Peace: The Christmas Message

They were wholly preposterous words.

“On earth peace, good will toward men,”(1) sang angels hovering over a land heaving with political and racial tension, ruled by a degenerate despot, choked by Roman oppression, crowded in on all sides by competing foreign powers — a land, which in just one generation would collapse under revolt, its temple razed to the ground.

Gustav Doré, Empyrean Light

Yet it is precisely into the heart of such a conflict-rife setting that the shimmering, pulsating words “peace” and “good will” spilled down the conduit from God’s presence. Like pure water, they gushed into this murky sphere, sending bright, ever-expanding ripples across the thick Judean night. Peace, proclaimed the angels. Peace on this harsh, hostile earth.

The word “peace” makes us pause, shake our heads. Can reasonable people really believe in, let alone strive for peace? Can we, knowing what we do of human nature and of mankind’s history of soaking this earth’s crust in fratricidal blood — can we hope for peace?

Let us proclaim without reservation that not only can we hope for peace, but we must. At Christmastime especially, when we kneel before the Prince of Peace, we renew our covenant to hope for peace, to claim and proclaim peace, and to proliferate His peace.

One can hope for His peace only because it is independent of outward circumstances. His peace begins internally, in a heart aligning itself to truth and light, and once cultivated in that heart, extends ever outward to touch and embrace all of mankind.

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Such was the LDS General Presidency holiday message to the church in 1936, where members were urged to “manifest brotherly love, first toward one another, then toward all mankind; to seek unity, harmony and peace … within the Church, and then, by precept and example, extend these virtues throughout the world.”(2)

Like the original angelic annunciation, that plea for peace came at a time of escalating global tumult. The Great Depression was still ravaging the USA; the Spanish Civil War was surging; Stalin was executing his own; Mussolini was forging an “axis” alliance with Hitler; and the latter was promoting a devilish political agenda, which became official when he proclaimed himself the head of the German armed forces. This timing means that, five short years following that December Christmas message, untold numbers who had heard that call to peace would be called to the front lines of the bloodiest and longest conflict of history. On the beaches of Normandy, in the rice paddies of Okinawa, and in the rural jungles of the Philippines, perhaps those soldiers remembered that, despite the weight of the rifles strapped on their backs and the sodden camouflage uniforms stained in mud and blood, their covenant was then as always to manifest brotherly love and seek for peace.

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Modern conflict both global and intimate — whether originating in Pearl Harbor, Korea, Russia, Israel, Palestine, Syria, Libya, or Washington D.C.; whether due to joblessness, chronic or terminal illness, abuse, abandonment, addiction, the death of our beloved, the death of our faith — “mocks the song of peace on earth, good will toward men.”(3) Yet our gentle God rejoins all of this sharpness with a soft call to partake of His peace.

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It is this kind of peace that both opened and closed his mortal mission. The peaceful greeting angels sang at his birth He repeated in the hours prior to his death. Before the Roman guards would barter for his last bit of clothing, press thorns into his flesh, and hammer iron spikes through his hands and feet, He taught His followers that “peace on earth” would not mean peace in this world, but peace above and beyond it. “Peace I leave with you,” He said, “my peace I give you. Not as the world gives give I unto you. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”(4) In the face of all that He knew would surely come of torture, betrayal and blood (His own and His disciples’), “peace” surely seems a wholly preposterous word.

Or a holy, preposterous word. A blessing.

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When those angels blessed the quaking shepherds with a portion of holy peace, those same shepherds in turn took that testimony to what might well have been a quaking Joseph and Mary, who themselves perhaps needed reassurance that God’s peace, in their tiny Child, had indeed come to earth. Simple shepherds were among the first witnesses who heard and carried the blessing to others, thus revealing one of the secrets of God’s peace: it is always to be shared.

It must also be dared, wrote anti-Nazi dissident Dietrich Bonhoeffer: “Peace means giving oneself completely to God’s commandment… Battles are won not with weapons, but with God.”(5) Internal battles, Bonhoeffer seems to be saying, are won, and peace claimed when we do “the works of righteousness” receiving the reward of “peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come.”(6)

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From a modern-day prophet comes wise counsel:

“No man is at peace with himself or his God who is untrue to his better self, who transgresses the law of what is right either in dealing with himself by indulging in passion, in appetite, yielding to temptations against his accusing conscience, or in dealing with his fellowmen, being untrue to their trust. Peace does not come to the transgressor of law; peace comes by obedience to law, and it is that message which Jesus would have us proclaim among men.”(7)

This season, will mine be the soul into which His sweet serenity enters? Into whose unsuspecting life will I dare to carry His gentle greeting? With which family members, friends or even strangers will I share His gift of peace that “passeth all understanding”?(8) And when this Christmas has passed, will we each have experienced something new about His peace? Will we have believed, received, and gifted to another that holy, wholly preposterous peace?

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.(9)

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###

1 Luke 2:14
2 Greetings from the First Presidency,” Liahona, the Elders’ Journal, 22 Dec.
1936, p. 315
3 I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry W. Longfellow
4 John 14:27
5 Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy; Eric Metaxas, pp. 81
6 D&C 59:23
7 David O. McKay, Conference Report, Oct. 1938, p. 133.
8 Philippians 4:7
9 “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”, Edmund Hamilton Sears (1810–1876)

Altars, Altar Cloths, and Our Covenant to Mourn

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All images: LDSLacemaker.com

Draped neatly on nearly every Mormon temple altar I have ever seen is a white crocheted covering. I had always assumed that such coverings were a quaint nod to our pioneer heritage, those skilled Irish, Dutch, Welsh and Scandinavian hands that provided delicate handiwork to adorn my faith’s earliest temples. It wasn’t until loss ripped through me with H-Bomb force that my eyes were opened to see a deeper meaning.

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It was a Thursday evening, one week to the hour from the tragic drowning accident that took our eldest son’s life, when my husband Randall and I, weak with grief and staggering under the molten lead weight of shock and sorrow, went to the LDS temple so that Randall could do what is a common but crowning rite in our faith; he would serve as proxy for our 18-year-old’s posthumous “endowment”, a bestowal of supreme blessings and promises conditioned upon faithfulness to the gospel. We happened to also be asked in that session to serve as something we call “the witness couple,” meaning that we represented all others in attendance as we approached and knelt at an altar, the central feature of the room in which temple goers are seated and instructed. Freshly amputated as we felt, we scarcely had the energy to get up and approach the altar or even kneel at it, but managed to by bracing ourselves—torsos against and elbows upon—that holy, lace-covered altar.

