Learning to hope again

“For in hope we were saved.  Now hope that is seen is not hope.  For who hopes for what is seen?  But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”  –Romans 8:24-25

A few months ago I began prepping a sermon on Romans 8, focusing on the two verses that come after these ones.  In fact, the part that comes next, about how “when we do not know how to pray, the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words” (Romans 8:26), is one of my favorite passages in the Bible.  I love silent prayer and contemplation, and so I began scribbling down all sorts of ideas as I was brainstorming to preach.  I don’t even remember what I wrote down at the time, but one of the ideas was something like, “God dares us to hope again after loss, pain, and fear.”

I put my notebook away, and I went onto write the sermon a day or so later, preach it, and presumably move on.

But still, that message about hope was calling me.  

In fact, months later, I’m still thinking about it.  What that passage and my reflections on hope began to reveal to me is that faithfulness in this season of life, especially with Lucia, has often involved letting go of our expectations in order to love her as she is and celebrate her life.  This has been such a good and Godly way of learning to love, and especially when we’ve often stood in the balance of not knowing when the next crisis will strike or when we may need to let go, it’s been a powerful and fruitful way to live.

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Holding Lucia on her first birthday.  Photo by Andrew Nurkin.

But I also realize now that as we’d let go of expectations and fully embraced the uncertainty of our lives together, we’d not been particularly welcome or wont to hope.

Indeed, a few months ago, another parent said something casual to me like, “I’m just so looking forward to when she can do X…”  Yet another chirped, “Don’t you just look forward to each stage?”  The statements were remarkable because I realized, not mournfully or proudly, but simply and practically, that I certainly didn’t have the same hopes for Lucia.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t have hopes.

Something has shifted over the past few months for me.  Perhaps it’s because Lucia’s joy–her smiles, her giggles, are so contagious that we can’t help but want for more.  Perhaps it is because we’ve begun to realize that there’s a certain faithfulness (where perhaps we once thought it mere naiveté or denial) to believing and looking forward and wanting more for your child even when the future (gosh, everyone’s future!) is always uncertain.  “Who hopes for what is seen?” Paul asks, and it dawns on me that all hope is outrageous and audacious and almost senseless.  It dawns on me that true hope, hope despite fear, loss, and pain, is the most outrageous of them all, but deeply, wildly, and decidedly faithful.

What’s striking to me in this season is that even as Lucia’s daily health challenges continue, I think God is inviting us to dream a bit, to hope a lot, to envision a great and glorious and good life, even if it’s completely uncertain, for our daughter with special needs.

This is a huge shift for me…and it’s a little scary.  

And it’s not the sermon I preached that Sunday.  In fact, to this day, I don’t know how God did that–helped me write a sermon for others even as God prepared a sermon just for me.  And I am wary, as I always am, too pensive and critical, because hope for many often takes the shape of bi-ped hubris, therapeutic progress, or medical cures for Lucia, and I feel distinctly called to inhabit this tension of living and loving her now, and yet loving and hoping for her tomorrow, too.

So I find hope in the home we are making for Lucia, in the thought of her making friends at school someday, touching so many lives as she does ours everyday, teaching others, reaching out for babies and friends and strangers, and having many more swims and smiles and heroic turns of her head toward the things and the people that she wants and cares for!  These are my small, perhaps tentative, but genuine, prayerful, and faithful hopes for my daughter.

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Our little light looking for the light on a recent walk around the neighborhood.  My photo.

We will always savor the present, but we find new hope in the future with God’s help.

 

 

Join Our Special Needs Hackathon

The world is not set up for children (or adults for that matter) with special needs so every day can be a challenge.  What I’ve observed during my time in China working with families with kids with special needs and here in the US is that lack causes families to get really creative and innovative.  Perhaps not surprisingly, families with children with special needs don’t allow themselves to be stymied by an ableist society, lack of equipment or access to it, or most especially, the differences of their children–rather, they often work within society’s limitations to find the best ways to meet their children’s needs.

So, I want to highlight that ingenuity, tapping into our common wisdom, rather than just bemoaning our critical challenges.

