I have a baby who is not sleeping as well as she was two weeks ago. This means I have limited time to blog, limited time to blow dry my hair, and limited time to read the book I checked out from the library almost a month ago.

I do, however, have a lot of time to watch the morning and evening news. If there was middle of the night news, I’d be watching that too.

In case you haven’t been watching the news, or reading the paper, our world is hurting. I know our world is always hurting. But this week, our hurting world strikes me deeper than it has before. Maybe it’s because I get to stare at a new life almost 24 hours a day. When I look at this baby girl, I can’t help but worry about the world I have brought her into.

The economy continues to tank.

Brave men and women continue to die at war.

And 12 million people are being impacted by a drought and famine in Somalia.

The images of starving children hurt my heart. I haven’t decided how to respond. Is sending money enough? Can we do more? At the very least...the very, very least… I can take a moment out of my own day to acknowledge that I’ve seen these horrors and I don’t want to forget them. I want to respond. I need to respond. We all need to. But, how?

More at Eugene Cho’s blog and Betsie Frei’s the BeList.

Post note: A few hours after publishing this post, I received an email from my friend Kelli, who besides being a great friend also just took really cute pictures of Anna. Anyway, Kelli sent me a very encouraging email about being a mother to a newborn. In it she reminded me to not let myself just watch the news. The news can be depressing and I’m hormonal to begin with! I took her advice and flipped Ted Talks onto my Hulu queue. Guess what popped up? This amazing video filmed just last month addressing hunger. I teared up while watching it. There I was, nursing Anna, when Josette says, “In 1987 I was a new mother, holding my first child, feeding her, when an image very similar to this came on the television. (Image is a Time magazine showing starving children in Etheopia.) This was yet another famine in Ethiopia. One two years earlier had killed more than a million people. But it never struck me as it did that moment because that image was a woman trying to nurse her baby and she had no milk to nurse….As a mother I thought, there’s nothing more haunting than the cry of a child that cannot be returned with food–the most fundamental expectation of every human being.”

She goes on to remind the audience that we know how to fix hunger. In our time in history, these haunting images of starvation are out of place. We have the resources. So, what do we do? I would encourage you to consider giving at least 17 cents per day (enough to feed one child according to the World Food Programme). The organization you choose is a personal choice. Eugene Cho lists several options. I’m looking forward to talking to Jonathan tonight about which organization we should choose.

I am encouraged at the end of today. I’m encouraged Anna slept a little bit more, and that I could have time to watch that Ted Talk. I’m thankful for a bit of silence to soak up the information and write on this little blog. I am reminded that our news reports on problems but doesn’t usually provide solutions. That part is up to us.

Today I am proud to share a guest post, written by my dad. This essay was not written intentionally for my blog. It came to me in the form of an email my dad sent to our family earlier today. As background, my Grandma Jeanne  (his mother) was diagnosed several years ago with dementia. The disease has quickly robbed her of much of her memory, and just a few months ago she was moved to a full time care facility. My mom, dad, and his siblings have spent much of the last 12 months grappling with her decline and all of the logistics and emotions that come with the disease. This short essay made me cry for many reasons. I cry for my grandma, and the confusing life she is now leading. I cry for the journey my family is walking through as we slowly lose her. I cry for the insight and vulnerability my dad isn’t afraid to show. And, I cry for the loss of material things…because sometimes they really do matter.

Most of us are taught as we venture through life not to love or covet material “things” because “things” don’t matter.  We are told things come and things go and we shouldn’t put importance on things.  We sometimes tire of things but we often then replace those things with what we think are more important things.  It is the people in our lives that matter the most, not things, right? We are supposed to say yes, that of course material things don’t matter.  The people in our lives should always be more important than things.  Today I am struggling emotionally with the parting of a “thing” because this thing evolved over many years to become more than just a thing to me.

John, Patty, Lynn, and I sold my mothers 1966 Oldsmobile today.  To most people my mom’s car was clearly just a thing, an old, beat up, uncomfortable thing.  For years I thought the same about this thing.  Mom’s car was too big, it was a gas hog, the air condioning no longer worked, the radio didn’t work, and the interior was shot.  John and I tried to convince mom for years to sell the car and get something smaller, more comfortable, and economical to drive.  John and I would banter back and forth with her, often getting her “irritated” as we would laugh about the “hog” that she refused to part with.  Mom loved that car.  She owned it for 44 years.  She stopped driving it years ago and she never would say why.  I think it was because mom was uncomfortable and unsure of herself driving it, and she was too darn stubborn to admit it.  Stubborn is a trait that did not fall far from mom’s genetic tree, but I digress.