I recall crying quietly, head hung. Dark spots of dampness pooled on lace geometry, I can see them still, and I can also hear the Spirit telling me, “This suffering is a similitude.” My heart cramped. “And this,” referring to the altar covering I was wetting with the blood of my soul, “is the community of Saints.” I focused on that handiwork throughout that evening, seeing it all as if for the first time. And in each of the subsequent temples I’ve visited in the years since our life was imploded, I have reflected intensely on the altar covering’s meaning.

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What do I now see in those soft altars and in dainty altar cloths? I see these ten hard truths and endless thunderous power.

  • I see that life is an altar, not a stage, as I had believed before I knew that I had zero control over life. That all my efforts to do the right would not and could not protect me from death in all its iterations. That God does not, in the strictest sense, protect us from life, but provides us with exactly enough strength through Christ that sorrow be transformed into joy, suffering into strength, death—the greatest evil— into life, and even life eternal.
  • I see that our Christian covenant before anything else—before white shirts and ties, food storage, memorizing scripture, hosting elaborate youth theme nights—is one of connectivity, companionship, co-mourning and compassion. It is about stitching ourselves to each other in love. Alma, an ancient prophet featured in the Book of Mormon, offered this distilled truth when he taught that Christ’s disciples live to bear others’ burdens, mourn with them, comfort them, and to stand in for God in all things, times and places. (Book of Mormon, Mosiah 18:8-9)

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  • That any other expression of faith than the self-sacrificial and the other-rescuing risks becoming parochial, nothing more than navel-gazing, and ultimately lacks the substance that will create of our simple single threads Zion, and of our threadbare or shot-through selves, offspring truly like our Divine Parents.

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  • That extending our arms to one another knots — or knits—our hearts together, as we read in Mosiah 18:21. This intertwinedness results in a human fabric where each tatted patch represents a tattered and torn someone who is, through intimate, single stitches, held in our community and in turn in a greater, cosmic cloth.
  • That knitting our hearts to one another doesn’t require that we be perfectly whole to begin with. In fact, those altar cloths provide an aerial view of all our broken bodies and punctured spirits. It’s in our reaching outward to catch others or to be caught by others as if with a fine crochet hook, that we are caught by God. The parallel miracle appears when, in our human reciprocal catching and knitting, God knits and mends our individual broken and punctured hearts.

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  • That our brokenness, while making us feel acutely poorer and more fragile, frayed or shot through, also provides open spaces where we can be caught by God. Sewn closer to God, we are far richer and exponentially more robust than we had been before.
  • That such torn-to-pieces-hood, (William James’ translation of the German, “Zerissenheit”), is what we came to earth to know. We can, in our experiences with torn-to-pieces-hood rail and resist, rebel and rage. But we can also recognize that holes, not wholeness, invite holiness. Spaciousness invites the Spirit, and in His wounds we are healed, made whole.
  • That altars are mourning benches, and mourning benches are places of reverence. When we seek to meet someone in their grief, we are treading on sacred ground. This call to compassion—to suffering alongside another—is not a time for perfection, but a moment of supernal authenticity. Any self-consciousness and perfectionist leanings do nothing to help the grieving. We bond on our broken, not on our polished, edges.

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  • That we ought to bear burdens first. (Mow the grief-stricken’s lawn, wash their car, take their children for three days.) Mourn next. (Jesus wept.) Comfort later. (“Comfort” means con+fortis, or “with strength.” Bring all your strengths.) And witness of God (roll out your sermon) only after you have done all of the above, and for much longer than you had ever imagined necessary.
  • And I have learned that mourning, like kneeling at that altar, requires silence. The Jews sit seven days of shiva. We can begin with at least that. We need only to show up and sit in shared stillness. Indeed, altars are places of listening more than places of lengthy discourses. And real listening is more than a polite or professional act. It is total, imaginative focus requiring physical effort and divine inspiration. Listening to those who are suffering will teach all of us essential lessons in our shared humanity.

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As Nicolas Wolterstorff, Yale Divinity School theology professor and bereaved father writes about altars and mourning benches:

“What do you say to someone who is suffering?

Some people are gifted with words of wisdom. For such, one is profoundly grateful. There were many such for us. But not all are gifted that way. Some blurted out strange, inept things. That’s OK too. Your words don’t have to be wise. The heart that speaks is heard more than the words spoken. And if you can’t think of anything at all to say, just say, “I can’t think of anything to say. But I want you to know that we are with you in your grief.” Or even, just embrace. Not even the best of words can take away the pain. What words can do is testify that there is more than pain in our journey on earth to a new day. Of those things that are more, the greatest is love. Express your love. How appallingly grim must be death of a child in the absence of love.

But please: Don’t say it’s not really so bad. Because it is. Death is awful, demonic. If you think your task as comforter is to tell me that really, all things considered, it’s not so bad, you do not sit with me in my grief but place yourself off in the distance from me. Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit [or kneel] beside me on my mourning bench.”

—Wolterstorff , Lament for a Son, 34

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How have loss and grief stitched you to your God?

What have others done for you during times of acute grief that has knit your heart to theirs?

What has it meant for you to mourn with or comfort others?

What is to be learned from the seemingly endless landscape of mortal suffering?

If you are LDS and attend the temple, what has that temple-attendance done for you in your anguish and isolation?

 

 

 

 

 

How Our Covenant Community Could Save the World: Feature Article in Meridian Magazine

My piece. My peace.

Click on these words and follow straight to my heart.

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Image: Meridian Magazine

I have never felt the need or desire to hide my religious feelings. My devotion to my faith has never been questioned by anyone who knows me. On the contrary. I am what they call “all in.”

I have, however, sometimes felt the need to hide my political feelings —but only since November, 20016, and significantly, only within my religious community, my beloved tribe. It ought no be so. It must not be so

So please, read. Share. Let’s talk openly, friends. I’d be thrilled if you left your thoughts.

