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A Tremendous Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 02:52:00 +0000

The "Festival of Faith and Writing" at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan is a bi-annual tradition, beloved by writers and readers from around the world.
It is a place to gather for celebrating that which connects us; our faith and the written word. It has become my adult version of the summer camp I attended as a kid. I see dear friends from the past and I make new ones. In this environment, we all share the common appreciation for the work and the soul journey of the writer and we come here to love on each other. It's glorious.

I share with you here, a taste of my favorite memory:

In her first session, as the festival participants were walking in, finding their seats, and getting settled, I looked up and saw this woman reciting a Robert Frost passage into the microphone. I didn't pay much attention to it or to her, until I quickly saw that she had this instant and automatic control of the room. People stopped their bustling around to listen. Frankly, I thought she was just one of the college student volunteers getting the stage ready. When she noticed we were all paying attention to her, she quickly retorted back, "Oh, I'm not saying anything of consequence. I'm just doing a sound check. If you're looking for consequence, I'm not your guy."
We all laughed.
She walked away.
That was it.
I thought nothing of it really other than, "Who is that girl? She's darn funny. Bring her back whoever she is, cuz I'm tiring quickly of listening to a lot of these authors who can't public speak their way out of a, well you know."

So, the session began and that same girl approached the podium.
We were aghast.
It was her.
It was that cute, small, cowboy boot wearin' clever chick who commanded the room when she wasn't even trying to say anything of "consequence". By then, I was glued; hanging on her every word. Now mind you, up until that point, I had never even heard of Kate DiCamillo, let alone read anything she had written. I was just there on a random trip to somewhere else. Turns out, the way God is and how His plan is orchestrated, it wasn't random at all. My being there was a divine appointment. I needed to be there. I needed Kate. I needed the spirit she brought. We all did.

You see, a lot of authors can't public speak.
And, a lot of public speakers can't write.
I'm a trained actor, public speaker, and a school teacher. I'm one of those people who isn't as convinced about what you communicate in writing until you can convince me of the truth when you talk to me. So, I sniff that stuff out right away. Just before her session, I had been in the large assembly listening to one of those best selling authors whose head was so buried in his notes, and whose voice was strikingly similar to a grumbly old man dying of emphysema on his last two breaths, that my patience had worn thin already. And it was only day one.
He was literally singing rows and rows of people to sleep.
Isn't the job of an author to connect with his reader?
Don't you think? This man was worlds away from the possibility. So, when I heard the first utterings from Kate, it was as if I had taken a bath in a cool spring after crossing the finish line of a marathon. I wanted to gather all the authors in the festival and have them sit and watch her, cuz SHE GETS IT.

Her actual speech was concise and brief. You could see she was more interested in talking with us then to us, so she wanted to get the formal part over and done as soon as possible.
I timed her.
About 15 minutes.
And she was done.
Then she opened it up for the infamous Q and A. I rose my hand immediately.
I was compelled to speak. I stood to my feet with an enthusiastic certainty and just paused, looking at her. It was a long pause. I think she thought it was a confrontational pause. I could see her preparing a defense.
Oh no. Not at all. I had to gain my footing to speak my mind as confidently as I was about to speak it. And the only way to get the grounding I needed was to mix the deepest prayer of my heart with a look into her eyes. And let the silence work its magic.
"Turns out, you do have something of consequence to say," I said.
"It is the writer's primary job to connect to the soul of the reader. You have done that. And that unique combination of being able to connect with the spoken as well as the written word is a rare and precious gift. You possess them both. Thank you. I've never even heard of you before, but I'm a reader now. You said more in your self admitted "inconsequence", than many authors and speakers will say in an entire career."
Or something like that.
Maybe a little is lost in the translation, but you get the point.
The tears welled up in her eyes. She didn't seem to want to let herself cry, yet she dearly appreciated what I recognized in her. I wondered what story might be lurking beneath her tenderness. The crowd clapped.
I kept standing there looking at her.
We just let the moment be. It was a kind of balm to all of us.

So, I followed her the rest of the conference. And like the Pied Piper, I brought fence squatters and the marginally impressed to hear her again and stand in her book signing line. During her last speech, which was designed as an interview, I had prepared a speech of my own to deliver, in case she opened the floor up for questions.
And again, I had to speak.
I raised my hand.
She smirked as she saw me waving my arm in the distance.
She called on me.
I was shaking in my cowboy boots. I wear them too.
I knew I was risking a lot to share my heart, but I did it, cuz I had to.
For me, I had to. For her, I had to. For us, I had to.