As mom started having trouble doing her finances, I began helping her write her checks.  Every 6 months her car insurance would come due.  Every time I would say, “Mom, your car insurance is due.  Is it time to maybe sell the hog?”  She would hem and ha and try and convince me that she really was considering selling it, then she would say, “Let’s go ahead and pay it this time and I’ll think about it”.   I would smile and say ok knowing that this issue would replay itself again in 6 months with the same result.

John, Patty, Lynn, and I, all learned to drive in that car.  The first car I drove in by myself was the hog.  Many cars today look the same, and they are bought, sold, or traded in routinely.  Rarely anymore does a car identify someone.  That was definitely not the case with my mom and her car.  Friends and neighbors knew when they saw that sea foam green tank coming down the road, that Jeanne Sebek was behind the wheel.  It took me awhile to realize this, but Mom’s Oldsmobile had after many years become more than a thing to me.

Our mom came from modest means.  She was born on Christmas Day, 1929.  The same year that the Great Depression began.  It’s just a coincidence that mom showed up at the same time.  There is no direct correlation of her birth to that event that I am aware of.  Because of growing up in this era, mom was and still is very frugal.  Mom accepted what she had and she NEVER, and I mean NEVER, complained about what she didn’t have.  I have, and I always will admire her for that.  That is why she was not just content, but proud about owning that car for all these years.  That Oldsmobile had become synonymous with mom.  My irrational mind said that no one else should own this car.  This car is mom.  As I walked away from the Olds for the last time, I knew I was walking away from a part of my mom.  Another chapter closed today in my mom’s life story and that makes me sad.  Sometimes things do matter.

Post note: In June I was able to squeeze my big pregnant belly behind the hog for the first time. This picture captures the fun joy ride I took with Allison and Jonathan- my first and last time behind Grandma Jeanne’s sea foam green machine. I was trying to look cool behind the wheel but let’s just all agree I look incredibly silly.

As a little girl, I wanted to be a lot of things when I grew up. For a while I wanted to be the first woman President of the United States; then an author and illustrator of children’s books. As I got older I thought about becoming a TV reporter or a speechwriter. Clearly, I’m not doing any of these careers at the moment.

And yet, if I really look at the root of these dreams, I realize I wasn’t attracted to the job itself, but something much greater.

Justice. Freedom. Creativity. Storytelling.  Change. The power of words. New Perspective. Hope.

{Shoot. My blog post is starting to sound like an Obama 2012 campaign ad.}

I’m not covering war stories in Afghanistan or writing books on bestseller lists (yet!)—but that’s why I look up to, and celebrate, the people who are.  It’s why I care so deeply about the people in China, and why I got involved when Laura Ling was captured in North Korea. There are people around the world who don’t have a voice. Am I willing to be among the brave few who are speaking up for those who cannot?

Recently, Lara Logan, a well-known war correspondent, fought her own battle.  Logan was covering the protests in Egypt this past February when, after her cameraman’s battery died, the crowd become violent.  Quickly, crowds of men began pulling her away from her bodyguards and they began groping her repeatedly.  For over 25 minutes Lara was pulled in every direction- her clothes ripped off her body, her hair torn from her scalp, her muscles stretched as the crowds dragged her through gravel and assaulted her.

Who saved her? Ironically, the last person our western society might guess. Eventually, was rescued by a woman dressed head to toe in black religious robes.

“Just her eyes, I remember [I could see] just her eyes,” Logan said. “She put her arms around me. And oh my God, I can’t tell you what that moment was like for me. I wasn’t safe yet, because the mob was still trying to get at me. But now it wasn’t just about me anymore.

“It was about their women and that was what saved me, I think,” she said. “The women kind of closed ranks around me.”

I listened to Lara’s first hand account when she decided to share the story on 60 Minutes. The interview aired the same night that news about Osama bin Laden broke, but I didn’t see it until a few days later.

As the world waits to hear what Osama bin Laden’s wives might tell our government about him, I find myself hopeful. Like Lara and the women who rescued her in Egypt, can these wives find strength to find their own voice? Will they wade into the crowds, figuratively, and fight? I don’t know if they will, but in the meantime I am reminded that we all have opportunities to stand up, speak out, and step-in. My opportunities might be on this little ol’ blog, or in a conversation with friends. I don’t know what your chance will be. But, will you take it? Will you offer hope? Perspective? A voice for the voiceless?

picture credit to NewsOne

Recently life has been a bit more complicated than usual.