In this post, my goal is to start a chain of communication where families with children with special needs can share cool “life hacks” with one another and find solutions to their everyday challenges.  I’ll start by sharing one of the things that we’ve discovered that works really well for Lucia, our daughter with a genetic syndrome of the brain, who feeds through a g-tube, and has a combination of high and low tone.  Then, I’ll post a question in an area where I need help.  What I’m hoping is that someone out there can answer my question, either on their blog, or on social media, and share their “life hack” and pose their own question, and so we can keep sharing!  Feel free to use the hashtag #specialneedshackathon so we can connect up all the posts.

So here’s the format: 1) Answer a question (on your blog or social media) by sharing a life hack that’s worked for your family or or your child with special needs; 2) Pose a question you need help with; 3) Use the hashtag #specialneedshackathon!

Of course everyone’s children’s special needs will be different, but my hope is that we can begin this important conversation, focusing on our strengths and our creativity, and building our community, rather than perhaps having to reinvent the wheel!  If you know of other efforts to share solutions like these, please point me that direction, as well.

So now for our life hack!  We always share with other parents that we stumbled into a great solution in that very early on we could tell that a regular stroller wasn’t going to give Lucia the trunk, torso, and head support that she needed to sit well and enjoy the world.  When she was about 14 months, we had her in an umbrella stroller and were visiting the Abilities Expo in Edison, New Jersey.  Our friends had a Special Tomato chair for their son who has CP and we were eager to try one out!  My husband asked if the size one soft-sitter would fit into the umbrella stroller and though the personnel didn’t know, they were eager for us to try.  Well, lo and behold, you can strap the size one chair onto an umbrella stroller and it fits all snug, almost as if it was made to go in there!

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Here’s Lucia in her special tomato chair strapped to her umbrella stroller!  Photo by Erin Raffety

Of course, you can probably fit the chair into many strollers, but for us, attaching it to an umbrella stroller has meant more easy mobility for our family and a lightweight, cheap solution, as the chair alone can be quite expensive.  Special Tomato also sells their own strollers but this seemed like a good solution, given that she will be growing out of it in no time!

And now for my question: as Lucia grows out of a traditional changing table (she’s 2 and 1/2 and around 24 1bs and 31 in), I’m wondering what other parents of older kids with special needs who still use diapers do for a changing solution?  We’re moving into a new house so we’re interested in finding something that is more long-term, comfortable for her, and doesn’t cause our backs to ache every time we go to change her!  Any special needs life hacks out there???

Virtual coffee date

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Main gates at Princeton University. All photos by Evan Schneider.

If we were having coffee today, I’d tell you that it’s been a thrilling week teaching in the Freshman Scholars Institute program at Princeton, talking with my new students (about Plato, Freire, Hitchcock, and Du Bois), and also hearing some of their stories and their passions.  When I sat with them on Sunday evening during dinner, I noticed that while they were saddened by the violence in their country, they were not defeated by it–their hope for the future is inspiring.

I’d tell you how challenging I think it may be for me to keep a handle on my writing projects and professional goals with this busy summer semester course.  A month ago at the Frederick Buechner Writer’s Workshop Institute at Princeton Theological Seminary, several workshop presenters talked about the efficacy of collaborative writing partnerships.  In one pair, two academics set quarterly writing goals and checked in with each other on writing schedules once a week, also exchanging work, and talking about writing over a weekly call.  I’m striving to set and keep writing goals myself and considering such a partnership as one possibility.

How do you keep your writing goals?  What are your best tips? Would love to hear from you!

Finally, I’d talk to you about all the excitement and anticipation my family and I have about moving into a new house in the coming weeks.  As you know, we’ve been living in other people’s apartments, and God’s been providing for us so effortlessly, but at this last stage, I feel the anxiety creeping over me.  It’s been easier, I think, to be faithful with little, and I struggle with the grandeur and responsibility of moving into a bigger place.  Also moving is just the worst, and the thought of that upheaval leaves me weak.

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Unconventional view of the Brooklyn Bridge.

But I’m going to do my best to continue with my summer strokes, taking in all the blessing along with the challenges, finding beauty and promise and goodness in each stage of life.

What about you?  What’s on your mind these days?

 

How to embrace summer strokes

There is this thing we do, especially over in academia, but also in life, where we presume that complicated, busy, and grandiose is better.

Especially in my professional corner of the world, people often speak in belabored language and write long-winded sentences, and it’s all emperors new clothes until we realize that nobody can actually understand what we’re saying, no matter how profound it may be.

