Accepted as You Are: A book review of You’re Already Amazing

Tags

(in)courage, acceptance, Holley Gerth, personal expression, self assessment, skills, strengths, You're Already Amazing

Last month, I had the privilege of (in)courage using a piece I wrote about conflict. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed interacting with those who’ve responded to the piece. The ensuing conversations offered my first glimpse into what a blogging community is and how being part of one can inspire further writing.

One reader’s response prompted me to reflect anew on an experience I had several months ago related to a widely debated topic. Over the past four weeks, I disappeared from the blogosphere to sort through my thoughts in written form. Several drafts emerged, but none seem to sufficiently convey my struggle.

I hope the piece soon reaches a point where it’s ready to share. In the meantime, I’ve continued interacting with (in)courage by reviewing a book written by one of its cofounders.

The title of the book, You’re Already Amazing, deterred me at first, bringing to mind hokey clichés and images of prima donnas. Although the language is indeed at times a bit cheesy, the subtitle of the book encompasses its engaging nature far more accurately: Embracing Who You Are, Becoming All God Created You to Be.

Author Holley Gerth provides a refreshingly affirming perspective on God’s complete acceptance of every woman just as she is. Unlike so many Christian books that encourage women to foster certain predictable characteristics, You’re Already Amazing calls forth the natural, creative expression of each woman.

Practical tools throughout the book guide readers through an exploration of their strengths, skills, emotions, and relationships to better understand how God has created them in particular to express faith through love.

I found these exercises incredibly helpful as they brought divergent areas of life into focus for me. With Holley’s assistance, I was able to identify common threads and discern God hemming me in along a seemingly winding path.

Mapping out various parts of my life also enabled me to see that although God seems to have me waiting in some areas, He has brought me forward in others and given cause for celebration.

In addition to these interactive tools, I found the book’s call to abide in Christ invaluable. Without this essential truth, the guided self-exploration would easily lead readers into self-reliance, looking to who they are or what they do for purpose and meaning.

Even as the book currently stands, Holley may unintentionally lead readers astray from the truth that life simply is not about us. She clearly wants to counteract the lies fed to women by numerous sources – lies that lead them to believe they’re simultaneously too much and not enough. Yet, in advocating the opposite extreme, You’re Already Amazing sometimes loses sight of the reality that meaning comes only in obedience to God, when what one seeks is not purpose at all, but Christ.

In an effort to uphold the freedom to be oneself in a world that frequently separates identity from surrender, You’re Already Amazing at times errs on the side of popular, self-help theology.

Overall, however, the book provides rich insight and incredibly helpful tools for understanding how God created each of us to uniquely express faith in love. My hope is that the truth offered in this book will outweigh any potentially misleading theology and help readers lean into the love and freedom of Christ.

You can interact with author Holley Gerth and others reading the book at http://www.incourage.me/2012/03/youre-already-amazing-details.html.

The Truth About Conflict: An (in)courage Writing

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(in)courage, Chesterton, church, conflict, formula, Jonathan Edwards, mystery, questions, tension, truth

Photo courtesy of Kerstin Pless

Despite writing a blog, I have to confess, I don’t read blogs very often. When I slow down enough to read, I like a book in hand with pages I can turn.

Feeling slightly like a hypocrite and wanting to learn from others, I’ve started reading blogs over the last several months. The two favorites I’ve discovered, a holy experience and (in)courage,  both offer down-to-earth inspiration from the everyday lives of Christian women.

I’m honored that today, (in)courage posted a piece I wrote entitled “The Truth About Conflict.”

Unlike the churches I knew while growing up, the women at (in)courage don’t seem afraid of questions or struggles. I admire their raw honesty and transparent faith.

Having wrestled with questions of faith as far back as I can remember, I’m grateful to be able to do so openly in Christian community. It’s not often easy to find such safe venues.

Though the church of my adolescence provided a solid foundation, it quickly became an unshakeable bulwark when formulaic answers no longer satisfied me.

Oblivious to any political or social landscape, I couldn’t understand why questions would instill fear unless they blasphemed the Creator or threatened exposure of lies.

I don’t remember anyone at church having the courage to tell me the world doesn’t exist in black and white. If someone did, I imagine I was too terrified to retain the suggestion. I longed for answers that revealed a world I could make sense of and a God I could predict.

Unable to accept the black and white I’d found wanting but unwilling to live in shades of gray, I felt I had to reject God to live authentically.

