BE QUIET

I stirred from sleep just as the sun considered making its daily climb. 


If I was going to make the most of daybreak, the time was now. 





I peeked through the ivory blinds. As though also emerging from their cozy slumber, morning colors began painting the lowest points of the horizon.

My shower would have to wait.

Brisk air met my sleepy cheeks as I left the warm cocoon of the retreat center. 

I was thankful, again, for spontaneously buying myself that steel blue hat. Knitted by someone with fingers nimbler than mine, the hat had practically jumped into my purse and opened my wallet at the Souderton Art Jam. My face was cold but my ears were happy!  




Temperatures started plummeting as we arrived the first evening. 

When we described the night as "chilly," Sister Anastasia informed us we were using an Americanized word. We were indoors but Sister Lucy was still wrapped like an enchilada in fabrics designed to keep the cold at bay.  She nodded and smiled enthusiastically to pretty much everything and anything. These women were joy personified. 

The retreat center sits atop a little hill near the convent. Naming some other confusing terminology they'd heard, the language of the States was deemed nonsensical. Both nuns were born in Tanzania and raised with the English diction of proper Brits. Confusing word usage aside, the two could not have extended a warmer welcome. We felt embraced.

This lovely lady is Sister Anastasia.  She drops pearls of wisdom as easily as she shares smiles.

The morning's slippery pathway to the woods held a surprising layer of delicate ice. The frost made the leaves crunchy-wet, causing a cacophony in my ears. 

I would be the only human in sight for over an hour and the sound from my boots was entirely too clamorous for such a sacred and glorious dawn. 

I fruitlessly willed my eager feet to hush.

There is nothing 
like a silent retreat 
to heighten the senses.  

Setting myself apart for some deliberate solitude is the closest I come to acknowledging the vast holiness around me. 









God's presence is everywhere. 

Seeping into every nook and cranny. 

Lighting up the darkest corners.  

Gathering loose ends into tidy bundles of suddenly manageable parcels. 

Reasonable little packages I can hand off to someone remarkably more fit to carry them. 

It seems so obvious, here in the quiet of the convent grounds. 

Yet our self-inflicted human agenda makes devotion to the still small voice nearly impossible when competing sounds begin to vie for attention.

Four rather imposing deer foraged just a short distance from my path. 

They stopped snacking long enough to scrutinize my presence in their woods. 




The small buck tilted his head and considered me as though he, too, was smitten with my fabulous blue hat! 





Fretting that they might regard hunters with the same foolish curiosity, I sharply advised that they move along. They took my suggestion at once, their impossibly fluffy white tails waving a fanciful goodbye. The sound of my voice startled me a little bit too, after so much silence.

There are so many needs weighing on my heart as I lift my eyes above the trees. 

My journey feels encumbered by the heavy load. 

Sometimes blessings come and our burdens are lifted. 

We find we can breathe again. 

But sometimes we pray and pray...and the pain remains. 

There is no release. 

When we humble ourselves and ask, however, we are gifted with his presence.  An unfailing strength, helping us to endure as life's trials rage around us. 

That much is promised. 

We do not walk alone.   

However dubious I sometimes feel about the way prayer changes the unfolding of events, I have been shown clearly that prayer changes me. 

Reconnecting myself to God through gratitude and petition serves as a great reminder of my dependence. 

Some would label my reliance a weakness. 

But my heart begs to differ. 

My greatest freedom comes from fully trusting.

One of my favorite authors, Manning, says it like this.  "We are so caught up in what is urgent, we have overlooked what is essential." 

It is essential today for me to be quiet. 

It is as important as breathing for me to escape for a time from the noise and distraction to cultivate silent communion with God. 

It restores my soul to be still.

The temperature warmed a bit as I returned from my time of walking. The colors of the sky were no longer evident as I searched my winter coat pocket for the key.  

Dorine was not dissuaded by the raindrops.

A steady but gentle rain which would persist for the remainder of the day was just forming in the clouds above. All afternoon, the soothing rhythm would be a calming cadence outside the window of my cozy room.

Popping open a bottle of tea before jumping in the shower, the metal cap drew my attention as it dropped with a clunk onto the table in my bedroom. Rolling around its rim a couple of times, it called to me with its tinny little voice. Finally resting, the lid's message made me smile.

"One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time." 

Indeed.

Dear friends coerced to meet their own silence. 

Close your eyes. 

Breathe in deeply, inviting God's mercy.  

Breathe out your weary thoughts. 

They weigh too much. Let them go.

Fill your lungs again, allowing His peace to 

infiltrate every fiber of your being. 

Exhale your fears and doubts. 

Those things that keep you up at night and make 

your weary heart race. 

They have no power over you if you do not permit 

them to take up residence in your too-cluttered mind. 

Inhale the absolute acceptance of your creator. 

He knows you. 

Knows exactly where you are and exactly what you need. 

Every thought, before you think it. 

Failings. 

Things we are ashamed to admit, even to ourselves. 

Yet He pursues us with a love that never tires. 

His mercy is not withheld.  And it is never given grudgingly. 

His arms are open to receive. 