In my personal life, that version of over-complicated also takes the form of swimming upstream, presuming that every moment needs to be set to a purpose, and that things like pause and sabbath, leisurely strolls, or even hearty laughs defy the Protestant ethic in a decidedly unfaithful way.  

But surely that’s not what God intended for us…especially in the summer!

I have to admit that I once looked at offices that recognized summer hours–leaving early on Fridays–as flat out lazy.  Sure, summers are afforded teachers for restoration given the demands of the academic year, but I always felt a little guilty about that, too.  Indeed, for professors, summers are not breaks or vacations, but our best research and writing is supposed to be scrunched into these three hot summer months.

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Summer on the D&R canal.  Photo by Evan Schneider.

But I’m starting to see the wisdom in simple, summer strokes, going with the flow, and finding a rhythm in this slower season of life that embraces restoration, intention, and the sacred pause.

When my writing time was cut in half these past few weeks because of nursing vacancies, I initially panicked, but as I let my pen wander between lofty goals of articles and future plans, ordinary blog posts like these, and my book project, somehow my productivity multiplied.  Somehow in the slower strokes of summer, the steady motions of my pen, however pedantic, became productive.

I’ve taken walks these past few weeks just to take walks.  I’ve read books just because they’re fun or because they speak to a deep but unexplored interest.  And I’m still plotting a spur of the moment (is that completely paradoxical?) trip to the beach, just me and Lucia, before the summer ends.

The less I’ve tried to fight this slower pace, the more meaningful it has become.  

And slow spirituality?  Oh yes.  

At church this past Sunday, when I had all the reason to worry about which word needed to be preached to our desperate and hurting world, the kids on our mission trip, coming off their retreat from their own realities and their own summer strokes, were spouting this wisdom about not necessarily getting to see a job completed but doing your part, or loving the person in front of you.  And that was precisely the word that God had prepared.

The second we start to believe that God can’t do anything with ordinary lives is the second we’ve lost faith in the extraordinary God we serve.  But the moment we start to trust in the slow, deep work of God, when we trust in the abundance of God’s divine work in the world, when we go with the flow, if you will, all those seemingly singular actions, persons, and moments start to add up.  We start to see them as not incidental or momentary or fleeting, but the real stuff of life and faith.  What if we treated sabbaths not as the mere moments between what we really matters, but as life-giving rhythms for our ordinary lives?

I know summer can’t last forever, but I’m aching to hold onto its cadence as long as possible.

The benediction this Sunday, reprinted below, came from Paul’s letter to the Romans, paraphrased.  May your “ordinary, sleeping, eating, going-to-work and walking-around-life” slow down just a bit this week to encounter and embrace God’s extraordinary brush strokes upon it:

So here’s what I want you to do as God helps you.  Take your everyday, ordinary life–Your sleeping, eating, going-to-work and walking-around-life–and place it before God as an offering.  Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for God.  Amen.

Lament for a gun-spangled America

On Sunday morning, I preached a sermon on 2 Corinthians 4, in which I struggled to find a modern metaphor for clay jars, Paul’s metaphor for the wild inappropriateness of our weak, fragile broken bodies as vessels for the gospel.  

On Monday, July 4, 2016, America celebrated its independence day.

On Tuesday, two police officers fatally shot Alton B. Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

On Wednesday evening, a police officer fatally shot Philando Castile during a traffic stop in Falcon Heights, Minnesota.

Last night, five police officers were killed by snipers during an otherwise peaceful protest held in downtown Dallas.

This morning, practically paralyzed by the events of this week, grief stricken and broken hearted, I wrote this lament to our gun-spangled America.

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Photo Credit.

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I woke up this morning, and like so many wondered naively, will things be different?  Will things be different on a morning where birds chirp, where it seems possible to be hopeful, the heavy, oppressive heat yet to descend upon us?

Who are you, this shadowy America, and what have you done with free and the brave?

How heavy your burden of history and violence and oppression, how heavy the present fear and death you inflict upon black men and black women, America.

How heavy that fear descends upon law enforcement, for even their guns will not free them from this madness!

And it seems we have no choice–to put down our guns is surrender, but to leave them raised is death.  We have all become perpetrators.  We have all become victims.