Mormon Women for Ethical Government: We Will Not Be Complicit by Being Complacent

Karl Marx famously called religion the opiate of the masses. Yet history provides us with numerous examples of individuals and groups who, far from being oppressed or subdued by religion, are empowered by it. Think St. Paul, Joan of Arc, Thomas More, Elizabeth Fry, the abolitionists, or Martin Luther King, Jr.  For these deep believers, religion wasn’t a sedative, but a stimulant–a tremendous motivator that stirred up an extraordinary alchemy of spiritual authority and political activity. When brought toe-to-toe with institutional and individual abuses of power, the believers prevailed, leading to significant and lasting change that shaped generations. Undeniably, every one of us is in one way or another a beneficiary of faith-fueled political activism.

Not unlike the deep believers of history, there are people joining forces today to form a human retaining wall against the moral and ethical mudslide threatening the stability of our City on the Hill. A wave of religio-political activism is gathering. People of faith — and of many diverse faiths — are galvanizing a growing resistance to what they deem are multiple offenses perpetrated in the highest office of the land. Citizens from across the political, geographic, and religious landscapes—progressives, conservatives, moderates; urban, coastal, Midwestern, southern, expatriated; Jews, Catholics, Baptists, Protestants, Muslims—are rallying in the defense of democracy and decency, calling for a return to dignity and integrity in our government. 21192527_10103761050860899_2196911460872549044_n

One such activist group is Mormon Women for Ethical Government (MWEG), founded in response to the current administration’s first executive orders calling for The Wall and The Ban. From its conception by six founding associates, all of whom affirm abiding devotion to their Christian faith, MWEG has grown with wildfire speed, drawing thousands into its ranks in only its first few weeks of existence. Members come from diverse backgrounds ranging from Ivy League university professors, lawyers, and political scientists to grandmothers who place daily telephone calls to their elected officials; from seasoned political advocates based in Washington D.C., to women across the world who call themselves “accidental activists.” Despite the widespread perception that Mormons are doggedly conservative and overwhelmingly loyal to the Republican party, MWEG’s membership demonstrates a much wider range of political thinking, from those who opted for Mormon outsider candidate Evan McMullin to others who felt the Bern; from liberals who stumped for Hillary in red pantsuits to true blue Republicans who voted for Trump and have since become bitterly disillusioned.

MWEG members are united not only by their opposition to what is happening in US politics (which sends its repercussions across the globe), but also by adherence to the Six Principles of Nonviolent Resistance as modeled by Gandhi and Dr. King. Their peacefulness should not be misconstrued as apathy, however; they march under a banner that states: “We will not be complicit by being complacent.”

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Even more fundamental is their discipleship to Jesus Christ. It is faith’s trumpet that ought to reduce to rubble the walls of our echo chambers, calling us out of confining poverty or privilege and propelling us to act. As one MWEG member recently wrote: “Religion is not the opiate that keeps true disciples slumbering, it is the spark, or catalyst for courage in action. My religion does not pacify my worries, it fuels my drive to go harder, faster, longer, clinging to my faith in Christ to strengthen me, to lead me, to prevail when my own human weakness threatens to destroy.” Another member concurs: “It is my faith in my Savior Jesus Christ and my lifelong devotion to Mormonism that inspire my activism. It is the keen leadership and organizational skills I’ve learned as a Mormon woman that have empowered me and thousands of others like me to get major stuff done.”

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And what has MWEG done?

MWEG has organized 38 state, regional, and international chapters, in addition to 32 committees and subcommittees focusing on specific issues such as anti-discrimination, education, environment, healthcare, and immigration. In less than six months, this network of women has created an impressive structure that already has facilitated fleet responses to both local and national crises.

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MWEG members have held press conferences and staged vigils drawing attention to unethical deportations of Dreamers and other non-criminal immigrants; published op-eds and open letters calling for reform, for action from elected leaders, and opposing measures or bills they consider unethical; sponsored postcard blitzes and phone campaigns to members of Congress; hosted bridge-building events with Muslims, refugees, and others in their communities; actively opposed racism in all its forms; and partnered with other organizations to send aid to refugees and to fight poverty. On their website and other social media platforms, they post daily calls to action targeting issues such as Russian ties to the current administration, conflicts of interest, and healthcare. They have joined with other nonpartisan groups to form coalitions, encouraged and helped train women to run for local and state offices, and sponsored lectures to better inform the general public. Eschewing profanity, vulgarity, and violent confrontation, this battalion of Mormon women continues to quietly, confidently stand fast against unethical governance.

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Should that surprise? Not really. Since Mormonism’s fragile infancy, when its adherents were targeted for deportation and even extermination, when they were cruelly chased out of their homes and eventually into the deserts of the far west, political engagement has often dovetailed with Mormon women’s church affiliation.

Thanks primarily to early Mormon suffragists who befriended Susan B. Anthony and marched with her for gender equality, Utah was the second territory in the Union to give women the vote. Their faith did not leave them void of critical thought, wringing (or sitting on) their hands. Despite what Marx and other anti-religionists would argue, those church ladies’ focus on the hereafter did not detach them from the hardscrabble here-and-now. They not only marched; they wrote treatises, spoke publicly, and met with lawmakers. They owned their innate moral force, and were confident in their ability to use it–not for self-promotion, but for the preservation of their families and society; not for some short-lived triumph, but for the well-being and blessing of all humankind for generations to come.

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And so it is with today’s Mormon Women for Ethical Government. They call on all citizens to rise up against corruption, in a movement free from the corruptive agents of violence, fear-mongering and self-service. They understand that no movement, as no person, can hope to combat the suffering that evil men cause by descending to that same evil. They are committed to fight without hypocrisy, but with dignity, self-restraint, and charity.

The moral bedrock upon which our nation was built is being compromised. The foundation of democracy and dignity feel  sandy and unstable beneath our feet. The tide of deteriorating ethics is rising too close to the City on the Hill. This is the time for righteous outrage to find its spine and spirit, and for ethical, principled integrity to be the least–not the most–we demand of ourselves and our leaders.

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If you are interested in joining or finding out more about our organization, visit http://www.mormonwomenforethicalgovernment.org/  or our Facebook page.  You needn’t be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints to join us. However, you must be a woman.