"I know her," she spoke into the microphone.
Everyone laughed.
And again, I just stood there in the silence, looking at her.
I was going for that footing again.
I wonder what the audience was thinking. Many of the same folks from last time, were sitting there.
I pulled out my tattered copy of "Charlotte's Web" and read the moving quote about Wilbur's gratitude for all that Charlotte had done for him. How he wondered why she did it. Saved his life and all. He didn't really do anything for her. And Charlotte humbly responded, "You have been my friend and that in itself is a tremendous thing."
With the bold assertion that I was standing in the company of a host of people who'd agree with me, I declared that Kate had been that for us. A friend.
Our "souls were lifted a trifle", just like Wilbur's. Just like Charlotte's.
And so I simply spoke the honest to God truth in that vast arena about my raw experience.
I trusted that God would land in the hearts of each of the truths we needed to hear from the gift that Kate had been to us.

Her tears flowed again.
The crowd cheered.
Not really sure what they were cheering about, but I'd like to think it was because I was speaking their mind to her.
I was just being a messenger for all of them... acting on the Lord's guiding to fill the world with beautiful.

I had to rush out to get to an audition, so I grabbed my things to go as soon as I spoke my last word.
The emotion was overwhelming. From me to Kate.
From me to the audience. Maybe from the audience to me. Maybe from Kate to me. I'm not sure. It was just one of those slices of time I will always treasure.
A piece of heaven for all of us.

And here I am.
Back in my house folding laundry, sorting through papers, dreaming about what's next, and living gracefully in what is. And in all of it, my soul is swollen with joy because I kid you not, "it grew two sizes that day".

Good-byes...

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 02:11:00 +0000

Tonight was a night I started looking forward to the second I marked it on my calendar, yet with a bittersweet anticipation, I dreaded its coming. Life is like that. Moments you can hardly wait to live out and yet fear their inevitable arrival. Time plays tricks on us. We want the moment we're in to hurry-up and get over with so we can get to another one. Then, when that one comes, we long for the one that's gone.

As is my typical Wednesday routine, I went to church. I pulled into the parking lot and stumbled out of my car with a somber gait. I'm a noticer anyway, but this time, as I walked toward the entrance, I seemed to observe every pebble in the cracked pavement, every barren branch on the trees, and every crookedly parked car. Though the brilliant spring sunlight exploded the sky, I saw it as an interruption to my private pain. My daughter looked up with an awkward but comforting smile and grabbed my hand, sensing something was different. I smiled back, with eyes full of tears. She was singing to herself and talking about the day, and what she wanted to eat when we got home, and I wasn't listening. Quite frankly, I didn't care. I was lost in a world of my own.

This was the last night our pastor would be with us.
He's moving away and I hate it.

I know what it feels like for him. I remember watching my Dad fight the onslaught of emotions that went with moving away from one church and starting another one. He would be tormented at the same time he was thrilled. I watched him weep over stories he wouldn't get to finish with people, yet feel a sweet relief that someone else was going to walk in his tracks, so he could make new ones. In the days before we took the last pictures off the wall and sealed the last of the boxes, Dad would tenderly approach me with a permission on his face, to see if I was okay with the decision he made to pull me away from my school, my friends, my sure footing. I would cry and ask why. He would hold me and cry too. I trusted him, even though I was terrified.
I wonder if Curt is feeling that way now. His children are small, but their struggle may be the same, even if just a little bit.

So, I was thinking about all this, reliving some of the most poignant memories of my childhood before I even opened the church door. Imagine what was ahead.

Then, the service started. This time some lamps and a rug decorated the stage. A few back-up singers, a shiny grand piano, a bar stool and one lone microphone with him sitting there, holding his guitar as if it was his dearest friend. My tears never stopped. I was caught somewhere between my childhood and an Amy Grant concert... between my deepest hurts and my greatest joys. Tonight was a night of stories and songs, where the preaching would be delivered through song lyrics and silent prayers, through warm smiles and memories of lives lived together in rich community. I wanted to be in this space. I needed to be in this space. It hurt. But, I loved it.

I just started coming to this church for a mid-week boost. I come alone. I sit alone. I use this time to invite Jesus to my quiet places and remind me of my inestimable value. I don't even know much about what goes on here other than these Wednesday nights, but what happens for me when I sit here transcends into every corner of my life. It heals what is so broken. It covers what feels naked. It wraps itself in a present just for me. And Curt has become this mysterious gift; a messenger of truth; a hug from the Savior. What will I do when its gone. Embarrassed that I feel this way, but I do.

So the songs came. Each one reminding me of the hope I have.

And then, I looked in the front pew at his wife. I know what she feels like too. I watched my Mom sit there. I lived out her story as well... her pride in her husband, her pain in her own unfinished business, her packing of another house wondering if what she has in cupboards here will fit in the cupboards there, her agony in taking the children to a new place and wondering how they'll weather the transition, her brave front, her rock solid faith. Oh, how powerful it was to live my life looking at a Mom like that and now to look at Jen carrying a similar torch. Stunning.