I thought I’d lost my faith except for a single thread I clung to, knowing I dangled spiderlike over the flames.[i] I see now I was to some degree only starting to discover my faith.

I suspect the thread to which I clung was the slender core of Truth I’d yet grasped. The remaining web fell in shambles when the breeze blew strong.

Photo courtesy of Dalboz17

In the shifting winds of a culture that seemed to threaten Christianity’s demise, perhaps my church, like many others, lashed back with what little it felt it had – absolute truth and a manual to life.

Given the choice to flee or fight, panic stricken churches wildly brandished swords of truth that struck anyone in their path. They seemed blind to the possibility of conversing, preferential to ousting.

If you didn’t agree with or couldn’t understand their black and white doctrine, you became as threatening to these churches as those they withstood.

Having robbed them of thick borders to delineate God’s form, you left a mess of mystery that made them vulnerable to attack. As if God is not God enough to withstand the gales.

More strategic or fainthearted churches quietly melded with the culture at large. Perhaps some intended subtle infiltration, but many gave way to relativity leading to a paralyzing abyss.

The pattern continues, with Christians still struggling to put an arm around the shoulders of others – within the Church and outside, each made in the image of God – and converse while walking alongside. To listen and hear, to speak truth with love.

It’s a battle itself for finite beings to live within the tensions that come with the mystery of God. But let us live in the tension, let us live with Christ, where “there [is] room for wrath and love to run wild.”[ii] Diminish either side, and we risk losing sight of the Lord.

May the Church help us live in these tensions, holding both in hand while never forsaking Truth for formulas or a void.

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[i] An image from Jonathan Edwards’ Sinners in the Hands of An Angry God that has stayed with me since reading the sermon in a high school English class.

[ii] G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 97.

Procrastinating on God

Tags

busyness, faith, fear, God, Israelites, Procrastination, productivity, tasks, Time management

My ability to procrastinate astounds me. It’s one of those skills you think should have a place on your résumé but know no future employer will appreciate. Along with your ability to fill every empty space in the trunk and pull together a killer progressive dinner.

What most employers don’t realize is how surprisingly productive procrastination can be. During the time I spend avoiding one larger, looming task, I am bound to complete at least half a dozen menial tasks I never would have otherwise finished.

Take yesterday for example – my two most important tasks for the day were to pack for today’s camping trip and to write at least 300 words.

The former was postponed until eleven o’clock at night, the latter is only now taking place at 8:30 the next morning in the car. The reason for the delay is the sundry household tasks I had been putting off for days if not weeks that I suddenly had to get done.

I couldn’t let the leftover ham bone go to waste when it had been sitting all week waiting for my first batch of stock. When I opened the refrigerator door to retrieve the bone, what remained of a two pound block of cheese caught my eye. I’d bought the cheese as a campfire treat and what was left needed to be shredded and frozen before it went bad.

To make room for a new tray of cheese in the freezer, the cheese I’d frozen the night before would need to be bagged and vacuum sealed. Which led me to vacuum seal the chicken stock and Amish friendship bread I’d frozen months earlier.

Meanwhile, the cabinet that had been waiting weeks to hang on the wall looked on imploringly in its barren state. I called a friend to help secure it, which meant I should also finish spray painting the canisters intended for display. It would be nice to have everything in order when guests arrived two days later.

You see what I mean – so much productivity with simply the effort to delay two inevitable tasks, beginning simply with a leftover ham bone.

This phenomenon occurs even when I’m excited about the larger undertaking. After all, why would I dread the writing that sets me free to soar?

Somehow the task in the distance seems overwhelmingly large despite how miniscule or enticing it may be. I’ve even tried on multiple occasions breaking down goals into smaller, more easily achievable steps to take one at a time. Yet I remain in dread.

I carry around a dense, hazy guilt I fight to shake off. It clings like the hot, southern summer air. I’m ashamed of my avoidance, uncertain of explanation. Perhaps I fear failure or inadequacy. Or perhaps worse yet, what if greatness emerges and responsibility is born?

I’m overwhelmed at the thought of the perfectionist Task Master lurking within, knowing she awaits with whip in hand. I spend more time dreading the undertaking than I would have simply tackling it, like ripping a bandaid off quickly to avoid pulling the hairs too long.

I approach relationship with God similarly. Fearing He will not show, I avoid Him altogether. Better I sidestep than He reject. I have reason for such beliefs.