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Contributing authors:Melissa Dalton-Bradford, Nancy Tubbs Harward, Sharlee Mullins Glenn and Linda Hoffman Kimball

©Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2017. This work (text and images) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

© All images courtesy of Megan Lagerberg for MWEG

 

Giving Up Historical Fiction for the Current Reality: Being a Refugee Advocate and Accidental Activist

When this popped up on my Facebook page today, I felt two years collapse in a blink.

August 22, 2015

Research begins in earnest for my next book, an historical novel — first in a series of six– this first one spanning several generations of one family across three countries: Norway, Denmark and the USA. Here’s a little nugget you might not have known. But now you do.

“Viking king Harald Blåtand [Bluetooth] … had an uncanny ability to bring people together in non-violent negotiations. His way with words and communication went so far as uniting Denmark and Norway as a single territory. … The name stuck, and Bluetooth’s modern day symbol depicts Blåtand’s initials inscribed in Runic symbols.”

      That morning, as I recall, I had snuggled up to my writing desk here in our new home of Frankfurt where, a year before we had moved from Geneva. We’d never targeted moving here, but followed an unlikely job offer and clear spiritual nudges to do so, and were now watching for that invisible ink of God’s signature on the bottom line of this deal to slowly appear. Why Frankfurt? Why now?

To finally write my novels, of course. So, I spread out my notes, my six-generation timeline, my character sketches, and my stacks of Ibsen and Undset. Cradling my Bluetooth device in my palm, I mused about a certain Viking leader with a blue tooth and a legendary gift for diplomacy. This was no clichéd mouth-frothing marauder smashing open skulls with an axe, but a radical unifier, a Viking Dr. King or a Gandhi Norseman, if you will.

(Strange mental picture, I know, but stick with me here.)

Bluetooth the Negotiator, I decided, who unified warring factions, who brought peace not through sword but through words was going to be a governing spirit in my first novel. And so I announced it on Facebook.

I set seriously forth.

For 48 hours.

Until August 24’s headline:

Germany Opens its Gates. Berlin Says All Syrian Asylum Seekers Are Welcome

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(Image: America.AlJazeera.Com)

With those words, the world tilted on its side. Germany—and especially my new home of Frankfurt—became a sort of Grand Central Station for the refugee crisis, a clearing house for the hundreds of thousands (and over a year 1.6 million) desperate souls streaming to the west for safety from extremist terror. Busloads, in fact, arrived right in my little town of Bad Homburg, where a high school gym was turned overnight to emergency refugee center and where beleaguered men, women and children from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran sat on the bleachers while I taught them (cheer-led them) German.

Only a few months of intensive volunteering later, six friends and I had formed Their Story is Our Story (TSOS), a nonprofit dedicated to collecting and disseminating refugee stories in photograph, painting, film, and in word. We stood not in front of bleachers full of Middle Easterners, but in front of western audiences giving presentations hoping to humanize a situation that had split the West into fierce pro and con camps. In the US media especially, we noted, blared inflammatory, fear-stoking messaging, messaging that did not match the reality we volunteers were experiencing in the camps every day. Loud voices fostered fear about these refugees, people we knew as peaceful and faith-filled, people who were becoming our friends. This is an invasion, the voices cried. Think of our fair daughters. They will take them, then our jobs, then our liberty, then us all. They will impose sharia law. This will mean cultural extinction. This is the Islamification of the West. Christianity will die. We will all die.

Undaunted, we wrote and spoke everywhere. People listened. We became refugee advocates.

Since 2015/2016, more good and beautiful has happened than I can possibly tell here. I have been trying to tell it in person and in writing elsewhere, however, just not here. Which explains my eight-month absence on the blog.

Much has also happened that has driven even wider those cultural and political divisions that pit humankind in an endless war against itself. Countries threw up walls. Greece clamped down. And TSOS witnessed hot turbulence that gained momentum from the blistering updraft rising from a raging US presidential campaign.

In the heart of that vortex stood a peculiar candidate.  Describing him, one Muslim refugee friend, a refined and reserved former translator for the US military who had seen footage of a rally speech, said the man looked and sounded “Very American,” as he called it, “but not the good kind.” It goes without saying that this candidate was no Harald Bluetooth. Indeed, he seemed to delight in stirring up division. He swung poisonous rhetoric like a hand-hewn axe. Like a Viking from your corniest junior high school documentary, this man seemed to gloat and gurgle, his face flushing with smugness as some of his most ardent tribesmen barked hatred. Hatred of the Other. Hatred, even, of their own.

That campaign was a crucible. Throughout it, I taught my refugee students the German words for “dangerous”, “corrupt”, “artificial”, “deceitful”, “reality TV”, “adultery”, “racism”, and assured them (while reassuring myself) that, in spite of his overblown persona, this man lacked all qualifications, self- control, intelligence, or basic morals to ascend to office. His fire and brimstone notwithstanding, this man was not the Savior he peddled himself as being. On the contrary. He did not represent America, and good, decent Americans would give him zero chance of sitting in the most powerful office on earth.

On the morning of November 8th, I drove weary and dumbstruck through a slate gray drizzle to the refugee camp. Huddled in a tent, a group of us — volunteers and Afghan and Syrian women alike — sat wrapped in coats and blankets at a picnic table. No one spoke. From an old transistor radio, someone played Afghan music. Its wailing lament swirled above us like the tendriled mandalas we painted on donated canvas. Elbow-to-elbow I sat next to an elegantly mannered young woman. I had sworn to her that this Muslim-hater and woman abuser would never be elected leader of the free world.

She was silent.

I was burning.

We dipped our brushes in red, blue, aqua, ochre acrylics, painting twin petals on the same big flower. Her hands were younger and more slender than mine, and steadier. She’d seen far worse in her life than the likes of this election. Still, I knew this morning she had fresh worries.  Would the politics in the US—the prejudices of this man — set a precedent for politics everywhere? Would he set in motion a wave that would wash over Germany and send her to Afghanistan? Would she be deported back home?