And so I scoffed bitterly, I want no part in your gun-spangled America, in the weapons you wave that display not freedom or strength but cowardice and fear!

These guns, these guns are illusions, nay, allusions to protect, to intimidate the very fight out of war, yet with each gunshot we’ve slowly come to the realization that America is at war with itself.  That what seems unfathomable because of our modernity, our civilization, has come not in spite but because of it.  We fail to accept our common mortality, our common humanity, and so we wage war upon our brothers and sisters in a paradoxical desire to protect our own.

But we live with death at work within us (2 Cor 4:12), so painfully and palpably now, we are bearers of not only the body of the death of Jesus martyred by the state (2 Cor 4:10), but 566 people killed by the U.S. police in 201653 American officers killed in the line of duty in 2016, and now overall 7088 gun related deaths in the U.S. in 2016.  

Scripture tells us that we carry that death so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh (2 Cor 4:11), but with death among us and America’s shadows, I worry that the resurrection is only for another world.  We find hope in resurrection because it’s a respite from our self-inflicted madness; our world crowds out light and peace and resurrection–our gun-spangled America–and I want no part in that.

And yet, I must wake to this world, because my own blood-stained hands have helped form it.

I must be one to put down my gun–not just a literal gun–but my very real fears and prejudices and selfishness and insults and division that I had once thought might keep me safe.  I must be one to carry death inside, but to also live with defiance when life itself has been marred.  I must be one to show my face, to preach the kingdom of God in this inconvenient moment and in this wounded nation.  I must be one to cry out for the fragility and the brokenness of our human condition, but also the deep meaning in lives lost, to cleave to something beyond the madness–so that gun-spangled madness won’t be what life in America is all about.

Who are we, shadowy America, and what have we done with the free and the brave?

Who are we, both perpetrators and victims of madness?

Who are we, children of God?

 

 

Speak your truth (the whole truth), America

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Plymouth, MA.  All photos by Evan Schneider.

Last night, after yet another independence day celebration, yet another weekend of flags, festivities, and fireworks, I read a rather apologetic post from one of the new co-moderators of the PUCSA.  In it, she writes that although she doesn’t want to be a “Debbie Downer,” on the fourth of July, she is also painfully aware of the transgressions of our nation, especially with regards to slavery and civil rights, and our present problems like gun violence, torture, pollution, and racism.  She writes that while she will celebrate, she recognizes that others will grieve.

But I say, don’t apologize, Rev. Edmiston, for speaking your truth.  

We need voices of dissent in this country, even as we have those who cry out (and I would remark unapologetically, as well as uncritically) to “make America great again.”  We need  a fuller appreciation of our tattered history to find a more purposeful present.  In our zeal for patriotism, we often forget that our founders, flawed as they were, were hearty dissenters!

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Plymouth Rock.  

Why is it that we in America today are so afraid of the dissenters?  Why, despite years of good and bad, do we espouse to have all the answers?  Don’t we know that what makes America great is insight and innovation, change and adaptation, that can only come with critical reflection upon our very mistakes?

My truth this morning is that love is not enough.  We need justice.  We need change.

We need change because it’s not just in Medina and Baghdad and Dhaka and Istanbul but everyday, sometimes twice a day, that gun violence on American soil intervenes to take the lives of young men, mothers, and children.

We need justice because faith has been compromised; justice would choose a fast that breaks the chains of poverty, discrimination, and sexism, chains that we often prefer not to see even in our very history of liberation and our present struggle.

We need truth, because real truth, the ugly, full, challenging, meaningful, both star striped and tattered truth, does and can set us free.  Dissenters are part and parcel of that truth.

What is your truth to speak, America?  How will you go on, despite, in spite, to fight injustice?

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Native American protest at the Massasoit Indian Statue up the hill from Plymouth Rock on Thanksgiving Day, 2012.

In the words of the poet, Langston Hughes,

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

 

Virtual coffee date

If we were having coffee this week, I’d let you in on a few things…

I’d tell you that it’s already been a week packed with doctors visits and hospital tests like usual, but something has shifted.  It shifted when I realized that despite checking “no” to all the tasks listed on Lucia’s 24-month questionnaire, I also got to check “no” to the question, “does anything about your child worry you?”  In the midst of moments where I could have been discouraged, I counted myself so blessed, because of the much needed perspective our daughter with special needs brings to our lives and my faith.

