-running.

Or it was.

This month, Exodus International announced that it is shutting its doors. The same week, President Allan Chambers issued a heartfelt apology to the GLBT community, saying "Please know that I am deeply sorry...for the pain and hurt many of you have experienced."

Click here to read the full apology. 

In his speech, Chambers personally apologized for not telling the full story of his ongoing same-sex attraction for many years. He also expressed regret that Exodus International had "promoted sexual orientation change efforts and reparative theories about sexual orientation that stigmatized parents." He was referring to "reparative therapy"--the long-standing idea that intensive therapy and a close relationship with God could "repair" or "cure" an unwanted homosexual orientation. While Exodus has taken recent steps in the past few years to denounce this approach as harmful and without medical basis, they had previously endorsed and used this method as part of their ministry.

One day after the apology, Exodus International gave the formal announcement that they were shutting down.

Judging from Exodus International's facebook page, the reactions to the apology are a mixed bag.

"Your too-late apologies can't begin to make up for the real and lasting direct and indirect damage you did to many thousands of people," said one commenter, Michael Martin. 

Another poster, nicknamed Little Bird, was more forgiving.

 "I've lost so many friends who were forced out of their connection with God because of the internalized messages they received from hateful religious groups. I accept the apology. Thank you."

 This month has been momentous for the GLBT community. Just this past Wednesday, the Supreme Court ruled that a key part of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), is unconstitutional. As a result, the federal government will now give same-sex married couples the same legal and financial benefits as their heterosexual counterparts.

I have to admit: when I first saw the headlines, I felt genuine disappointment that any Christian ministry to the GLBT community would shut down. With more and more young people questioning their sexual identities, there is an enormous need for ministries that offer Biblical truth, compassion and support. My husband and I personally have friends who have had positive experiences with the affiliates of Exodus International, and we had never heard the stories of abuse and trauma.

The fact that they were apologizing rubbed it worse--at first glance it seemed to negate everything they had stood for. But when I read Chamber's apology more closely, I saw that the organization made a clear distinction between harm done and beliefs held.

"I cannot apologize for my deeply held biblical beliefs about the boundaries I see in scripture surrounding sex, but I will exercise my beliefs with great care and respect for those who do not share them....My wife Leslie and my beliefs center around grace, the finished work of Christ on the cross and his offer of eternal relationship to any and all that believe. Our beliefs do not center on "sin" because "sin" isn't at the center of our faith. Our journey hasn't been about denying the power of Christ to do anything--obviously he is God and can do anything."

In other words, the apology has nothing to do with rejecting a Biblical stance on marriage, sexuality, or the power of Christ to change us. Instead, it means the leaders of Exodus are simply recognizing that well-intentioned ministry strategies have hurt some of the very people they desired to help, and they are adjusting their approach.

The leaders of the disbanded Exodus International have said that they plan to form a completely new ministry  called Reduce Fear. At the end of his apology, Chamber alluded to the new vision, saying that they hope to host "thoughtful and safe conversations about gender and sexuality, while partnering with others to reduce fear, inspire hope, and cultivate human flourishing."

I am cautiously hopeful as I wait to see.
I pray they can make churches a safe place for gays without endorsing the "Gay Gospel" or gay lifestyle.
I pray that they offer hope in the power of Christ without offering false promise in the power of Christian therapy.
I pray that Reduce Fear becomes an organization known for love and compassion instead of one tarnished by hushed-up scandals.

It's a tall order, but I think they have taken a brave first step in the right direction.


I usually don't write about current events, but lately the news has captured my attention. Please take these thoughts as the honest wrestling of a Christian who doesn't have all the answers, but who wants to be thoughtful, curious and engaged with the world in which she lives. This *may* become a more common thing here at A Pile of Pebbles. 

Word Fun:: Kerfuffle!

Ever been in a kerfuffle?  

Say it: "ker-FUFF-ul". 

Say it again, faster. You're smiling, aren't you? I can't help but grin absurdly when I say kerfuffle. There are certain words in the English language that tickle the tongue, that come out Dr. Seuss-esque and make me feel like I'm five. 

The online Merriam-Webster dictionary defines kerfuffle as "a disturbance, a fuss." Something like an ado, a bother, a bluster, a ballyhoo, a furor, or hoopla. 

For example, "When my co-worker found out that they were out of Pumpkin Spice lattes, she raised quite a kerfuffle." (FYI, this is a true story from Wednesday.)

It's a chiefly British word, but the origin is probably Scottish Gaelic, a combination of cearr (wrong or awkward) and fuffle (to become disheveled). I am becoming increasingly convinced that the ancient Gaelic and Celtic languages might be the coolest on the planet. 

Apparently, I'm not the only person who thinks kerfuffle is a fun word. Google revealed that there is a website devoted to kerfuffles, a slew of rather cheesy memes, a musical band, and even a board game by that name!  Family game night, anyone?

But my favorite definition of kerfuffle comes from urbandictionary.com:

Kerfuffle: a cough that makes you fart.