Home? I knew the secret she had told only a German judge and a few witnesses. Home was where she had been abducted in broad daylight by a band of Taliban devils who had tied a grain bag over her head before dragging her into an abandoned hovel where all eight of them raped and tortured her around the clock for four days straight. Home was where, were they to ever lay eyes on her again, her village elders who were outraged that her rape had “dishonored” them, would publicly stone her to death.

On January 25th, the man who had boasted of sexually assaulting women assumed the sacred office of President of the United States of America. His first executive order was also an assault, an act of prejudicial dissection. He called for a ban against all Muslims.

And on January 26th, this refugee advocate became a political activist. Together with some of my closest friends, we founded a nonpartisan nonprofit committed, (in good Bluetooth fashion), to the principles of non-violence for the healing of our government, our communities, and our very selves. Mormon Women for Ethical Government (MWEG), is dedicated to challenging the unethical, illegal, indecent and the corrupt in government, while also identifying and rewarding government’s ethical, honest, and noble.  Though we launched as a couple of dozen women watch-dogging the fallout of those first two unethical executive orders, we have grown in number, (MWEG now numbers in the thousands), and scope, (we are 38 committees covering everything from Refugees and Immigrants to Health Care, Education, Discrimination, Conflict of Interest, Environment, etc.), and vision, (we are not a temporary resistance to any single administration, but a movement that will be around for generations to school women in civic engagement and for public office.)

We have been working doggedly alongside several other advocacy and activist groups under the hammering downpour of unethical practices issuing from this particular oval office.  There has not been a single week of calm. (You’ve noticed?) So, while it’s been eight months of soundproofed crickets here on the blog, it’s been nothing but Sturm und Drang turbo boosters everywhere else.

You might ask when I will return to writing things besides letters to politicians, news releases, OpEds, media pieces, explanations of policy, or blog posts on ethics in politics and refugees in their ongoing plight? I can’t say exactly. But when my inward Harald Bluetooth has sufficiently used her words to sow peace and sew together the factions warring in her world, when I am convinced I have accomplished with my simple words the most I can to make of current realities a history my children and their children and all children can live with, then I will snuggle up to my desk. I will pull out my reams of notes. I will breathe in my many peaceful (and some not-so-peaceful) Viking ancestors. And I will write fiction that rings, I pray, with relevance, depth, dignity, love and above all, truth.

***

© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2017.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resisting Despair and Stoking Hope After US Presidential Elections

Months of blog silence means I’ve either been very busy with family and refugee work (yes), moving again (move #20!), ill (the US presidential race), or there’s been a natural disaster (the US president-elect.)

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Getty Images © Business Insider

Because I respect differences of opinions (however high pitched they might become in our expression of them), I wanted to insert mine into the global conversation.

Which is unusual – even unprecedented – for me. Over all my years of writing and speaking publicly, I’ve avoided dipping into the political. But I don’t want that silence to be wrongly ascribed to fear, self-preservation, neutrality, lack of interest or lack of knowledge. Politics matter to me, especially my political rights and responsibilities. One of those responsibilities is to plumb the strengths and the weaknesses of the US system by learning from other systems. In every culture in which we have lived, I have learned from others’ philosophies. I’ve also had chances to defend US policies and politics  when they’ve been misrepresented or misunderstood.

With the election of Mr. Trump, however, I’ve hit something I just cannot explain to anyone, even myself. All these years of learning to “see ourselves as other see us” (Robert Burns), and now I am mortified at what I see others see in us. Granted, I have reason to be hypersensitive to our foreign policies our foreign image, which are reflected to the rest of the world not in our Secretary of State (as some people mistakenly claim), but in our Commander in Chief.

What will his presidency – his cabinet choices, his policies, his conflicts of interest, his Twitter tick, his phone calls – mean nationally and internationally? History is watching. That is one reason of many behind why I wanted to write this piece. My rights and responsibilities of citizenship won’t let me sit quietly or recline into indifference.

So share this Inspirelle Feature Article. Leave a comment here (or on the webmag itself), even if that’s just a word or two. And of course speak up, even if — especially if — you and I don’t agree.

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© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2017.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

My Missionary Son Returns, Refugee Sons Don’t

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Teaching German to a smaller group of refugee men in a hot, stuffy, but practical converted camping wagon. Photo Aaron Dalton ©

I told my German students yesterday that, sorry, I’d be taking a two week break from teaching. Why? My son is entering university, I explained, and I am flying with him to the USA to get him settled in an apartment, buy him his textbooks, all the normal––

I stopped on “normal”. With “university” my voice had caught, and then it had faded at “flying.” By “apartment” I was whispering. They are trigger words, hard for refugees to hear.

No Private Homes, No Travel Over Borders, No Further Education

A few months ago, I’d have tra-la-laed right through that sentence, never thinking of those words as extraordinary — even painfully extraordinary for some. That is because several months ago I hadn’t known the world of Middle Eastern refugees who had fled bombed-out lives to trudge weeks or months westward where they would have to survive months on end in tents, shared facilities, or, as with my current students, in small camping caravans.

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Afghani, Syrian, both dedicated students of German. Photo Aaron Dalton ©

Some of my students, due to perpetual political unrest, resultant poverty, or the terror waged by extremist groups, have only limited education, and a few have never learned to read or write. Some have advanced university degrees, which they are now unable to use, and yearn to enter the work force or German university. That might still be years off.

For them and for now, the closest thing to furthering their education is this class I offer a couple of mornings a week in a former pub on the other side of the chain link fence from their dusty camp. A far cry from university, and leagues from Ivy League, but a small, cool oasis of hope.

This is why the mere mention of apartments (or hopping on planes, or enrolling in university) makes them sometimes sigh or even wince with longing. And it makes me scramble for other points of connection.

Separation is Where We Connect

Where do we connect? Every last refugee I have known has had to leave family members behind. Separation is our point of connection. So I explained in that conversation yesterday that this son with whom I’m flying to the States, I had not seen for two years straight.

Eyes widened.

And, I explained: I have only spoken with him via Skype four brief moments in those two years. We exchange emails once a week, yes, but we’ve had no phone calls. I have missed him. Deeply.

They asked where he has been.

In another country. In … England. (I hesitated before that trigger word.)

England. Wince.