There’s the closet that I spent a few days organizing that just got disassembled. Complicated.

There’s figuring out how to buy just the right amount of food at Trader Joe’s to get us through the week, while still fitting it all in a mini fridge. Complicated.

There’s packing for a weekend away, coming home for 12 hours, doing laundry, eating a pizza, repacking for a 24 hour jaunt to San Diego while also packing up your entire house, again, so the floors can get refinished. Complicated (and currently in process).

There’s rushing from Roseville to West Sac in traffic. There are doctor’s appointments and blood tests. There’s figuring out a ride to the airport, from the airport, and to the airport again. There’s the fact that every single car rental place in San Diego is booked for tomorrow night because I waited until the last minute. Complicated.

There are the guilty feelings that surface for asking friends for favors, again. Can we borrow the truck? Can we sleep at your house? Can we eat at your house? Can you drive me here and there and everywhere? Can you put my clothes in your closet for a few weeks? Can you help us move? Can you make me a bagel because I’m starving as usual? (Yes, I really did ask Tammy to make me a bagel one morning last week. I’ve taken “mooch” to a whole new level.)

There’s a project due and only one day at the office to finish the work. Complicated.

And then there’s this book I’m starting to read with bible study that’s all about simplicity…and I’m realizing my life is too scheduled, too overcommitted, too wild. And yet I can’t say no to anything. Now I’m trying to get out of several commitments and its…well…complicated.

In the middle of the complicated there are moments of simplicity. Burgers with Allison and Matt in SF. Hiking the hills above Stanford with Brent and Erica. The very best Greek food ever in Los Gatos. Pink and white Birthday trees in bloom, just like they always are. Holding baby Louie. Homemade seafood gumbo and two days of sunshine skiing. (No falls = happy baby and mama!) Chocolate cake and a sip of wine  straight from Paris. Valentine making, airplane snuggling, a massage and a facial too. (Do you think my sweetheart was tired of hearing his sweetheart complain about pregnancy acne and being hungry? Yup.)

Really, in the grand scheme of things, my life is not complicated. But I do need more room. More room (literally) for the boxes, and more room (figuratively) for God’s still small voice. I need a few moments of peace when the days don’t seem to stop. I need a few days of sunshine when the weeks have been so gloomy and cold. Mostly I need just a little bit of perspective. Don’t we all?

photo credit: katie@!

In October I was at Los Angeles International Airport, flying home from Palm Springs after a fun weekend with my girlfriends. A few of us decided we’d eat dinner together in the Tom Bradley international terminal, which sat directly between our separate gates.

As soon as we walked in I became aware of everything; the languages, the hum of activity,  the quickness of step, the sense of both anticipation and exhaustion in the air. I stood in front of the huge electronic monitor that showed all the night’s incoming and departing flights. Manila. Beijing. Sydney. St. Petersburg. Rome. Seoul. Amsterdam.

We were supposed to be looking for a place to eat, but I couldn’t help but look for a place to go.

As I glanced at each faraway city, I pictured the people preparing to hop on the flights. “They must be so excited,” I thought, as if everyone who travels internationally enjoys the experience. Being in the terminal brought me back to my own travel adventures. I walked passed The Daily Grill, where Jonathan and I had eaten lunch with my mom before we departed for China. I looked down on the first floor where lines formed at check-in. I could see Anne and I there, years earlier, as we nervously prepared for our flight to Shanghai. And then of course I heard the clusters of  people traveling together, reminding me of fall 2003 when about 40 of us giggly college kids boarded our flight to London.

There are days when I want to escape, and it’s not because I have a bad life. In fact, I have a really, really good life. The thing about travel though–particulary overseas travel–is that it opens our eyes to a world of new experiences and different perspectives. Somedays, I long for a little change of pace.

On Thursday I was walking to meet a friend for lunch. On my way I passed an old church with a tree covered in leaves; even its trunk. Have you ever seen one of those? I suppose they’re somewhat common in California because I’ve passed that tree many times and never thought anything of it. A group of Asian people exited the church. It appeared they were from another country because they carried cameras and spoke another language. One of them noticed the tree and they all ran over to take a picture in front of it.

There I was, on just an ordinary day, noticing something I never would have before; something another person found exciting and different. It may not have been the Eiffel Tower, but it still caused me to feel a small sense of wonder that I don’t usually feel on a lunchtime walk.