(Here’s another great perspective on children with disabilities I saw this week!)

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Countryside in Yunnan, China. Photo by Evan Schneider.

I’d also let you in on how incredibly thrilling it was to find an email in my inbox this morning entitled, “你好 from China” from a former student who with her broad interests in Native American culture, architecture, and history, I never thought would quite end up there!  She wrote,

“Also Professor Raffety, China is wonderful. Granted there are many moments of ‘ahh, what am I doing’ but those are minimal in comparison to my many moments of ‘ahh, so much goodness.’ My co-workers, new friends, are brimming with patience, generosity and a eagerness to converse and teach me. I’m sure you have experienced many of these same moments. And of course, the food is new, but oh so flavorful.

I hope all is well with you and your family, your faith and teaching.”

I’m tickled not just because she’s having this encounter with China that I once had that was so powerful and earth-shattering and meaningful but because there’s this subtle affirmation of my call that I also read in her generous words–some mutual recognition of something more than just teacher and student, something more like our vocational and spiritual lives intermingling for something greater.  She had me musing this morning, during a season when I’ve been lacking a bit of pedagogical inspiration, “See this is why I can’t not teach!”

And finally, I’d tell you that I really should be writing my sermon instead of this blog post, but that I think it can all pretty much be summed up in these words from Glennon Doyle Melton that speak to the curious balance of conviction and humility that it takes to live the Christian life:

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What are you up to this week?  Grab a cup of coffee and let me in on it!

A Lament of Modern Medicine

A week ago today, my husband, our daughter, and I spent the morning at a clinic appointment at the hospital.  This was a good hospital visit–the kind where it seemed like every doctor who came in the room wasn’t complimenting Lucia’s abilities or bemoaning her lack thereof but seeing how happy and comfortable the three of us were.  It felt like we and the doctors, we finally got each other, like so many of them were really seeing Lucia as more than X-rays and EEGs and milk scans and surgeries.

And then bam.  

The very next day we got a phone call that something was wrong on the X-ray and it all seemed to fall apart.  I began to scrutinize what more I could have done for Lucia along the way as a parent, I began to feel the weight of failure, the pain, cruelty, and fatigue of hearing so very, very often that there’s something “wrong” with your child.

In my classes, as an anthropologist, I often seek to make students aware of what I call the “cult of medicine,” the fact that too many of us actually seem to worship and adhere to medical wisdom above all else, and if we let it, it and its seemingly endless cures and technologies and surgeries, will certainly rule our lives but it may not satisfy us.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against science or medicine.  I love me some doctors, especially those who have helped us make sense of which interventions are necessary and when we can just let Lucia be.  In fact, on Thursday we’d just said goodbye to a doctor who looked me in the eye the first day Lucia received an abnormal EEG and told me, “No matter what happens today, you’re still taking home the same baby you came with.  Nothing changes today.”  I instantly sigh and choke up every time I repeat that phrase to myself.

Yes, we said goodbye to a good one on Thursday, and I know all these things about medicine and Lucia, which is why I was so beat down, so frustrated that I let myself doubt it all.  In the face of yet another diagnosis, another medical power play, another anonymous phone call about something that was wrong with Lucia, I let myself imagine that things had actually changed.

But they hadn’t really.

Back home and even in the doctors office, it seemed the subject at hand was blissfully unaware that her future was being talked about in X-rays and injections and surgeries.  In fact, she even flashed a few smiles, last night she giggled without descending into crying (a new feat!).  In the midst of the medical mire, these things heal me–to know that my baby is still the same baby I birthed, I’ve known, I will know.  Nothing can change that.

But this life we live is a balancing act that often feels lonely and challenging and impossible and weary.  Every decision we make forecloses or necessitates another; we fumble, we flail, we debate, we fear, and above all, we love our daughter so fiercely that it all really hurts.

My husband and I have been speaking in metaphors lately because prose just doesn’t seem to do it.  So perhaps one more if you will: it’s like our family is on a little boat wading through the great expanse of medicine, and for a moment, we were a bit off course.  But medicine can be really great and grand if you keep your little rudder about you, which keeps your ship balanced and unchanged.