How does one relate to the One unseen, unheard, untouched, when the world around is filled with sights and sounds, hands and feet? He seems to come only in momentary glimpses and will not be captured or tamed. So I start flight on my own and let Him appear when He will.

I fill the days with tasks, entertainment, pleasure, and plans. I leave it to Him to enter in, as though He is the One knocking, not I. Yet this does not reconcile with His word that if I seek, I will find; if I knock, the door will be opened.

How is my seeking insufficient, my knocking not enough? I am unable to conjure Him in the everyday and mundane. I long to woo Him, though He says He is the One courting. Why does He choose others if I’m His beloved?

I dread life without Love in its midst, so I backwardly ensure He will not be missed, much like a spurned lover never given the chance to cause pain. By giving Him no opportunity to turn away, I ensure the game will go on.

I fear what will happen if He never shows His face, or perhaps the fear is He may finally decide to reveal.

I remember the Israelites and take pause. After God spoke audibly and showed His glory to the wandering nation, the people begged Him to no longer speak to them for fear they would die.[1]

They beseech Moses to come between them and the Almighty, as I beseech ambition and busyness and shame.

I don’t want to surrender to One who claims to love so shamelessly that He overtakes all other affections. I have many loves I’m unwilling to concede and suspect it’s life outside my control I dread most.

Uncertain of what God will ask of me or make of me, I prostrate myself and slink quietly away, back to a world of ham bones and cabinets and cheese. What wonder could be I’ll never know so long as I remain here.

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[1] Deut. 5:23-27, 18:16. Philip Yancey explores this idea in Disappointment with God, pg. 74.

Talk about procrastinating – I wrote most of this piece back in September and just now finalized it!

Boosting Serotonin One Photo at a Time

Tags

contest, national parks, Rainier, recreation, serotonin, sharetheexperience, vote, White Sands

A year-and-a-half ago, my husband and I chose to make a blessing of his recent layoff with a nearly three week trek across the U.S. Our final destination: Portland, Oregon.

We never expected to have a shot at another vacation with the photos we took along the way.

In November, I joined my friend Kerstin half way between our homes at Mt. Rainier. In preparation for a bit of a snowshoeing tromp, we chatted with a friendly park ranger about trails and precautions.

As we talked, I noticed a brochure for a national parks photo contest. Given the grand prize of a four day trip to any national park, an annual parks pass, $500 cash, and other amazing treats, I convinced Kerstin we both needed to enter the contest.

I’ve been itching for a sunshine vacation after Portland’s rain from November to July last year, and this seemed like our ticket to a serotonin boost.

Given my tendency to procrastinate, I spent most of December 31st going through photos and asking family members for opinions. After much deliberation, I chose the following three entries.

Scrambling to upload the photos before our New Year’s Eve celebration, I skimmed through the official rules and noticed a contest theme for the first time: “Showcasing the Best of America’s Recreational Opportunities.”

So at the last second, I switched out the third photo above for one more focused on recreation, though far less visually interesting to me. Just in case this is more what they’re looking for, I thought, and entered a photo of Ben sledding down a sand dune at White Sands National Monument.

Wouldn’t you know it, the quick switch photo made it into the semifinalist stage! Hilarity.

As you peruse the many incredible photos in the contest and see one after another you’d like as your computer background, just ask yourself if you even knew sand sledding was a recreational opportunity before seeing the photo of Ben.

Keeping the recreation theme and serotonin boost in mind, we’re hoping you may still vote for my photo, even if you wouldn’t want a photo of my husband framed on your wall!

You can vote every day at http://www.sharetheexperience.org/ between now and January 31st. Enter your information once and you’ll be entered in a sweepstakes to win a $100 REI gift card every time you vote.

Our photo is on page 11 when you view the complete gallery. Or you can type Halley into the “search for a specific photo” bar.

Here’s to increased serotonin and unexpected blessings!

God As the Ultimate International Developer

Tags

Asia, cynicism, God, international development, Vietnam

Returning to the couple who spoke about community development work in Vietnam, I wanted to share more specifically why I was so encouraged by their work.

Unlike nearly every other presentation I’ve attended of this type, this couple refrained from any marketing pretext or mass appeal. I kept waiting for the “give us money” line and was thrilled my expectation went unmet.

