Letter from a Birmingham Jail

From Martin Luther King’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail:

“Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America’s destiny. Before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence across the pages of history, we were here. For more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation -and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands.”

Read the full letter here.

StoryTellers

The Steelers had just lost to the Broncos in overtime. And when I say just, I mean just. The game was on the big screen in a room full of high school students. A few of them were watching, but most were milling about, talking, goofing around. When Tebow’s pass hit the end zone, I looked around for a face that mirrored my own, but as I stood with my hands clasped behind my head, I realized mine was the only one contorted in frustration. A bunch of midwestern teenagers didn’t much care that my east coast team had just watched their post-season dreams go down the pipes.

Anyway, it didn’t much matter. The kids were poised and ready to listen. It was time to share my story as part of their monthly gathering called StoryTellers. I wasn’t sure if they’d find my story either interesting or worthwhile, but in the end I realized that I couldn’t really help that — my story is my story; not much I can do to change that. I fiddled with my headset and took a deep breath as I glanced at the fat leather chair where I’d be sitting. Speaking never gets any easier, at least not when it comes to controlling my nerves.

I started with a quick Steeler lament, then sat down and tugged at the brown paper bag that sat at my feet.

I had taken down my Christmas tree the day before, an emotional ritual that has turned into a story itself.  You’d think the sentiment would be in the putting up — the stringing and the hanging and the twinkling – but with eight hands excitedly poking in the same box, I find the process a little too noisy, a little too rushed, a little too communal. Instead, I’ve come to savor the taking down, the part I do alone when no one else is clamoring for attention. It’s become my way to look back over the year and think about how this particular year has been woven into the rest.

Students waiting, I pulled the ornaments I’d chosen from the bag and, one by one, shared the parts of my journey reflected in each, slices of who I was and who I’d become and who I hoped to be.

- A pewter cross from my uncle that we always hang first, an easy way to remind my kids what Christmas is about; a reminder to me that teaching my kids once a year about Christmas is easy, teaching them about the cross as part of our daily life is hard work.

- A Dr. Suess Grinch I’d given to Eric the first year we were married after declaring we’d be exchanging ornaments as a way to commemorate the last year. He bellyached about the idea so much, I decided to give him the Grinch. Every year we laugh when it comes out, a reminder to never take ourselves too seriously.

- A handful of the kid’s school creations, wrought with glue and glitter and bright-colored pom-poms. I used to think they’d detract from the beauty of the ”real” ornaments, but now they’re among my favorites, a reminder that time moves fast and is utterly, eternally irreversible.

- A wooden sled from my friend Amy, the most sentimental person I know. It was a childhood gift from her grandmother which she gave to me at the end of a particularly hard year. No one traveled more deeply with me than her, a reminder that true friendship sometimes requires we sacrifice ourselves for the sake of another.

I had dozens others I could have shared, each with a story of their own. I used one final ornament that said “Ohio” (that I picked up from a gas station on I65 when we moved from Ohio to Chicago six years ago) to segue to the most current parts of my story and found myself wondering in the midst of it if anything I was saying even made sense. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all week.

This morning, my friend Mike shared this quote from Frederick Buechner in his sermon: “To lose track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but also spiritually.”

It’s when I realized that our stories are for others, but the process we go through to tell them is often for us. It requires taking mementos off our trees and pulling stuff out of our brown paper bags and watching, piece by piece, how they’ve been knit together.

Christmas Moments

   Below is my Christmas letter for 2011. I’ve found it impossible to send cards to everyone I’d like to send to this year and so decided to post it here for those who I just couldn’t get to (you’re no less loved, I promise!).  Also to the occasional passers-by of this blog, I wish you the very merriest of Christmases!

Every year I start my Christmas letter the same way – by telling you I wasn’t going to write one.  I usually make the decision sometime in November, determined not to add one more thing to an already busy season, then exhort myself to stand firm: YOU.WILL.NOT.WAVER.

But, then — every year– something happens. A moment, subtly and unexpectedly comes to life and wraps its tiny hands around my heart. And I find myself here, once again, tapping away.

I was clearing some Christmas cards out from last year’s card holder, making room for the new ones that had begun piling up on my kitchen counter when I came across a cute little card with a puppy wearing a Santa hat. Not remembering who sent it, I opened the card and smiled when I saw my grandma’s familiar signature. She passed away in January at 93. It was the last card I’d ever receive from her.

Card in hand, I paused for a moment, thinking how her penmanship reminded me of my mom’s, and then tucked the card back in with the others. It didn’t technically belong there, but throwing it away didn’t seem possible. It was, like so many moments we experience in any given year, one that presented me with a choice: simply rush by it, nonchalantly tossing it aside, or, instead, let it linger and fill me and move me in a way that compels me to stop. And listen. And reflect.

That’s when I knew I’d be writing this letter.