England is some refugees’ Shangri-la. At least that’s the rumor. They talk about how much easier it is supposed to be there compared to here in Germany. This student from Kabul had an uncle who fled to Manchester in the ‘80s. He has residency, a real home, and his children got an education! This woman from Damascus has a brother whose kebab shop in Liverpool is doing well. And English! So much easier than this (as she points to my whiteboard of German grammar.)

I explained that my son has been in England for work. (Another word that hurts. How desperately these friends of mine want the right to work.) I didn’t mention of course that that work has been as a full-time volunteer for his faith – he’s been a Christian missionary — as any discussion about religion is strictly forbidden in camps. So I skirted that topic and flipped through a few pictures he’d sent that I’ve stored on my phone.

Sharing Photos, Seeing Contrast

Strangely, some of his shots are stored in between photos a Syrian refugee friend sent me of her fourteen-year-old son living in Istanbul. He’s been stuck there for nearly a year now, working slave labor to feed his father and two brothers who couldn’t get any farther on the exodus west. Their mother, by some border guard glitch, was able to go ahead with the youngest, who is eight. Both made it to Germany where they are living in a shelter.

I scrolled through the shots:

Dalton eating ice cream with Elder McCappin (Woolwich - Oct 2015)

This son of mine is always smiling.

Hers looks bleak.

Mine is hardy, well-dressed.

Hers looks weakened, and the clothing is borrowed.

Mine has probably taken those mega-vitamins I sent him in that huge care package.

Hers is sallow, rail thin, eating rice cross legged on a bare floor.

Mine is lighthearted in every shot, sometimes playful.

Hers stands like a  war prisoner.

This one is taken of mine in a shiny, bright apartment. Everything looks bathed in light.

Hers is a grainy shot of a grayed space where her son stands listlessly against a shadowed wall.

Mine is always in the company of other smiling, well-fed, well-dressed, vitamin-taking, lighthearted, light-bathed young people.

Dalton & Daniel Rainer

Hers is the portrait of The Terrified, The Mournful, The Stalked.

The Separated Among the Separated.

What Separation from Family Can Look Like

And what no one sees in any of these shots, what lies outside of the frame, but struck me with sudden and brass knuckle force, is that I have never seriously, frantically feared for my son’s life, my sons’ lives. Though separated from me, half my family has not been in peril. None of mine have lacked for food, shelter, clothing. And none have been living in the very city where the violence of a recent attempted coup left scores of people dead in the streets.

I scrolled, showing these refugees, all of whom are separated from family, my son from whom I’ve been separated, the son with whom I’ll be reunited in just a few hours. He will land on a jet plane. I will be on my toes at the arrivals gate. I will strain at every blond head coming my direction. My heart will thud, my palms will sweat, my voice will jitter, my eyes will tear up. And then I will see his face, his dimples, his smile, his whole healthy self. And I will run, arms flung wide.

When my friends will be able to do the same, none of us can guess.

That is part of the separation in humanity’s different separations. I’ve never had to weigh the possibility that a two-year separation could have easily turned into several years of separation, or even the ultimate separation of death. I have lived buffered from a whole other world of separation. Separated from it.

DAlton and Elder DeKock Because I'm Happy

They looked at these pictures. I could not read their thoughts exactly, but the weight of their thought bubbles ––the ones filled with loving memories of togetherness and the stinging, exquisite hunger to be united with beloveds in one safe place –– crowded the air around us. If I was quiet and receptive, I sensed how those thoughts pressed us together, bending us toward that common plane where we are all most vulnerable, most fierce: along our family lines. Thin lines made thick through separation.

With new eyes I return to teaching German grammar to refugees. And they, in turn, keep teaching everything else to me.

 

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© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2016.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

 

 

 

 

 

Strangers No More: BYU Magazine Article on Refugees in Germany

My alma mater, Brigham Young University, solicited a piece from me for their alumni magazine in which I was to describe the nature of volunteer refugee work in central Germany. I suggested to them this piece, from right here on the blog, and they agreed.

When BYU Magazine agrees, brace. They hold nothing back.

They turned my homey post into a visually striking work of top notch journalism. I could not be more pleased. Thank you so much Peter Gardner and Curtis Isaak, for your excellent editing and lay out.

Please click right here to find their finished product.

What pleases me the most about this, is that there is interest for such a piece, and although the typical nano-length of the news cycle is over, the interest in the story (which  is really just starting) seems to be increasing. People are looking to get behind the thick, gray wall of what is typically portrayed in national media. I think we are weary from (and wary about) the angles being propped up, which might not be entirely representative of the day-to-day, on-the-ground story. Maybe you, too, want to read more personal, intimate stories like the one BYU published. If you are, it makes me hopeful. And it drives my writing.

Every day, I field messages sent from readers of my posts on my social media platforms (Instagram, FB, Twitter), who thank me for pulling back the curtain to an otherwise shrouded reality for them. I might grow obnoxious, posting every day (and sometimes more than once a day) on the stories that are changing my own life story. But you’re not hearing me apologize. These stories must be told.

The volunteers with whom I work know that the “refugee crisis” is a distinctly human and personal saga. It’s the story of Ahmad, Amina, Aeham, Mohammad, Ehsan, Akbar, Nada, Yalda, Fatema, Elias, Maiwand, Mahida. It’s the tragic/heroic tale of fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, engineering students and artisans, concert pianists and cobblers, farmers, physicians, Yazidis, Muslims, and yes, some Christians.

We know that, if history is told only in the abstract — with euphemisms, sterile headlines, and nameless numbers — then we will remain insulated. Unmoved like that, we will not engage. Unengaged, everyone loses.

All this is the impetus behind our non-profit, Their Story is Our Story: Giving Voice to Refugees (or TSOS). Led by my friend Trisha Leimer, and driven by Twila Bird, Elizabeth Benson Thayer, Lindsay Allen Silsby, Garret and Morgan Gibbons and myself, TSOS is busy at work, documenting the stories of the distressed, displaced, and often disoriented. We’ve been in camps in Greece. We’ve gathered in shelters in Germany. We’ve sat in parks and eaten kebabs and walked through forests, filmed hours and hours of footage, taken thousands of photographs, completed sketches and paintings, bent into one another’s arms in shared tears and are writing the stories. We hope you’ll follow our growth, await each story as we complete and share them, and learn along with us.