Having emerged from an international development agency a year ago, I’m dubious of marketing spins on why people should give money to those dubbed less fortunate. My cynicism emerges for various reasons I may expand upon elsewhere.

In contrast, the outcomes of the work this couple invests in depend on the resources and leadership of the local people. I learned after the presentation that they work for a larger, U.S. based agency, but the name of the organization never came up during the presentation.

Instead, the community development they described sounded as though it began without any headquarter or donor requirements to bind the people. Whatever the technical setup may be, the work clearly rests in the hands of the Vietnamese people relying on God’s guidance.

Photo courtesy of Melanie Dornier

If nationals come to this couple with a concern, the couple encourages them to pray and read God’s Word to discern His leading. Unlike most development workers I’ve met – including myself more often than I’d like to admit – they don’t presume they know answers that God will not reveal to those less formally educated.

Though the community’s solutions rely on the movement of God’s Spirit, the work does not proceed haphazardly. A barebones five-year plan helps guide the process by outlining general phases for moving towards transformation. The plan fits on a single page, simplifying the process some organizations never complete because of complicated frameworks.

With an adaptable framework in place and unflinching reliance on the Lord, these Vietnamese communities have experienced untold transformation.

Persecution of Christians has shifted to collaboration; crops overflow; neighbors serve one another; hosts no longer bankrupt themselves for communal gatherings; communities abandon debilitating superstitions; new homes emerge.

The presentation also provided metrics demonstrating accountability and differences made, the hard numbers so many Americans demand. But for me, the clearest indicators of effective transformation rest in the people’s reliance on the Lord, their changed attitudes, and their demonstrated initiative.

Photo courtesy of Jameson Wu

Bad Breath Isn’t Always Too Close for Comfort

Tags

communication, community development, cultural, jaded, Kiwi, personal differences, personal space, Vietnam

Several weeks ago, I attended a presentation about community development work in rural Vietnam. The couple giving the presentation – a woman from New Zealand and her Vietnamese husband – has worked for years in rural Vietnam to improve people’s quality of life.

The couple’s approach so encouraged me – a jaded, worn out development worker – that during the question and answer time, I lauded their work.

When others left, I approached the Kiwi woman with excitement. After just a moment of talking, she backed up nearly a foot, sending me the message that I had spoken too eagerly or forthrightly. The conversation became stilted as I sought to understand what I had done wrong. Thinking my harmless enthusiasm had either offended or overwhelmed her, I curtailed my feedback and prematurely ended the conversation.

Photo courtesy of Eva Schuster

Soon afterwards, I wrote an unrelated blog post on cultural differences in personal space. Even though I’ve interacted with a wide assortment of cultures, I didn’t consciously realize until I wrote the piece that perhaps the Kiwi woman simply had a different comfort level for proximity. Perhaps I had done nothing wrong after all.

Though I educate others on such cultural differences, I struggle to accept them in my personal life. I internalized this woman’s response and, frankly, remain unconvinced that she would welcome further conversation.

I’ve internalized other personal differences based on feedback as well – feedback from superiors who define variances from their norm as right or wrong, culturally acceptable or unacceptable. Only recently have I begun to question who determines the cultural rules that should govern general conduct.

Nonetheless, whether or not I agree with cultural norms, understanding them can increase the effectiveness of my communication. “Get a Clue” explains some means I’ve learned for communicating indirectly, while “Bad Breath Isn’t Always Too Close for Comfort” delves into the spatial differences I encountered with the Kiwi mentioned above.

Can Beggars Really Not Be Choosers?

Tags

choice, fate, freedom, homeless, organic, Portland, struggle, vegetarian

She thought selling her body was her fate, prescribed by gods above. Perhaps another life would bring relief. Release if she lives this one well. I struggled to understand. What does living well in prostitution mean? Who robbed her of her freedom?

Now I struggle upstairs, head in hands. I can’t do this. Trying to please so many people, fight such consuming battles, cross the t’s and dot the i’s. I don’t know how to overcome. I’ve tried so long.

They tell me I can do anything, but I keep trying to do everything.

I rob myself of choices even as I decide on basic needs. I cook the food to eat, shop the deals to save, run to breathe the air. My soul withers, deemed unworthy of care. As though I, too, live my fate.

“You have choices,” my husband tells me. “Your time is worth something.”

I continue snipping coupons as he speaks.

I remember educating others on fatalistic cultures, composed of people who don’t think to make changes in a world that fails to impart choice. I taught as though in this land of the free, we never shackle ourselves or demand chains for others.