And what was most beautiful, was to look at Jenn looking at Curt.
I think this must be what heaven is. Delight in each other and confidence of the future. They were a picture of it. I wanted to trap that moment forever. She sings along with her man, laughing at his jokes and worn out tales as if she's hearing them for the first time. She has an expectancy on her face that he will articulate a new truth and bring her a new hope, even if the words are the same. She has a trust that is blind to whatever has been broken and hopes for whatever is to come. I know this is true about her. I know it for sure.

And then I thought about me. There I was.
Taking it all in. Sobbing. Worshipping. Hoping. Dreaming.
Sitting next to my Mom. She came with me this time.
We sat in that picture together and remembered together.
Our story. Their new story.
Knowing now, God does see us through. We do make it.
There is enough of Him to bring us to a new place.

Then, I thought about the love of my own man. The path we're on. The hopes I have for us. The grief over what we've lost. The love of the Savior who has carried us thus far, and the blind trust that He'll continue. Will we get to that sweet peace someday? I believe it.

Good-byes, at least the best ones, are always followed by hellos.
We get to see something new.
If we'll look for it.
And even though I stand in a bit of reluctance about this one, surely God has a world of new moments He's waiting to reveal just for me.
So good-bye Curt and Jenn, good-bye sweet children.
Be blessed on your way. And know that the trail you leave behind marked lives you can never count. We're finding other hellos to follow our good-bye to you.
May your next hello in your new life bedazzle you beyond your dreams.

Good-bye.

February Saturdays

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 21:01:00 +0000

Today, the sun is shining in Michigan.
A welcome visitor because she stays hidden most of the time, at least in February. I'm not complaining though. I always get more done in my house and in my soul when the weather isn't 75 and sunny all the time.
And cloud covers bring out the contemplation and reflection that showcase the pain and the art and the creativity. Clouds invite the introspection that new dreams are made of. Clouds give me time to think and slow down, at least for awhile.
Then I get sick of 'em.
So, welcome sunshine.
I've been expecting you.

I have a wide open Saturday. No plans of any significance.
Before my husband's eyes rolled open or our little girl's footsteps came creeping down the hall, a slim ray of light shining through the bedroom window, nudged me out of bed.
The crisp white snow on the sleepy oaks lay in a smooth, white sparkle - soft enough to drink, or so it seemed. Felt good knowing I had nowhere to be; no one to be.

I got a call - one of my girlfriends asking me to hang out downtown. Maybe have lunch, go for a walk, window shop, and certainly enjoy rich conversation and a cup of tea.

She's a high school teacher. So passionate about impacting young lives with eternal purpose. Such a daunting task, but she is up for it.
I'd say she's crazy, but I'm too much like her to make that claim.
She's pulled in a lot of directions. She carries mental weight like few people I know. She juggles her schedule between writing curriculum, counseling wayward teens, teaching kids (some of whom have no regard or respect for authority, let alone the will and desire to learn anything), keeping up with her house as a single woman, tending to a large extended family, and listening to people - whatever their need. Her life is taxing, but she is almost always cheerful and present and available and kind. She's sure of foot and carries herself with confidence. She's sturdy in a stream of inconsistent and unreliable friends, who mostly seem too consumed by their own lives to make room for anyone else's.
There's lots of space in her heart, even if her head is a little bit crowded.

So today, we met. We took a long walk through quaint neighborhoods and wooded parks. We talked about everything from how God makes up His mind on who goes to heaven, to will we ever grow out of adult acne and wanting someone to be proud of us. We pontificated about how we could build a new world if teens would just come to class with an attitude of wonderment, and if husbands would really pursue their wives. As we walked - well into the second hour - we rounded a corner and discovered a devilishly cute boy walking a dog, hoping the dog would want to meet us, so we could meet the boy. Darn, he was wearing gloves so we couldn't tell if he was married and might want to take my friend on a date sometime - seeing as how he obviously lived in the neighborhood and loved Saturday strolls like we did. We admired paint colors and brick shades and landscaping and yard trinkets. We walked in silence too. Just allowing the winter fresh air and the comfort of knowing someone well to be the voice.

And, in the midst of all this, I never looked at my watch, cuz I didn't want to. It's rare to find a person with whom I feel that way... okay with the swift ticking of hours because all the other things I have to do don't matter that much.
I was happy. I've missed that feeling.

We finished our walk.
I needed to get home, but I wanted to prolong our visit just a bit more.
We snagged a quick lunch in a cozy vegetarian cafe.
And after opening the menu and wishing I could go there often enough to order everything on the menu - at least once - I picked something quick and relished in the precious time we had left. Just enough to scarf down some soup and a hearty glass of very pink beet, carrot, and apple juice. My friend and I shared a couple more stories with a lovely combination of mutual listening and speaking, not too much of either, but just enough of both, and we headed out.