Release your breath once more. 

Hand over your worries to the safekeeping of the one who knows your heart. 

He can carry it. 

You cannot. 

A Little Youth Sponsor Perspective

I just spent a wonderful and exhausting week in Orlando with an amazing group of people.  As one of the adults working with this group of senior high youth, I have some things to say.

These teens are ready.

They are poised to engage in things that make them (and most of us) uncomfortable.

Things that matter.

They are energetic.

In fact, they are impressively alert at 2 am....

Their sincerity meter functions at full capacity.

They can sniff out hypocrisy, even when the wind is blowing in the opposite direction. 

If you aren't going to be authentic with them, maybe don't be anything at all.

They are diverse.

Some of them creatively share scripture on stage in front of thousands of people.

Some of them eat gum balls for breakfast. 

They are creative.

They generate inspiring ideas that give this 55 year old a renewed hope for the future of God's church

These young people are inquisitive...asking questions that make me pause.

Where do I fit?

Is this what you call "acceptance?"

And with urgency and a hot pocket in hand..."where is the microwave?"

In the absence of a microwave, they are resourceful.

Some even attempting to pop corn with a hotel iron.

They are hard workers.

Pulling invasive weeds from pond's edge in oppressive humidity and a heat that rivaled a convection oven.

DON'T...even for one second...think they aren't paying attention.

Because they can multitask like nobody's business.

These teens wonder.

Do you see me?

Can you hear me?

Do I matter in your life?

They protect their opinions, their integrity, and their people. 

They protect them fiercely.

They are filled with the spirit of adventure. 

They are filled with the spirit of God. 

They are filled with an enormous capacity for pizza.

These teens do the unexpected.

Some abruptly run through town fountains.

Some dance so hard they detach the feet from beloved inflatable penguins.

Some choose to spend the day at an amusement park being a surrogate daughter to the oldest pair of sponsors instead of hanging out with friends.

Some use bandaids. 
Lots and lots of bandaids....

Some worship and sing praises to their creator with an awe-inspiring passion.

Some have nighttime imaginations so wild, they conjure nonexistent strangers in their hotel bathroom at 1 am.

Some inexplicably launch their glow sticks, not the least bit concerned with all the mothers in the room who assume someone is going to lose an eye.

And some of them...
Some of them lay their hands on the shoulders of their sponsors in support and prayer.

Love is a verb. 

These teens generously give love.

And they gently and quietly absorb the love we offer to them.

Some words are hard for them to grasp.

Restraint.

Vegetables.

Curfew.

Some phrases are incomprehensible to them too.

Things like "this is the way it's always been" 

or maybe more accurately, 

"it's never been done, so it can't be done."

To borrow their phrase: these people SEND IT

This group of young people is on a journey with Jesus.

It is a certainty that the future church will look different. 

But knowing these teens, it is also with certainty I say- the message of Jesus is in very good hands. 

MY NOT SO DISTANT COUSIN

Along with relentless humidity, a cacophony of words has been swirling around my head and tugging at the pliant curves of my heart all week. This unruly stew is an incongruous mixture of joy and despair. Now that I'm home, I find the mixture has landed squarely in the pit of my stomach. It is a weighty and unsettling lump. 

What a week.

I will admit I was not enthusiastic when Camden was chosen as our youth group service week destination. It is, after all, just across the river. Rather than a destination, it has been (in my limited experience) a place to avoid. Though I have lived only an hour away for 50+ years, I've been to Camden on only four previous occasions. Highway navigation is not one of my strong suits so half of the aforementioned occasions were accidental (and as brief as humanly possible). One visit involved walking to a concert venue quickly so I might avoid the stray bullets which I imagined fairly peppered the Camden sky. The last visit was to the Adventure Aquarium where I stood mesmerized by the jet propulsion movement of a transparent jellyfish behind glass. If my life is a novel, the aquarium memory could be considered ironic foreshadowing of last evening's experience.  This time I stood on the weapons-side of a panel of bulletproof glass while awaiting my brown paper sack of vegetable lo mein. I was told later that my three companions and I had ventured two blocks beyond the relative safe zone in the city. The food was cheap. And delicious.

photo credit Andrea Bauman

Nearly three decades ago, Urban Promise was born to provide a safe and caring environment for the children of Camden. They have not strayed from their promise.  They are pushing into the darkest places of the city with their brightly colored murals, their catchy songs, their nutritious lunches, and their determination to be present. Empowered by the strength of their calling and the all-encompassing love of Jesus, I'm not sure they can be dissuaded. http://urbanpromiseinternational.org/our-ministries-united-states-america/usa-urbanpromise-camden 

photo credit Mickensie Neely

The extreme heat this past week was no match for the fire in the hearts of these Urban Promise leaders. From the business office to the Facilities Team of ONE, they are a determined lot. Our lunch-maker did her job with gusto. You couldn't even get past the sun-baked crossing guard without receiving a high-five.  These people redefine optimism. They relentlessly pursue positivity in the face of utter desperation.  They are daily and methodically overcoming hopelessness by showering the poor children of Camden with the kind of unconditional love that turns hearts from stone and extinguishes discouragement in the lowest of circumstances. They are saving the emotional, spiritual, and physical lives of children. One day at a time. 