Final note: If you have specific questions you would like to ask regarding our non-profit, or the nature of refugee relief in general, or perhaps the journey of a refugee, please feel free to ask them here. If I can’t answer them, I have a global circle of informed volunteers, as well as an ever-growing community of refugee friends. They might be willing to write guests posts in response to your questions.

 

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© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2016.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

How Will You Compose Your Life?

Forty-eight hours after a technician turned off our son’s life support, my husband and I found ourselves going through the two suitcases and one backpack that contained virtually all of his earthly belongings. Basketball shoes, a navy parka, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, t-shirts, a folded print-out of his university classes for that summer term, some Polaroid photos of the one week he’d had on campus. On our knees and speechless, we fingered through sacred debris while alternately holding in and letting flow stinging streams of disbelief.

In Global Mom: A Memoir, I describe the moment:

A nice woman had gone to Parker’s dormitory and packed all he’d had in his room. Late one night, we’d sat, Randall and I, on someone’s living room floor in that university town, sifting through those things: his journals and class notes (his handwriting); his wallet; a Post-It with “remember to call Kevin”—simple, chest-crushing tidbits. A bitter, obliterating treasure hunt. His laminated student ID with its unwitting, wide-open smile. I’d clasped it ferociously to my heart.

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In an outside pocket of Parker’s backpack, we found a notebook with “Religion” and “Life” written on the cover.  “I just wonder what…” Randall’s voice receded as he opened to the single page of scant notes from this class Parker had attended during his first (and only) week at university. There, in green felt tip was this heading:

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“What do we take back through the veil?”

Not your usual question, even for a religion class. And certainly not typical for an eighteen-year-old college freshman whose wide eyes were riveted on a future chockfull of promise and invulnerability. He had all those pages to fill, after all, his whole life story to write.

Those pages. How they gawked at me, empty and echoing, void of my child’s voice. I had to grit my teeth to hold in a yowling tornado of agony as I imagined our son, robust and buoyant, jotting down those words so casually. I could envision him chatting in class, (“Parker, you raised your hand. Any thoughts?”), yakking away about death-as-theory. Then he would be slapping the notebook shut, slipping it into a backpack, and slinging its weight over his shoulder. Off to meet death head on.

The ink had hardly dried on the page before death itself answered this question for Parker.

What did that answer look like? What remained of Parker after he was pinned for several minutes in a lethal whirlpool, knocked out under water, then flushed out head first over jagged lava rock waterfalls? Anything? Did oblivion claim him?

If Not Oblivion, What?

Let’s try to imagine the possibilities. Did something endlessly him transcend flesh and bones, homeostasis, neurotransmission? Did this essential self, his spirit, peel from his oxygen-deprived body which was dragged by students to a patch of waterside gravel? Did spirit-Parker watch students encircling his body as they screamed, “Don’t leave us, Parker! Come back, Parker!”

Could his immortal identity, his distinct self, have been totally present and brightly aware of the paramedics panting as they attempted and reattempted CPR, barking, “Compressions! Keep on the compressions!” Did he see the local hospital emergency nurses hold those defibrillators to his chest again and again and again, then give shots of epinephrine? Was he present as the life flight pilots settled their helicopter on the landing pad then rushed his gray-blue body on that gurney into the regional trauma center? As his mother knelt, groaning, at the side of his body in the ICU? As his father bent over his firstborn’s feet and held them, praying? As his sister and soul mate touched his forearm then folded into sobs? As one younger brother stared in shock and the youngest huddled in the arms of a friend in a hallway? As the classmate, the one Parker had risked his life trying to save from drowning, was ushered into the room?

During a day and a half of coma, was whatever constitutes the inextinguishable Parker somehow close at hand? At the moment the doctor pronounced him brain dead did Parker hear those words? And as the ventilator’s whoosh was silenced, did my son communicate to some of us around his gurney, “I am here. I will always be right here”?

My point is not to convince anyone of what for me is self-evident; that Parker (and you and I) are immortal beings.  I don’t need to take on Nietzsche, Camus, Hawking, the long list of nihilists, or the even longer list of neutralists, the ones who shrug and chuckle, saying, “Es ist noch niemand zurückgekommen.” (No one’s come back yet.)

My point, instead, is to explore one thing: To what extent might that green question change our lives?

One True Sentence

What if that question were our life thesis, influencing our desires, choices, behavior? What if, as I wrote my life story, I were to place that question as my thesis statement? Right there on page one and in neon green?

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Hemingway, referring to writing, called this kind of guiding idea the “one true sentence.” It structures creation, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, page by page, chapter by chapter. When applied to writing our life story, that “one true sentence” works as an underlying grammar or fusing phrase for all we do and are. It is our mantra.

I mentioned this in another blog entry:

If my life’s aim were reduced to “one true sentence,” as Mr. Hemingway said breeds the best writing, what would that sentence be? And how does that one truth, that driving thesis, move me through my days and weeks? Does that sentence —spare, compact, sleek— train my concentration, make my life coherent, single-themed, resonant with integrity?

I like “What will you take through the veil?” because it is an instant sifter. It separates the significant from the trivial. It boldfaces what is lastingly essential and fades what is not. So much of what gets my goat (not to mention my time, energy, money, focus) is frivolous; too much of what is truly durable, sadly, gets short shrift. That question, if internalized, winnows away distractions, and slackens the sweaty grip of temporality, materialism, self-absorption, greed, despair –– so many ills. It even undoes the deadening choke of nihilism.

As another bereaved mother and author says:

The pain of losing my child was a cleansing experience. I had to throw overboard all excess baggage and keep only what is essential. Because of Paula, I don’t cling to anything anymore. Now I like to give much more than to receive. I am happier when I love than when I am loved. I adore my husband, my son, my grandchildren, my mother, my dog, and frankly I don’t know if they even like me. But who cares? Loving them is my joy.

Give, give, give — what is the point of having experience, knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away? Of having stories if I don’t tell them to others? Of having wealth if I don’t share it? I don’t intend to be cremated with any of it! It is in giving that I connect with others, with the world and with the divine.

It is in giving that I feel the spirit of my daughter inside me, like a soft presence.

…My daughter Paula taught me a lesson that is now my mantra: You only have what you give.