My heart smiled all the way home.
I haven't felt like that in awhile.
Safe. Heard. Seen. Loved.

Thanks Krista.

Thinking Too Much

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 02:45:00 +0000

You know that time and space from the moment you have a bit of an argument with someone to the time when they return your phone call, or answer your email, if they do at all? That waiting space? That time where "paralysis of analysis" sets in and any wrong move or word from anyone could send you into a crying frenzy, because you're self esteem is that fragile, and because of what you might have said to hurt your wronged friend. You go through all this mental torture of what they're thinking and you play out all the worst case scenarios in your head of how you're a bad person and now, all of your friends are probably going to leave you because of that one misunderstanding you have going with someone else?

I'm there right now. The days are long. The nights are longer.

I don't even take into consideration all the possible events that could be going on with them like: they're sleeping in, or rushing around, or tending to a sick child, or they dropped their cell phone in the garbage, or their internet isn't working, or whatever else.

I always make it about me. Certainly I am wrong and bad. I over emphasize my importance to them, like they have nothing else going on except to analyze my shortcomings and how they can creatively punish me because of them. So, I enter into self torture mode, punishing myself for all the things I'm not and why I don't really make a good friend anyways.

Am I the only one who does this? Think too much?
What would it be like if I could just go to bed and read a novel and escape, and quit thinking about stuff and things that aren't happening and likely never will.

I have grown up some, which is nice. I'm not that sickly connected to what others do and think. I find ways to function just fine, I really do. I love myself and find value in all kinds of things about me, but in these long grueling hours of waiting, it's harder to see what's beautiful and much easier to see all that's missing.

For as much as I talk about peace, I sure could use a dose of it right now, cuz my heart hurts when I wait like this. I'm so glad the Lord holds me close and that He knows and sees what I can't. And I love how the passage of time heals what's broken and makes it right. I'll be fine. I always am.

Kindness Counts

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 20:01:00 +0000

I want you to meet this man... just to watch him when he talks, to notice his eyes when he listens to children, to see how he connects with people.
Amazing how he makes clear communication seem effortless.
I don't even know him very well.
I just observe and that's all I need, to know what I know about him.

He gets results too.
He makes requests in his predictable, kind tone, and people respond.
You know the sweetness that some people exude, but it has no affect?
There's a fakeness to it.
It reeks of insecurity.
It sniffs of mischief.
It spells out alterior motives.
There's a way of talking where disclaimers are overused; smiles are forced.
Well, that's not this guy.

He's the real thing. I've watched him enough to know.
I watch him when he doesn't even know I'm watching, just to see if he's ever different. He's not. I don't think I've ever seen him have a bad day.
He's kind and generous constantly.

He stands up in front of the entire student body and speaks with poise and confidence.
His words are straightforward and clear.
He makes his requests known and students want to please him.
His kindness is so powerful, it spreads through the school like a bad rumor.
The climate of his leadership permeates into the kids and they resemble the kindness too. Remarkable.

I know he has his moments.
He must.
He's human.
I know his wife and children see things I don't.
He's like the rest of us. He has to be.
But, he stands out among thousands as a picture of what I want to be... as a teacher, a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend. He models the fact that nothing is so important that it's worth disregarding kindness, just to be be right or to advance a selfish cause.

I can be nice. I don't mean "nice" in the "let's avoid truth" kinda way, but in the simple, human, common courtesy way. I've discovered that the seeds sown in authentic love, generosity, and kindness toward others always reap a harvest.
Sometimes you can see it. Sometimes, not.
You can see it in this man.
You can see it in the school.
You can see it on faces of children and staff and parents.
Kindness is contagious. It is a force that wins every time.
Even if we don't immediately benefit, someone else will, and that is enough.

Transitions

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 02:13:00 +0000

I dropped my daughter off for her first day of school today.
She's a first grader. No more half days.
No more blankies tucked away in her back pack, for that sudden cuddle fix she needs when she's away from home. No more walking her into the classroom to help her find her coat hook and shelf to hang her lunch box.
She's a big girl now. Just a few short weeks ago, she was using crayons to write her name, listening to stories on a carpet by a rocking chair, and needing a rhyming song to help her learn the days of the week. But they're already calling those days, "last year" and referring to what she knew then as baby stuff.

It's hard to move on.
It's hard for all of us.
We grow accustomed to routine and the friends and experiences that go along with it. We say we want something different, but can barely take the next step without resistance. I'm the worst when it comes to saying goodbye to something wonderful. I'll tell you all the reasons to make the space in your heart for new miracles, and how God is always doing a new thing so you should keep watch, but I rebel against transitions' natural flow. In other words, I don't believe my own declarations of what God's best for me is. I preach it. I don't practice it, at least not consistently.

