Drishti Prayer

Hey everyone. It has been like crickets over on this blog, and I am sorry about that! I just started working for my dream organization, the Collegeville Institute, and the transition from stay-at-home mom to works-part-time mom has been stretching.

I am pleased that my first piece for Off the Page is up today. It's about how I started praying again after a long, silent period.

It starts like this:

March 15

I was running on the treadmill, my legs struggling to keep up with the fast moving belt, when I looked up and saw a plane through the window. My eyes tracked the thumb-sized aircraft as it climbed slowly across the sky until – poof – it was gone, swallowed by a cloud. I let out a small gasp, my eyes scanning to where the plane might exit the clouds, hoping to see it emerge again. There it is, still visible but partially cloaked in haze, there it goes again, vanished into the white and grey.

It kept happening, plane after plane, ascending, passing in front of the clouds, then disappearing, then reemerging, then disappearing again. They all made the same journey, and something about it stirred me uncomfortably. I felt sadness when they vanished; I kept returning my eyes to the same place, hoping for another sighting.

Read the rest here.

My Unabashed Love for a Good Story

I may be 30 years old, but I sometimes feel like I am 30-going-on-13 because I love reading the occasional Young Adult (YA) novel. I am privileged to be guest-posting at Christiana Peterson's blog today about why I devoured The Hunger Games series during early motherhood.  ...

“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “…is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.” “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” - Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

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The Hunger Games

Call me lowbrow if you must, but I loved reading The Hunger Games series.

It was the winter of 2012 and I was learning how to be a mother. My newborn daughter was fussy, nursed constantly and rejected both pacifiers and bottles, forcing me to spend many hours trapped on the couch underneath her weight. I reserved books from the library in droves, looking up titles that I found on top ten lists from esteemed literary critics over the past few years. I read and read, and when I couldn’t read anymore, I watched Downton Abbey on my laptop until thirst drove me off the couch and into the kitchen.

Click here to read more.

On Spiritual Abuse

Hey everyone. I wrote a guest-post about my experience with spiritual abuse over at my friend Amy Peterson's blog for her series on finding a second simplicity in faith. It's a personal story, one that I continue to wrestle with.  

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There was a time when I didn’t know if God was good. 

It was the summer I fell in with a group of fire-breathing Pentecostals and the summer I questioned the salvation of nearly every Christian I had ever met. It was the summer I interviewed migrants in a Kenyan refugee camp as an intern with the United Nations and the summer I nearly lost my mind from secondary trauma.

It was the summer when everything unraveled. My ideas of good and bad, true and untrue blurred into a swirling mess, a cyclone that ripped through the faith that had been growing steadily since childhood.

Some days I peer at the landscape of my faith and see the devastation that lingers even now, nine years later. It looks like the path a windstorm can wrack through an old-growth forest. It looks like a trail of downed trees. Sure, I can see regrowth among the broken limbs on the forest floor; I can see new saplings poking upward in sunlight. But I can’t help staring at all those snapped trunks and exposed roots, wondering at all that I lost in that storm.

Read the rest here.

The Book That Changed My Life

I wrote an essay about The Irresistible Revolution over at D.L. Mayfield's blog. irresistiblerevolution

The Irresistible Revolution: The Book That Changed my Life

What was it about that book?

It was the gee whiz let’s do something. It was the stories of hope. It was the promise of a glittery but gritty revolution where the kingdom breaks through cracked concrete, mustard plant by mustard plant.

It was the acknowledgment that not all is well with the world, stop pretending. Instead, let’s move into the neighborhood and tithe our money relationally; let’s reject the investment in sprawling suburban church campuses when so many are scrounging for grocery money. Be a new kind of believer, a prophetic witness who takes Jesus at his word.

Shane Claiborne came to speak in chapel at my evangelical college in 2004, two years before The Irresistible Revolution was published. It was the week before finals and I skipped his talk to write a paper; I had never heard of him. But I saw the impact he had on my friends, how they came back from chapel pumped up by his words about authentic faith, by his dreadlocks and patched jeans. Some of my crowd looked a lot like Shane that way, and I have a faint recollection of a drum circle that he performed with students on campus.

Shane, it was decided, was very cool. The New Monasticism movement that he headlined buzzed with words like “intentional community” and “downward mobility,” setting my idealist heart ringing. It dovetailed with the “you can change the world” message I had long heard growing up. And I believed in my heart of hearts that I, too, would never settle for a stale and materialistic Christianity.

But, if you’re like me, the sounding gong of radicalism eventually faded into disillusionment.

Read the rest here.