In truth, we bind one to his fate, then ask why he doesn’t change.

Photo courtesy of Carl Loven

We eye those living on the street, wondering what’s wrong inside them. Skepticism mounts when the beggar refuses an offering of meat. Assuming the bottle or needle consumes her life, we presume she has no right to preference or choice. Beggars can’t be choosers. Her choice has been made: a life on the streets.

Having labeled as bums and robbed of options, we yet condemn a lack of initiative.

I stand on the back of such society. I balance precariously there when a young man, not yet twenty-five, approaches me. He waits with gaze averted as I serve him Christmas lunch. The faces of those struggling and prospering blend together at this church that seeks to love all well. Marmot jackets and North Face fleeces clothe both alike in Portland.

Dirt-stained hands betray some, manifesting the dust-of-the-earth nature of all.

Photo courtesy of photos.de.tibo

Unlike the multitude that have requested ranch or branched out to balsamic vinaigrette, this young man selects Annie’s Goddess – a dressing extravagant enough I’ve yet to purchase it myself.

“I like organic,” he says. “I’ll take that one.”

Clearly vegetarian given the spread on his plate, I suspect he may be one who turns down fried meat on gluten-filled bread when offered on the street. I marvel at how widespread the Portland culture is, that this man knows he too has a choice in what he will eat. Organic is an option for him here. It screams dignity at the end of the line.

Passing by the tables a second time, he asks for bell peppers plucked from the salad. No lettuce, no dressing. Peppers alone.

“Right here.” He indicates a place in the spread. “To make it look fancy.” He smiles.

I cheer him by heart.

Unburdened by expectation, this twenty-something man embraces the choice before him. Pepper garnish for beauty. Perhaps he chose this rugged lifestyle as well. Perhaps it is his bettering. Respite from a heavy, hardened hand. Or forced from home, he now endures the cold while he searches for work. For all I know, he’s hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, lonely and seeking company here.

I can’t presume to know his situation, but perhaps this life is his choice. In any case, he comes to this meal with some who live homeless, some who barely make rent. In this place, one cannot relegate them to the Other.

Photo courtesy of Joshua Zirschky

It seems this culture has not so much shaped them as they have shaped it. Escape to the outdoors. Organic living. Pursuit of beauty. Disdain of the Corporate.

I offer salad to an older man walking by and am surprised at his response. “Naw. It’s like vegan,” he says. “That stuff freaks me out.”

I laugh. None will fit in a box. Each is complex and choosing a course, even as consequences unfold.

Spirit breathes life into me through interaction with them.

Whatever shaping power I have in life, I want to exert; not lie wearily by. Not let fear or fated judgments of others dictate my steps. Whether requesting a garnish or discerning essentials, I make choices each day that lead to habits and life.

Even as He leads, I must choose to follow. To lay down my life. This too is a choice. Whether destined or not, what I know now is the choosing.

Bonhoeffer on Community

Tags

Christian, conviction, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, idol, repentance

Those who love their dream of a Christian community more than the Christian community itself become destroyers of that Christian community even though their personal intentions may be ever so honest, earnest, and sacrificial.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s words bring me to repentance, convicting me of how I’ve made an idol of community even as I seek to love those within it.

Anonymous No More

Tags

Christmas, courage, holidays, hosting, isolation, neighborhood, relationship, simplicity

In an effort to live less reclusively, I hand delivered Christmas party invitations this afternoon. Ambling along familiar streets, I clutched leftover cardstock with black ink announcing my first attempt to gather unknown neighbors.

I’d considered such an act for months. Years, in fact, but a summer encounter renewed the inspiration.

It was an August evening with warm sunshine drawing adults and children alike outside. I’d jogged to the riverfront and while resting a moment on the dock, a silhouette approached, its stature resembling that of my mailman. As it came closer, I recognized the mailman with certainty, taking in the sun’s last rays with his family.

Photo courtesy of Kerstin Pless

I hadn’t seen them in months and relished knowing someone in the neighborhood. After chatting a bit and meeting their newborn, I jogged on with renewed energy. The boost rose not primarily from my brief rest, but from an exhilaration that comes when I stumble upon community.

A few days later, at about the same time and location, I ran into the family again. Not for the first time, I marveled at their intentionality in building relationships. Their efforts come so naturally they hardly seem deliberate.