Each time I look at her toothless smile, I want to stop the clock. I don't want to miss anything. When I stoop to kiss her, I want to treasure the short time that she is still smaller than me, because it's passing. Not a day, not a spilled breakfast, not a scraped knee, not an over dramatic reaction to a spider web, do I want to miss or wish away. Everything is passing. Everything is changing.

This reminds me of what I'm reading in the gospels when Jesus is talking to his disciples and he keeps referring to the time they still have while He is with them. It won't be forever. He is going to leave them someday. He'll be with them in a different way. And as wonderful as that might be, it will be nothing like the moments they have with him, as a man... standing in their midst, performing miracles, talking to them, touching them. He doesn't want them to miss it; to miss Him. For me, as I imagine what those days must have been like for the disciples, I want to give them a talkin' to. I want to remind them to stop. There were times they did, but they rushed around a lot too. I want to help them look into the future to see what life is like when faith is all you have. I want them to know there are going to be times they'd give anything to have him around again, so they could ask him questions and he'd be there... as a man... to answer them. I want to warn them to get out of the past and the future and to treasure the moments they have right now. I get jealous of Peter, of Matthew, of James. They got to see it all with their own eyes. They could touch Him. They could look right into His eyes. They were there. Facing the transitions, they too resisted change, but it came anyway. I want them to know that way into the future, if they were to walk up my driveway and sit at my table, or use my guest room for the night, that their privilege to actually be with Him was truly God's greatest gift to any human ever. Do they know how lucky they are?

I'm finding new ways to spend my days now that she's gone. I'm making the transition just fine. I'm seeing all kinds of new possibilities for her and for me and it's quite exciting, but I'm resisting it too. I'm caught in the in-between place of what is and what was and trusting God to meet me there.
He will. He promised He would. He's doing it now... for me and for you.

Onward and Upward,
Nadyne

Silence is Golden

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 11:56:00 +0000

I'm reading the Gospels right now. Finishing up the book of Matthew. To begin each day, I rise before dawn and have my cup of tea, and then cuddle in a blanket and read my Bible. I have said for so many years, that I want to do this - to take time out and just sit and read. No notebooks and pen in hand. Just read. So, I'm finally doing it. That's one of the reasons I love the season of Ramadan, because for me, as a Christian, I take time to stop a lot of the other noise that clutters my thoughts. I become more reflective and quiet. I am intentional about noticing what's around me, down to the minutest detail. And getting up before the sun; before the rush of the day, I can focus on the scriptures and avail myself to the Lord's leading - without distraction.

Silence is a powerful noise.
Silence in the dark is even more so.

I am one of those folks cursed or blessed with a creative mind. I think and plot and plan and wonder and dream almost obsessively. I can't get my mind to be quiet. Add the sun, and the small child, and the phone, and the unpaid bills, and all the things I was going to have done by now, and the battle in my head gets even louder. So, I am on purpose about rising, and sitting, in the dark and the quiet to see if I can hear God in a new way. Today, I heard Him. In the pages of scripture. Imagine that. The life giving Word of God in verses I've read a hundred times before, became new to me today. In the dark. In the silence.

"When Jesus stood before Pilate, and the governor asked him,
"Are you the king of the Jews?"
"Yes, it is as you say," Jesus replied.
When he was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he GAVE NO ANSWER.
Then Pilate asked him, "Don't you hear the testimony they are bringing against you?" But Jesus MADE NO REPLY, not even to a single charge - to the great amazement of the governor."
I read that and want to shout into the pages to explain to Pilate who Jesus is; to defend his innocence. You know, because Pilate doesn't already know that. As if Jesus is not God enough to defend Himself. As if "defense" is the appropriate reply. And in my own stirring emotions, just sitting here in my study on a dark and chilly late summer morning, I want to shout out because I'm getting angry for Jesus who doesn't seem to get angry for himself. His silence is making me mad. As if "anger" is the appropriate reply.
And I notice, in the humble example of Christ, that He is willing to stand in complete vulnerability - fully knowing He could get out of this if He wanted to - Silent. Silent enough to be okay. Silent enough to be at peace. Silent enough that in that public arena filled with screaming citizens demanding He be given up for crucifixion, His voice is the most powerful one in the room.
Interesting.
Maybe I ought to try this.
Maybe my voice isn't working much of the time and my silence might.
Maybe, the possibility is there that what is broken in my life could be repaired by my not doing, but by being, and in my being; silent.