I kept walking until I got to the area near the convention center. There are stone benches lining this particular street and they are etched with the words “Hear the Art.” I almost didn’t notice the phrase. When my eyes passed the first bench, I actually thought it read, “Heart the Art” which seemed odd. I remember asking myself, “Is it Heart the Art, or Hear the Art?”  I stopped and looked closer.

I’ve never really thought about hearing art. When I think “art” I think of something visual; a painting or dance performance. But it doesn’t have to be. Hearing the art means soaking in life with a different perspective. It means peeling off what we know as normal, and seeing it with a new set of eyes. It means hearing when we’re used to just seeing, walking a little bit slower, staring a little bit longer.

There I was again, seeing something I would have normally skipped over. This art didn’t rival the Sistine Chapel but it made me stop and think, which is what any good art will do.

Today I hope you hear the art.

p.s. I did a Google image search for “Hear the Art” and I found the bench! Someone else also saw the words as Heart the Art. Check out the post.

Pssttt! Secret time: I am a guest blogger today on Michele’s blog. Go check out the Moxy Project and leave her a comment.

P.S. The above shoes are an ode to Michele, who is wearing the cutest pair in her blog’s heading. I found this picture when doing a Google image search for “Moxy.” Credit goes to Moxie Fab World.

We live in this culture where telling people, “I’m busy”  is a sneaky way of saying, “I’m important.”

Oh, I’m guilty as charged. You probably are too. I mean, really, if you think about it–it’s rare to hear someone say, “I’m bored these days. My schedule is so empty it’s depressing. I wish I had meetings after work, and friends to dine with, and family calling, and service projects to do. Maybe someday I’ll be busy again.”

Doesn’t happen, right?

This summer work was busy, and our weekends were packed. They always are. But life in the evenings was quieter. I wasn’t blogging, I didn’t have bible study, and our monthly mentoring date with Dwight and Ruth was on hiatus until this week.

It was glorious, yet I still told people “I am so busy” whenever they asked how I was doing. Why was it so hard to just say “I’m GREAT!” ?

September then rushed in with changing leaves, football, a rainy day or two…and a packed schedule. I am back to searching for alone time, and battling anxiety during the long days when it seems the commitments never end.

I am searching for balance.

This summer, I read a book by Nancy Ortberg. In it, she writes about balance. I found myself looking at the B word with new eyes. She says, “Balance gives us the illusion of control. The comfort of order. Many are draw to the idea of balance because it promises to relieve the stress of our world, whose competing priorities are constantly clamoring to get our attention.”

It’s true. I’ll admit it. I like control and sometimes I’ll do anything to try and obtain it.

But what truly gave me encouragement, and what I hope will also encourage you today, is this:

“Part of the draw we feel towards balance is God’s fault. He created such a marvelous world. The thought that I can grow roses…and lead a meeting where great ideas and strategies emerge…and study the history of Europe…and ride a horse…and get lost in the words and melody of a poem…and seriously consider what the economic forces of poverty are and try to help change that…and bake a banana cream pie and relish every bite- there are just too many wonderful things, so much I do not want to miss. One life is not enough.”

My life is so full of beauty. And while I could stand to say NO a little more often, I am blessed by all the things I’ve said YES to.

No, one life is not enough.

picture credit: creative cow

It’s been 20 months since I heard the news. It was early one weekday morning in July 2008, and I had just finished a spin class at Capital Athletic Club. Unlike most other days, I had few minutes to watch TV in the Jacuzzi before getting ready for work. That morning CNN was reporting on U.S. cities with the highest incidences of sex trafficking. My city ranked very high on the list. I remember being surprised; thinking perhaps I hadn’t heard the facts correctly. Sacramento? Sex trafficking? That happens in cities like New York. Miami. Bangkok. Not in my city.

I went into work that day and shared the news with anyone at my office who would listen. “Someone has to do something,” I said!  “If no one else does, I will.” Fortunately for little ol’ me (since I had no experience in this area) someone else had the same stirring on her heart.

The next day, an article came out in the Sacramento Bee discussing sex trafficking in the area.  In the piece, a woman named Jenny Williamson said she was starting conversation with local law officials and the FBI. Immediately, I knew I wanted to meet her.

After finishing the article, I emailed the reporter asking for Jenny’s contact information. A few days later, bubbly Jenny arrived at my office wearing a bright green jacket—her signature color—and a big confident smile on her face that confirmed what I already knew. She, with God’s guidance, was going to change this city for so many young women.