-Isabel Allende

 

Think about it: How challenging yet how refining to write one’s life story based on the conviction that what remains with us at death is that which we have given. That by sharing our experience, knowledge, talents, stories,  wealth –– even our whole selves –– we don’t just become one with others, the world, and the divine, but we ourselves become people who are bigger, richer, more fundamentally alive. Simply put, there is much more to us when we die.

And that’s what it means for us. What does it mean for Parker?

I think it means that at the age of eighteen years and five months, and on a summer evening in his first week of university, in a canal with an unmarked, deadly whirlpool, he went back in the vortex twice to free a fellow student who was trapped and drowning. And he did not lose life.

He gave it. He gave it and he has it more than ever, even now.

 

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© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2016.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their Story is Our Story: Giving Refugees a Voice

With our friends at Limburg refugee camp, central Germany

With our friends at Limburg refugee camp

How do a hard-working, visionary refugee liaison, an award-winning videographer, an award-winning photographer, award-winning portrait painter, and an award-winning author who have never all met each other,  (they live in four different time zones), find one another and combine their gifts to bless the displaced, distressed and desperate?

Divine choreography.

And what are the results?

A great deal of 3:00 a.m. cross-global texting. Plus some moments of humbled amazement.

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Their Story is Our Story: Giving Voice to Refugees

The five of us involved in this project have watched as our connections––simply too far-flung to happen without reliable WIFI, and too far-fetched to happen without a steady dose of heavenly intervention –– have seemed to slide into place. Really, it’s been like liquid lightning. The electricity has flowed and flowed.

Trisha with Leyla, whose story will send thunder through your bones.

Trisha with Leyla, whose story, which we will soon share, will send thunder through your bones. She is a survivor multiple times over.

So let me first hand over the page to Trisha, my friend and inspiration in doing refugee work here in Germany. She can explain to you how Their Story is Our Story (TSOS) evolved.

And then I will share three brief refugee profiles with you. They are but a foretaste of what TSOS is about.

Finally, I’d like you to meet the team, including Garrett Gibbons, Elizabeth Benson Thayer, and Lindsay Allen Silsby, who in under five minutes will surely ignite a desire in you to lean in, step forward, and reach out with compassion to our refugee sisters and brothers.

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Trisha recently wrote the following to her circle of friends who have been involved in refugee work here in Germany:

Some of you might be interested in a project that has fallen from the cosmos and into my life.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from a dear American artist friend who used to live here in Frankfurt, and on the same day a message was forwarded to me from a complete stranger in London who does high-end portraits. Both of these women have been feeling strong impressions to put their talents to work for the refugees here in Europe. Meanwhile, I had been having strong impressions about putting together a media project to share these beautiful people and their incredible stories with others. I am certain this was not by chance that the Spirit was working on all of us at the same time…it is very simply Divine Choreography!

In the two weeks since then, things have just fallen into place. A group of five people with amazing gifts has formed and we are planning for them to travel from Seattle, Washington, northern Utah, and from London to sketch, photograph and film refugees here in the Frankfurt area and then, hopefully, in the camps in Greece. Some of the stories we hope to tell are people you may know. Adib and his son, Hasan. Tahmina, Daniel, Hangama and their family. Others we’ve grown so close to, whose stories inspire and

Our plan is to create first a video and then a book and eventually a traveling exhibit. We want to tell these stories and change hearts! I feel so strongly the hand of Diety in this project! As you each have felt, I feel the special attention our Father in Heaven is paying these people at this time. And I know that this project is His project.

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Now, for three brief profiles of people who have become far more than “refugees” to us. In fact, we don’t like the word “refugee” very much, as it generalizes (and neutralizes) the poignancy and sacredness of each human story.

ADIB

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Adib, a true gentleman.

Adib, a true gentleman.

Adib is a Palestinian Syrian from Damascus, whose thriving business as a master mason and ceramic tile layer was laid to rubble when war ravaged his world. With his son and business partner, Hasan, Adib made luxurious baths and kitchens in his home country, but most of them, like his own home, are now no more than a crater. Father and son made the perilous winter journey to Germany where both have been living for months in a tented barrack outside the town of Limburg. In spite of having lost virtually every material thing, Adib seems to maintain a perpetually sunny outlook. He is often found sitting with his head bent over his German lesson book, piecing together this new language the way he used to place tiles; meticulously, with patience, and always with the end result, integration, in mind. With these new reading glasses which he was given by a camp volunteer, Adib looks toward a bright and peaceful future.

VAHID

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Elizabeth Benson Thayer's sketch of Vahid

Elizabeth Benson Thayer’s sketch of Vahid

Vahid is Iranian, and arrived in Germany with the first wave of refugees in the early autumn of 2015. He was barely in his 20s. That journey meant leaving behind everything that was familiar and of value to him, including his home with his entire extended family and a mother he adores, his culture with its poetic language and fragrant food, his lifelong friends, and the plans they’d all made for the future. All this to launch into the complete unknown and in order to escape encroaching religious persecution and civil unrest. Vahid is a musician, and finds refuge in composing as well as singing while accompanying himself on a guitar. But you can’t easily make music in a cramped refugee camp. And of course among the few things he could carry over his shoulder, a guitar was not included. Already, he’s sung publicly in German, one of the many steps he’s taking toward integration in this new world.

TAHMINA

Daniel, Tahmina and Hangama Ahmadi

Daniel, Tahmina and Hangama Ahmadi

Tahmina is Afghani, the eldest of four siblings, and made it to Germany almost entirely by foot. Like her younger brother Daniel, who is a whizz at chess (and beats every last refugee camp volunteer who challenges him to a set), Tahmina is obviously bright and ambitious. Her English reflects a solid education and an eager mind. She hesitates to give too many details of the perilous trek from her homeland to Europe, (“So dangerous. So frightening. So sad,” she says), and doesn’t dwell on her innumerable losses. No stranger to hazard, Tahmina lived all her eighteen years with war and terror as a daily backdrop, since Afghanistan has been the stage for constant insurrections, coups, unrest, and destruction for 35 years. With Hangama, her younger sister, and Muri, her baby brother, she and her parents have one hope: to escape fear and live together in peace.

Please watch. Please share.

 

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© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2016.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.