The sun is up now. The race is on. Gotta leave my quiet sanctuary and empty the dishwasher. Gotta answer some emails and make a few phone calls. I have some new things to think about. Maybe the most important one? My voice isn't necessarily the most beautiful contribution as often as I think it is. There are other times and places for that. I'll let the sound of the ticking clock and the wind in the trees and the early morning birds be enough for now. Words will have to wait. If I have the courage to silence them.

The First Day of Ramadan is Very Special

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 12:04:00 +0000

As a little girl growing up in Sri Lanka, I remember how my grandfather and my father would encourage us to make the first fast. When it was time to eat, we felt that Aladdin had loaned his Genie. There, available to us, was every type of food, every type of treat… The fast this year opens me to a similar sense of joy and fulfillment. Knowing that my Christian sisters and brothers have joined me in the fast is profound and powerful.

Alan Cohen writes about a culture in Africa where when a woman in a certain African tribe knows she is pregnant, she goes out into the wilderness with a few friends and together they sing a song. Then they return to the tribe and teach it to everyone else. When the child is born, the community gathers and sings the child's song to him or her. Later, when the child enters education, the village gathers and chants the child's song. When the child passes through the initiation to adulthood, the people again come together and sing. At the time of marriage, the person hears his or her song. Finally, when the soul is about to pass from this world, the family and friends gather at the person's bedside, just as they did at their birth, and they sing the person into the next life. In this African tribe, there is one other occasion upon which the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or abhorrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village and the people in the community form a circle around them. Then they sing their song to them. The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment; it is love and the remembrance of identity.

Those who love you remember your beauty when you feel ugly; your wholeness when you are broken; your innocence when you feel guilty; and your purpose when you are confused. We have not grown up in an African tribe that sings our song to us at crucial life transitions. But we do know the beauty and joy of singing.

I think it is time we seriously asked ourselves what song are we singing?
What songs are we inspiring others to sing? No matter what challenges and obstacles we encounter, let us reach out and sing to one more person every day. And in the timely words of Rose Kennedy, may we too say,
“Birds sing after a storm, why shouldn’t we.?”

Soraya

Ramadan Begins

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 12:23:00 +0000

It was some time in July when Nadyne called me.
She said she was joining me in the Ramadan fast this year together, with another fellow Christian friend, Brian McLaren. For the last three years Nadyne has joined me in the fast. For those of you who are familiar with the work I do, you know that Nadyne Parr is my friend, as well as my writing and speaking partner.

I met Nadyne 12 years ago in Michigan during the time I was attending college studying for my Masters Degree. We became friends instantly. An Indian professor whom I met at the university, invited me to dinner. I remember feeling very anxious and apprehensive as I hiked a ride to the dinner. I recall feeling a ting of excitement. Rarely, if ever do professors invite their students to dinner in Sri Lanka. That's where I'm from. I met Nadyne at that dinner. A month later I went to live with her and her Mom; Barbara. I realized then that the chance meeting, over twelve years ago now, was indeed more than a mere coincidence.

Ours was a friendship based on curiosity, mutual respect and love. We embraced the differences in our individual cultures, religion, and backgrounds. I liken the pace of our interaction to a train gaining momentum as it embarks on a distant journey. We grew to accept and acknowledge our beings. We cuddled late at night, with Mom in her queen bed, covered in a white laced quilt - most nights, laughing away the time - watching Jay Leno . During a vacation, they took me to Florida. I made friends with their friends, and they, with mine. I cooked rice and curry with Channa while Mom (Barbara) introduced me to banana nut bread, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Today every trip to Michigan includes a little of my Sri-Lankan cooking, mixed with their American traditions. It's beautiful.

Barbara was a compassionate Christian. She noticed me. She took the time to see. She shared with me the love Jesus. When I was looking for a place to live, she opened her doors. She made her home, mine. I remember as a little girl reading stories about how Jesus didn't just tell His people what to do, he did it. He modeled what He wanted them to see. That's what Barbara did. I LOVE HER. From Barbara (I call her "Mom"), I learned powerful lessons about opening my home to people in need.

When I think about this year's fast, beginning today, and I learn that Brian McLaren (www.BrianMcLaren.net) - voted one of TIME Magazine's 25 Most Influential Evangelicals in America - is partnering with us for the great cause of peace in the world, I can't believe the impact of his gesture. Will he be blamed and shamed for this? Will his message be heard and received in the spirit in which it is intended? Will it unite us or divide us? Will we as a human race recognize and rejoice in the knowledge that as my father would say “all rivers flow to the same sea.”?

The best work is team work. Here's what we're doing. Nadyne and I are partners in fasting (Fasting Friends). We check on each other every day. We follow up, at day's end. We talk about our various practices. We support and encourage each other in the fast. And so, Brian has found a partner in Eboo Patel. (Founder of the Interfaith Youth Core and author of Acts of Faith). And from what I understand, they will be sharing similar exchanges. Several other Christian leaders are joining us as well. Wow!