As it stands today, children who are either caught or rescued from sex trafficking on our city streets are usually sent to Juvenile Hall. After a slap on the wrist, they return to the streets where they enter back into a cycle of abuse. Most girls are running from broken families. They have little money, and they’re searching for a way to survive. What they need is a true home—a place that cares for their souls, their bodies and their futures. Jenny has a vision to build such a home in our area.

I have been lucky to be a very small part of Jenny’s journey in the last year. My company allowed me do pro-bono work for Courage House in 2009 (cool, right?) Jonathan and I have watched the organization’s progress over the last year as they’ve created a benefit CD, held awareness concerts and fought for a voice with law enforcement and the local media. As a result, over $800,000 was raised in 2009.  (Watch this KCRA clip about trafficking in the Sacramento area.)

Tonight, we attended a celebration worship night to give God glory for the work He is doing to rescue girls in trafficking. As it stands today, less than two years after Jenny received a calling on her life, Courage House has a property of land in Placer County.

At church last weekend, and again at tonight’s event, I was reminded of this: faith requires action. James 2:14-26  says “… what use is it, my brothers, for a man to say he “has faith” if his actions do not correspond with it? Could that sort of faith save anyone’s soul? If a fellow man or woman has no clothes to wear and nothing to eat, and one of you say, “Good luck to you I hope you’ll keep warm and find enough to eat”, and yet give them nothing to meet their physical needs, what on earth is the good of that? Yet that is exactly what a bare faith without a corresponding life is like – useless and dead. If we only “have faith” a man could easily challenge us by saying, “you say that you have faith and I have merely good actions. Well, all you can do is to show me a faith without corresponding actions, but I can show you by my actions that I have faith as well.”

As Jenny has said, “Pay attention to what breaks your heart.” And then—simply—act. Go. Be the hands and feet. Stretch yourself. Love big. Ask to be used. I don’t do these things often enough. In fact, most days I am too absorbed in my own life to think about people other than myself. Jenny’s big faith, and big action, remind me that our world has great needs. We can each be a tiny part of a greater plan for healing.

For more information about Courage House, click here.

Picture credit

One of my favorite classes at Westmont was Rhetoric, a two semester course covering the five canons. I’m just going to be honest when I say–I don’t remember as much of the course as I wish. But, every once in awhile, something will trigger a memory that seems to float out from somewhere deep inside my being. Today, I had one of those moments.

Recently, life has felt very much the same. I get up at the same time, and trudge along on the same running route. I come home and eat the same breakfast cereal, and part my hair the same way. I run for the bus and miss the bus (and then cuss about missing the bus, and then ask to be forgiven). I tweet and email and write all day, then rush off to some type of networking/volunteering/biblestudying event. I come home tired, really tired, and go to bed way too late. And then, I get up. And I do it all again.

Today was not going to be another one of those ordinary days. No…today was going to be a frozen yogurt for dinner type of day, and no one was going to tell my otherwise. I packed up at 5:45pm, bundled in my warm coat, and started off on my brisk walk to Yogurtagogo. I slid in the doors just before their 6:00pm cut off for their $2 happy hour specials, piled up as much yogurt as the 4oz cup would hold, and confidently handed my $2 in bus money over to the cashier. I would have walked home if I had to. NOTHING would stop me from that yogurt.

As I walked the streets back towards the office, I found myself  noticing the quiet. The bars and restaurants on L Street are closed on Mondays. Few cars rushed by. A person here or there walked a dog. It was just me, my yogurt, and the street lamps. All of a sudden, I heard my rhetoric professor’s words: “Break your habits.” He didn’t necessarily mean the bad and ugly habits-like smoking or drinking exorbitant amounts of coffee. While those habits could probably stand to be cut, I don’t think they were really what he was referring to. What he meant were the habits which are so normal, so accepted, that we don’t even think of them as habits anymore. Things like–always sleeping on the right hand side of the bed, or choosing the same seat in math class, or taking the same route to work every morning.

Sometimes, we need a change in perspective to see life a bit differently. Today, I needed frozen yogurt to remind me that life doesn’t have to be so routine. I don’t have to stay at work until all my tasks are done, or get home right on time to make dinner. I can eat ice cream instead and it really doesn’t matter.

What habits are hardest for you to break? What (good or bad) habits do you want to break the most?

image credit

“11 o’clock Sunday morning is the most segregated hour of the week … And the Sunday school is still the most segregated school.”

–Martin Luther King, Jr. in 1963

It’s been over 45 years since King’s statement challenging Christians to think about diversity in our churches. This article in Time magazine, Religion and Race: Can Megachurches Bridge the Racial Divide? is a good read as we celebrate this rainy MLK Jr Day.