Many of the children of Urban Promise go on to be Street Leaders in the camps and some of them even become Camp Directors. An energetic and motivating man named Albert led the camp with which I was honored to serve. He was once a child in the program and now he is passionately and effectively giving back to the most vulnerable people in Camden.  He now commutes every day from Hatfield to fulfill his ministry and his determination is inspiring. The children adore him. He is the hands and feet of Christ to those kids. 

As usual, my husband boiled down all my swirling words when he said "I used to think Camden was a joke." He hit the nail on the head. We were just glad not to live there. Camden felt like the awkward cousin we don't invite to family gatherings because nobody knows quite what to say. We didn't want our friends to know we are related to her.

photo credit: Chris Worthington

Those of us on the west side of the river who have dinner every night find it easy not to consider what is going on beyond the concert venue and the aquarium parking lot. Those of us with transportation in the garages of our single homes easily forget those who have no way to get to a job when highways cut through our neighborhoods and we don't own a car.  We who've met our fathers cannot fathom what it would mean for our toddlers to have to step over drug paraphernalia when walking around in our local parks. 

Some of us spent a morning in the park playing kickball with the kids. A woman was shooting drugs into her arm in a car on the edge of the park at 10:00 in the morning. Even inside the fences, the ground was littered with evidence of addiction. Syringes and brightly colored plastic bottles. If we were to spy reds and oranges like this in our own Souderton Park, we'd assume someone had dropped a toy. The heaviness of the week just clung to me that morning until I turned my head again and recognized so many of our camper's little faces. They were having fun while we were melting in the heat. Tiny feet kicking balls, dust flying, the dirt from the field clinging to sticky brown and tan legs as the children laughed and circled the bases with our teens coaching and cheering them on. When those tiny children hugged our legs and held our hands in theirs, our hearts melted faster than the 95 degree heat could melt us. Little lips, green and blue from well-earned ice pops, giving us perspective, giving us words, placing their stories gently into our care. They shared their giggles. They shared their hopes. They shared their fears. 

Job one at Urban Promise is the presentation of an orientation for work groups like us. They do a good job but let me tell you, NOTHING can prepare temporary do-good workers like us for the overwhelming impact of a small sweet head resting suddenly and trustingly on one of our shoulders. Nothing can prepare our ears to hear an eight year old tell one of us quietly that he has not seen his mother for awhile because his sister got shot; the words whispered between bites of the bologna and cheese sandwich provided by the ministry. He had his breakfast there that morning as well. As he sipped his strawberry milk he added that he has a fourteen year old brother and four other siblings. His brother doesn't come to camp with Urban Promise, he just "walks around on the streets." 

My preconceived concept of the streets of Camden was bleak. Unfortunately bleak doesn't begin to describe the things we saw when two of the ministry leaders took our group from Blooming Glen Mennonite Church and the Souderton Mennonite Church youth group on a tour of their city. Roughly fifty of us were crammed inside an aging, sweltering, bumpy school bus. Some of us were seated three across, our hot weary bodies pressed up against each other in a damp togetherness none of us had anticipated. But compared to what was going on outside of our uncomfortable bus, we were a bunch blessed beyond reason. Street after street of abject poverty. Boarded up homes and businesses. No jobs. The stench of the water treatment facilities smack dab in the residential city;the residents too poor and beaten down to fight for their own streets. Heroin alley. "Ladies of the night" peddling their wares at 3:30 in the afternoon. Our leaders told us of the gangs, the infighting, the jockeying for position and turf, the cycle of poverty. It was positively heartbreaking to realize these were the streets on which our beloved little campers are being raised.  

We passed by the luxurious new training facility for the Sixers, closer to the more affluent waterfront and so out of step with the rest of the community. This huge facility was coaxed into the impoverished city with the promise of no taxes due for thirty years. A monetary break for the NBA. The construction project just a small way down the street from the schools at which children cannot drink the tap water because it is unsafe for human consumption. The problem is ongoing and nobody is fixing it. Let that one sink in and see if you can ever enjoy an overpriced beverage at a sporting event again.

photo credit Albert Vega

But somehow, there is hope in the city. Just when least expected, there is a ministry here, a recovery center there. There are warriors fighting for the heart of the city. Offering hope in the form of a meal, a new set of clothing, an encouraging word, an ESL class,  job training, a spark of possibility. Sparks which will hopefully become flames to purify, fire that cleanses and allows new life to grow in the most inhospitable places. Let it be so.

So this lump in my stomach feels like cautious optimism. 

I'd like to introduce you to my cousin Camden. She isn't always dressed appropriately for the party. She might say something uncomfortable. She eats foods I've never seen before and she tells it like it is. I'm pretty sure she'll make us both cringe because she's rolling her eyes at me right now. But quite unexpectedly, I found we've got more in common than I might have imagined. In fact in lots of ways, I might be more of a problem in our relationship than she is. I hope you'll take some time to get to know her too.