As a mother, one of my fervent prayers has always been for the unity of faiths and peace. It is for this purpose that I dedicate my life and passion. The question I ask with renewed fervor everyday is, “What can I do today for peace on earth? What is the legacy we are leaving for our children? Is it one of HOPE and LOVE? Or is it one of hate and despair?” My son Farajh, 10 years old now, sums it up well, when he observes “Mummy, if I collected $2.00 for every time you use the word "peace", I'd be a millionaire!”

If this Ramadan is the first step in the journey of a thousand miles, how profound would it be if we can engage others to join us? We can all as Gandhi would say, “keep walking...!"

Ramadan Mubarak!
Soraya.

The Stone in My Pocket

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 10:26:00 +0000

I carry a small, smooth stone in my pocket. You've seen them. They're usually bright colors with a word written on one side. You can get them at bookstores and novelty shops. I like how smooth they are and instead of a bunch of other things I could be doing with idle time, I like to rub them. Maybe like you, I like to pick at things. Sometimes it's peeling paint, or a broken nail; a patch of dry skin, or a nasty weed patch; fading nail polish or strands of hair... I just like to see things "right", so I "fix" them. There, I confessed it. So, my hands need to be busy for some reason. Well, with these stones, I carry them as reminders; reminders of something larger than the actual word itself, written on a stone.

In this case, the word is PEACE. Funny how I can be about my day doing all the mundane things that any day brings and simply reach in my pocket, maybe for a quarter, or again, something to do with my hands, and I stumble across this symbol of what I stand for. I can be frustrated with the fast pace of the clock and a poky little girl who won't get in the car, as we're running late to an appointment, or walking downstairs to my husband's office contemplating on what annoyances I need to bring to the light to get him to do what I want (or not). I can wonder how an awkward phone conversation is going to land with a friend, or be afraid of the day my mother finally leaves this earth. I can be uncertain if we'll be able to pay our bills, or ever get that little dog Ava is dreaming to have... and then I rub my fingers across the smooth surface of that stone, and offer a prayer heavenward, and somehow my heart is calmed. I am instantly reminded of a big God who is yet, present with me... in those moments, that seem so insignificant. I think about the vastness and yet the minor details of the word PEACE and consider the idea that if it doesn't occur in the tiny corners of my mind and the seemingly trite incidences of a typical day, than it can't occur in the big places; the big places in my life, or you and your life if I meet you. And if you and me have any impact in the world, than the interactions we live out can in fact, spread to cities and states and countries and continents and can effect change that moves the mountains.

Today is the beginning of the holy month of Ramadan; a season where our Muslim friends fast for thirty days in honor of the practice of the prophet Mohammad, whom they believe received the inspiration to write the Q'uran during that time. I, as a Christian, and in love and friendship with my PEACE MOMS friend Soraya, observe this holy season myself and use this time to stop. To stop my hectic pace. To notice, in extra measure, my fear and judgments. To examine my heart and motives. To pray, to read, to ask my Savior Jesus to meet me in new and powerful ways. Undoubtedly, this season brings about unparalleled spiritual growth for me, that reaffirms my faith, redefines my goals, and fuels my fire for loving God and loving others - amidst my human tendencies to give up, give out, and give in. Fasting from all the things I think I can't live without jolts my head into what counts. What really counts. I learn that I have a lot to learn. I see that my eyes have been closed. I notice that my ears have been shut. I regret that my mind has been apathetic. I recognize that my heart has grown cold. It is in fasting that my senses are so heightened, that I am brought to a spiritual and heavenly place there aren't words to describe. To that place, where if peace can really exist in the world... it does right there.

And so, I invite you. I ask you to consider where you might be closing your eyes and ears, and tuning out your hearts in a way that has made you so numb, you might not know Jesus if He were sitting at your table. What if He is longing to wash your feet and you don't even know it's Him. Maybe you need a stone in your pocket, or even one of those decorative words you see in peoples' homes, hanging on the wall. Maybe over your desk you need to put up a chalkboard and on it, write "peace". Maybe that will draw your attention to the details that really define who you are. I don't know what it is for you. For me, right now, it's a small round stone. I hold it and know, at least for now, all is well. And that "as far as it depends on me, I'm going to be at peace with everyone" (Romans 12:18), most especially the little girl and sweet husband who are gonna hate it right now, that I have to wake them up to start the day.