Delivering mail in the neighborhood certainly doesn’t hurt community rapport, nor does an open invitation to use one’s hot tub. This family also at times picks up and delivers milk to neighbors in their food co-op. They bring homemade treats to the owner of the nearby urban homestead store, receiving congratulatory baby gifts in return.

And now they appeared to have a custom of walking to the riverfront each evening, repeatedly passing by and talking to the same neighbors.

How easy they make community seem.

As Christmas approaches, I’ve wondered how I can invest similarly in neighbors. Cloistered in a rental at the end of a long driveway, parking spaces eliminate any room for a front yard. We’ve hardly gotten to know those sharing the driveway, let alone those who share the street.

When the thought of a Christmas gathering first dawned on me, excuses abounded. We’d just hosted Thanksgiving and two days of cooking had drained me. December had already begun – surely neighbors had already filled calendars with holiday plans. Our weekends were booked, and gifts for family made the wallet feel tight.

But I’ve been convinced for years, and I am reminded again and again, that relationships matter most in life. Weary of anonymity, I promised my husband I would keep the gathering simple and we agreed on a Sunday afternoon date.

Words became reality when the mailman knocked on our door the next day. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I solidified a time and asked him to bring a snack. There was no backing out now.

A few days later, the UPS delivery man commented on a Maryland license plate hanging in our garage. Apparently we have a knack for befriending mail carriers. He proceeded to tell me he, too, had moved from Maryland to go to seminary in Portland.

The uncanny similarities in our stories made me want to invite him over, but because I generally consider the world a dangerous place, I reminded myself this complete stranger had no place in my home.

The continual fear and anxiety wear on me though, and a longing to overcome general suspicion has recently bubbled over in me. So when I encountered the delivery man again while jogging, I invited him to our newly solidified Christmas gathering.

Day by day, the details fell into place. Tuesday, I looked in the pantry for food and the chocolate fountain sat staring back at me, unused for years and perfect for an easy-to-host gathering.  Wednesday, I realized we had blank cardstock invitations left over from our wedding. Thursday, I printed a basic invitation, enticing neighbors with the chocolate fountain and fire pit.

All that remained was knocking on doors to extend an invitation and making chocolate sauce the day of the party. So I set out anew this afternoon to welcome strangers into our home.

The first door I knocked on separated me from a neighbor I’d meant to call on for over a year. I met her when she handed me two Moonstruck chocolate samples over a glass display case. With a bit of conversation, I discovered she lived three doors down from me and it took 45 minutes to bike from our street to the chocolate shop.

Photo courtesy of quinn.anya

In a year’s time, I’d not yet summoned the courage for more than admiring her monstrous sunflowers and prolific vegetables. I plotted for both to stimulate conversation whenever a chance encounter arrived.

Standing before the door now with a clear purpose for visiting, I no longer hesitated. I confidently pressed the doorbell and banished visions of a drug-addled boyfriend appearing. A well-tailored man around my age emerged. He amiably informed me the girl I’d met now lived in Arizona.

I’d missed the chance to get to know her, but a new opportunity stood before me. As I shared about the chocolate fountain and fire pit, a look of surprised interest crossed the man’s face. I handed him an invitation, hoping he and his girlfriend would come.

The day continued in a similar manner, knocking on doors and inviting one neighbor after another to our celebration. Some chatted while raking leaves, others hesitatingly opened the door, only one looked at me as though I’d arrived from another planet. I was determined to know my neighbors, so strange looks failed to deter me for more than a moment.

Along the way, I realized I’d been so busy trying to control the world, I’d failed to become the person I wanted to be – a woman whose warmth invites others in, who reaches out and builds community in daily life. I’d talked about community often. I certainly longed for it. But I’d rarely done the uncomfortable work of establishing it. I’d allowed efficiency to overtake relationship.

However neighbors responded, whether they show up the day of or not, this afternoon I became more the woman I want to be. If I continue stretching myself little by little, perhaps life will extend beyond these four walls. Perhaps I will dismantle the isolation, the distrust on at least this one street, in at least this one home.

Navigating Cultural Differences

Tags

cross-cultural, cultural, international, relationship, View on Travel

After five years working in international development and a couple years of training on cross-cultural relationships, I figure it’s time to share more of what I’ve learned.

You can read the series I’m writing on navigating cultural differences here. I’m hopeful others can benefit from my personal experience, knowledge gleaned from others, and mistakes made along the way.