And so we will go on.  I will go on.  In fact, I will drive down to the hospital again this morning, but hopefully bolstered by my rudder, my faith, and that little posse of people that get me and my family who are adrift in this medical world.

I will go on picking up the pieces…but it is not easy living in a world that parses and prods and makes knowledge in bits and parts of your kid.  It’s not easy pushing against the endless barrage of rejection and criticism and diagnosis that medicine provides when you’re in search of genuine connection, communication, and life well lived.  It’s not easy to keep my wits about me in this world that can only seem to find faults with this beautiful little girl I was so blessed to help create.

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Our little tribe.  My photo.

Why the Church Needs People with Disabilities

 

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This is the cartoon on the front of my students’ syllabus!

Over the past five years or so, this blog has taken a massive shift in trajectory toward exploring the lives, needs, and gifts of people with disabilities, in China, in our local church, and through my own experience with my daughter.  (In fact, I’m realizing how much I need a new tab for disability on here!  Coming soon…)

What I’ve found as I’ve only just begun to embrace this collision of my anthropological, theological, and spiritual life is that our theologies, when it comes to understanding disability, are quite limited.  They’re often not broad enough to consider the gifts of the Spirit people with disabilities possess, because they’re caught up in a rhetoric of healing, medicine, suffering, or overcoming.  Or they’re plagued by an anthropology that makes disability some surface form of neoliberalist inclusion rather than a deep paradigm shift for us all in what diversity and its value really confers.

We human beings are searching for theologies of disability that ring true when it comes to the light, challenge, and wisdom people with disabilities bring to life–theologies that confront our hollow concepts of both diversity and God.  But we need to learn and hone and witness to these theologies through practice rather than mere intellectualism, recognizing the transformative experience of life lived with other and with God.

I’m excited about being part of a recent series on Youth Ministry and Disability organized through The Institute for Youth Ministry at Princeton Theological Seminary because the authors are making the case that the Church needs people with disabilities rather than the another way around!  I think this is a really exciting moment for the theology of disability, and I hope you will read all the posts and leave your comments and continue the conversation.  I’m including mine below, but please do swing by this one from my colleague, Joel Estes, and one of the great theologians of disability, John Swinton, among others!

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On Being Transformed

“You never know. Maybe she will get up and walk. Maybe she will be able to eat and talk like other kids…maybe someday she will be normal.” 

I have often heard these well-meaning words from friends, colleagues, and church folk about my daughter, Lucia, who was born with a progressive genetic disease of the brain. From the time she was just a couple months old, from her seizures, to her feeding tubes, and onto her diagnosis, our family has been confronted with the idea that Lucia is abnormal. But perhaps especially because she’s our first child and we know no differently, or perhaps because my husband and I have learned so much from her, I bristle at statements that suggest life would be better for us or Lucia if she would conform a bit more to the standards we hold for other kids. As a person of faith, I often wonder what God would have to say about our ideas of normal and how God might use children and youth like Lucia to fight against a culture that (perhaps un-self-consciously) worships ability and regards disability as a problem.

Keep Reading at The Institute for Youth Ministry…

Ten links for your weekend

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Summer in NJ is really beautiful.  Photo by Evan Schneider.

We’re off to another apartment this weekend, and so far, the subletting has been really great–a great, great reminder that as Leo Babauta over at Zen Habits writes, “All You Need, You Already Have.”

Here are some other great random tidbits for your weekend:

Is Sichuan cuisine losing its spice?

All things feminist, internet, and fun. (From my favorite blog, A Cup of Jo)

This is an older article, but still relevant I think.  Do you practice slow parenting?

I don’t know if this is reliable, but supposedly you can plug any month of the year or any place you want to go into this search engine and figure out the best time to travel.  One of my friends is in Santorini right now and according to the engine, she’s got it right!  What city are you headed to in June?

The disturbing therapy gap when it comes to race in America.

Do you keep lists of baby names for future babies?  My sister just found out she’s having a boy, and so far there’s not much new on the most popular baby names of 2016 (Olivia for girls) (Ezra for boys), but I love to keep tabs on what’s trending.  What do you like?

Deeply moved by this prophetic (Presbyterian!) voice in Congress.

I appreciated the honesty here.

Our pastor has a podcast!  This week’s episode is a little long but covers a great range of topics (and they have lovely voices).

Happy weekending!