Shalom friends,
Nadyne

Give it to Someone Else

noreply@blogger.com (Nadyne Parr) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 00:02:00 +0000

I had an audition last week that nearly ate me for breakfast. I'm not kidding. I wanted this gig like I've never wanted anything. I've been an actor for 20 years and I've wanted a lot of parts, but not like I wanted this. I prepared for it for three weeks... the way I ate, the things I did with my time, the people I talked with, the things I watched on television, the things I read, the amount of miles I ran ... I monitored EVERYTHING. I wanted nothing to get in the way of those producers pulling my name out of the pile as the best woman for the job. Getting the gig would have lightened my load considerably and allowed me the privilege to just "be" for awhile instead of all the searching and pursuing I do. In my interpretation, this was the dream job.

The life of an actor is full of uncertainty. Giving too much energy to an audition is never a good thing. Those of us in the biz know, when we audition, we need to do our best and then move on. If the phone rings and we get called back, then that's the icing. The actual job of the actor is to audition. Getting an audition is more than half the battle. Well, I've been in that anxious place of wanting and not having for far too long. It's making me old before my time. So, I was making this opportunity my last chance and then if it didn't happen, I was considering giving it all up. "I'm done with this madness, " I threatened. I just knew I couldn't handle this kind of stress much more in life.

I walked into the audition room. There, behind the table were Randy, Paula, and Simon and a camera man. I'd walked in that room before. I even knew those people judging me. I knew them well. Randy, Paula, and Simon - they were not - but it sure felt like that must feel, standing in front of them. So, they asked me questions and I answered them. I smiled and spoke clearly. I made them smile. I spoke with clarity and conviction - trying hard not to fall out of my chair from nervousness - which, by the way, you'd have to be blind not to see. I had cotton mouth and the shakes. And though I was wearing my power red dress and black patent leather heals, bringing some attention to my Katie Couric tan legs, I felt like a boy in the 10th grade asking a girl to the dance for my first date. It's embarrassing to think about it. I'm not even sure why I'm telling all of you about it right now, but there's a point here.

When I walked out of that room, I had a confidence I won't forget. I felt certain I had nailed it. For the rest of the day I told friends that this was it for me. That I could finally have the moment in show business for which I had long been preparing. People were praying. Praying hard. As a matter of fact, more people than I even knew, were invested. That's how much I had hyped this thing up. Anyway, I was told that if I was going to get a call back, I would hear by the end of the next day. The next day came. I did a lot of nothing, except hold my cell phone and wait for it to vibrate. It never did. Not at lunch time. Not at 3pm. Not at 5pm. I was on an evening walk with my husband - hoping to help pass the time. At about 6pm, I decided to send a text to the Executive Producer - who was one of those judges I knew. He delivered the bad news in the kindest way possible. His typed words back simply read, "They've made a decision and you did not make the Top 5. I'm so sorry Nadyne :o(" I just walked in silence holding on to that information. All the while, my heart breaking. I didn't want Kevin to see my pain. He has seen that too much. So, I was just quiet.

The rest of the night was full of awkward silence. Except for a little phone call I made. One of the gals auditioning for the job happened to be a friend of mine; one of those kind of friends I admire a lot. She's got it all. Really. Great looks. Great heart. Great mind. Great talent. Adorable baby and doting husband. I had her on my mind thinking for sure - that out of the 140 people auditioning - she would get the job. That if it wasn't mine to have, I wanted it to be hers. But, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling a little jealous - which, was kind of a new thing for me; this kind of jealousy. I talked with God a lot right then and what I heard Him saying to me was, ".. until you completely release this thing, you can't move forward. You're going to be stuck and angry for a long time." I had to talk to her. So, I just called to wish her well... to give her my blessing, to release the dream for me and give it to her. And, as expected, she was generous about everything, almost to the point of giving the job to me if she could. I hung up from that conversation, feeling free. And as quickly as the jealousy set in, I was free from it. Free to celebrate with her.

When I think about what Peace is, I think about this. The idea that I can want something and not get it and shut down and be mad or I can let it go and give it to someone else, setting aside my original dream and just dream a new one. That without doing this kind of internal work, I'll live in the place of resentment and anger and then there is no room for something new and wonderful to happen either to me or in relationship to others.

I made it okay through the evening. I sat in my backyard hammock for awhile, listening to the crickets sing their summer cadence. I contemplated the emotional journey I had just been on, and felt the smile of God in it all. It was satisfying. But there were other moments I'd fall apart in tears feeling like there were no dreams left. When my little girl and I were snuggled in bed saying goodbye to the day, just after reading her a story, I cried again - thinking about the pain of it all. She saw my tears, reached out and touched my arm and simply said, "Mommy, you're going to be okay. There are other auditions in the world." Turns out, she's right.

Postings to come...

noreply@blogger.com (PeaceMoms) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 21:04:00 +0000

Please check back soon for updated blog postings. Thank you!