In many ways, our year could be categorized as an accumulation of blurred and rushed moments. Our first full year with “mom” back to work (at InterVarsity Press, a Christian publishing house) while she continues to sneak writing articles and blog posts into the nooks and crannies of her days, while “dad” expands his role at Christ Church of Oak Brook (and get his second graduate degree while picking away at his guitar) has been good, but has left us scrambling to find a new rhythm of life. Sadie turns 10 in less than a week, the combination of quick wit, responsibility, and pure grit that has become so “Sadie” leaves us continually impressed, questioning if she didn’t somehow skip a few years along the way. Clay is creeping up on 9, his athletic bent and sweet imagination never failing to fill his mama’s heart (he has single-handedly played and won both the World Series and the Super Bowl in the confines of our backyard).

The four of us have worked hard to incorporate things like rest, boundaries and balance, but we can’t seem to dodge the season of life we find ourselves in – we’re just plain busy.

Which is why I love the Christmas moments. The ones that make us pause in the midst the hard and breathless and chaotic and remember that life is full of moments that are rich and meaningful and overflowing with love and laughter and grace. Moments worth pursuing–card in hand–and sopping up and soaking in.

And so the Camfields of 2011 are learning, regardless of the season, to grab as many moments as we can; choosing to value relationships more than schedules, time more than money, neighbors more than ourselves and a Jesus worth pursuing more than any of the rest.

This Christmas I pray that your family stops long enough to grab a hold of your own moments . . . and tucks them away for another year to come.

Love, Jesus and Merry Christmas to you!

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

*Photo taken by Piggy Toes

Behind the Books

I recently told a friend that I feel like I start every sentence with, “Since I went back to work…”

And I’m pretty sure I do.

Because I say it so often, friends, family and acquaintances ask (just as often) how it’s going. To which I always answer, ”Good. Hard, but good.” And then inevitably they follow with something like this, “Now what exactly are you doing?”

I wrote the following post for a blog at work called “Behind the Books.” It’s a behind-the-scene look at some of the things we do at InterVarsity Press, the publishing house where I work. The post is about an Anti-Trafficking tour I spent months helping to organize.  For those of you who’ve asked more about my work, I thought you might enjoy reading it.  For those of you who haven’t (sorry!), it is written on the important topic of the global, commericial sex industry (which I also wrote more about here) so I hope you’ll learn something nonetheless.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

“It was late Wednesday night when we finally met.  After circling the airport three times, I spotted him in black dress pants and a dark winter coat.  After months of planning, plotting, strategizing, exchanging emails, and conference-calling, Daniel Walker, author of God in a Brothel: An Undercover Journey into Sex Trafficking and Rescue, had finally touched down in Chicago.

I was busting at the seams.

The Anti Trafficking Tour that had begun in California exactly one week earlier was already a success. Kicking off with the Global Forum on Human Trafficking and followed by college and church events, crowds of all ages were responding to Daniel’s message about modern-day slavery. But while my coworkers and I had heard great reports from the field (our online publicist Adrianna Wright, who had accompanied Daniel to California, told us, “He’s pretty much a rock star”), I don’t think any of us were prepared to hear Daniel’s story firsthand.

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“You Be Thankful”

I was at the funeral home tonight.

It’s not often I leave a wake and feel completely at peace. A friend’s grandpa died at age 93, for the most part, just from being 93. At dinner, when I reminded my kids that we’d be going, Clay asked me if “Grandpa” had been sick.

I didn’t anticipate the relief I’d feel by simply saying ”no.”  No carefully chosen words about why cancer takes people too young or clunky explanation about how bad things sometimes “just happen” to people we love.

“No, Clay, Grandpa wasn’t sick,” I said. “Just old. He kind of went to sleep.”

When we got to the funeral home, the kids ran off to play with their friends while I visited with the family. ”Grandpa” was the grandfather (and grandfather-in-law) of some of my closest friends. Every Sunday after church, almost without fail, they’d pack up all four kids and head to Grandma and Grandpa’s for lunch. I met their grandparents just one time, but when friends become like family, their family has a way of feeling like an extension of your own.

When Grandma was finally alone, my friend Nancy reintroduced me.

“We met once before,” I said. “Years ago around a dinner table. I don’t expect you to remember, but I had the most delightful conversation with your husband.”

“I don’t remember,” she said, pointing to the open casket, “but he would. He never forgot a thing.”

After a few minutes of pleasant conversation, I expressed my condolences. But what happened next caught me off guard. Grandma took a firm grip on my arm and — I’m not kidding — scolded me.

“You don’t be sorry for me,” she said sternly. “You be thankful.”

She went on to explain that Grandpa’s death was an answer to prayer, just one more proof in a long legacy of faithful proofs that God was always right beside them — guiding them, leading them, holding their hands.

I know they don’t all go this way, but nonetheless, it was wisdom at its finest; a golden nugget passed down from one life to another, from one generation to the next.

A beautiful picture I won’t soon forget.

And, if ever given the chance, one I’d be honored to pass on to another unsuspecting soul.