Through my work with International Arts Movement and my podcast, IAM Conversations, I had the chance to MC an event in 2009 where we screened the documentary film “Branded,” which explores teenagers being trafficked in Phoenix. I interviewed the director and law enforcement personnel from Arizona about the work they were doing to reduce the number of teenagers being victimized in the sex industry and prosecuting the johns and pimps who exploited them. And earlier this month, I interviewed IJM’s Vice President of Government Relations, Holly Burkhalter, on a panel about human trafficking.

I’ve also become aware of many new organizations that have been started in the past few years to address the issue of human slavery, including Not For Sale, Love 146, Free the Slaves, Polaris Project, the Project to End Human Trafficking, and a host of others.

I have proudly taken on the title of “abolitionist.” I have rallied against sweat shops and committed myself to not shopping at stores that support them. And I have donated time and money toward these causes and prayers and spiritual encouragement toward those working on the front lines.

But on December 21, I learned that, when it came to actually getting involved in a rescue operation, I was not quite ready for the rubber to meet the road.

My husband and I were at SEA-TAC heading to my parents’ home for Christmas. It was a 7:30 a.m. flight, but the airport was already buzzing with travelers. Because we were toting clothes for three weeks, heaps of gifts for my family and even some fly fishing equipment for my husband, we had to stand in a line to check our bags before going through security.

That’s when I noticed something very suspicious. A thirty-something year old man with four children ranging in age from 9-13 or so. The children were all the same race as the man, but they did not look like they went together – they did not look like siblings. (Of course, I have a  niece and nephew from Ethiopia, so that shouldn’t be too odd to me.)

But the strange part was their behavior.

When children travel in airports, they have a lot of energy. They are laughing, perhaps even bickering. When kids that age are standing in line together, they are pushing one another, asking their parents questions… but these kids were doing none of that. They all looked quite serious, followed one another, and only looked to the man for instructions. At one point I heard the man say to one of the boys, “When we go through security, make sure you stay with her and tell them she’s your sister.” At that my heart began to pound.

Now, I must say at the outset that I do not know for certain that these children were victims of trafficking. There are plenty of explanations for their behavior and for them being with this man. They’re cousins and someone in their family died and he’s a relative taking them to the funeral. That would explain why they didn’t really look like siblings, and they were unusually somber. That was just one of many possibilities I came up with later.

But the bottom line is, I witnessed suspicious activity and I felt like I needed to do something, and I became paralyzed with fear. What if I’m totally wrong and I embarrass this family? They’re not white – what if I accuse this guy of something and I’m wrong and people think I’m racist? Who do I even talk to? My husband had already been called to check in his bags, so I couldn’t even whisper my suspicions to him. Plus, we were cutting it close for our own flight and still needed to get through security.

My mind was a blur. I did not know what to do. I started walking up to one of the boys who had already checked his bag in, intending to strike up a conversation and see if I could find out, but then my husband came to me (completely unaware of what I was thinking about) and said, “Let’s go,” and I took one more look at the boy and then walked on with my husband.

As we stood in line for security, I kept an eye out for the man and four children, but I never saw them again. They must have gone through security at the other end of the airport.

It wasn’t until we were in the shuttle train to our gate that I told my husband what was going on. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have tag-teamed.” I responded by explaining that I didn’t know what to do. But we then discussed what we would do if this ever happened again.

As if that helped me now.

I felt horrible.

# # #

Last Saturday, I attended a human rights conference, where some friends of mine were leading an anti-human-trafficking workshop. I described the scenario I saw at SEA-TAC and asked for input. Everyone agreed that the circumstances I described sounded suspicious, and they gave me some good input and suggestions for what to do in a situation like this. (See below.)

But this experience told me that, even with all my passion and righteous anger about this issue, I was not prepared for an actual encounter with traffickers (or possible traffickers). I was informed enough to spot warning signs, but I was not equipped for an every-day encounter.

I will be haunted by that experience for a while, I expect. I have spent time in fervent prayer for those children, and if I’m wrong about them specifically, I’m not wrong about the many like them who are victims of trafficking.

So, in honor of National Slavery and Human Trafficking Awareness Month, I am offering a few ways that you – and I – can be prepared to respond if we see suspicious activity that might be related to human trafficking.

1. Be informed. Get to know the issue. Check out some of the web sites I hyper-linked above. Don’t be naive of the fact that there are more human beings in slavery today than ever before in history. And they come in many forms. Corban Addison’s great novel, “A Walk Across the Sun,” is not only a deeply engaging story, but it is an education in the forms of human trafficking.

2. Be prepared. Save this telephone number in your mobile phone: 1-888-3737-888. This is the National Human Trafficking Resource Center Hotline. Here you may report a tip, which they will investigate. Or you may connect with anti-trafficking services in your area. Or, you can request training and other general info and resources.

3. Be responsive. I know now that I could have gone to a TSA agent and told them what I suspected. At the very least, they could have done a “routine” inspection of the man and the children’s papers. If you are downtown and you see a teenager who shows signs of being victimized, engage them in conversation. One thing I learned from talking with a survivor of trafficking last Saturday was it’s OK to strike up a conversation with someone you think is in danger. It is often just way too easy to go about our business. But with knowledge comes power, and there are many organizations today making sure that we have knowledge.

4. Be political – on a national scale. President Obama’s declaration of January as National Slavery and Human Trafficking Awareness Month is a huge step forward in this struggle. By raising the level of awareness, he is opening the door for new legislation to be implemented that address the many threads of injustice that make human trafficking such a profitable venture. Lend your voice – and your vote – to push the problem further forward in public and political consciousness. Join IJM’s 100 Postcard Challenge. Check out other ways you can join a justice campaign.

5. Be political – on a local scale. Christianity Today magazine’s “This Is Our City” project recently ran two pieces on getting involved with local government: “Celebrating the Unglamorous, Effective Work of Local Politics” and “Where Christian Civic Engagement Begins.” Both articles give great advice on how to make a difference locally. You can also join lobbying efforts on behalf of anti-human trafficking legislation. Learn more from “Portland’s Quiet Abolitionists.”

6. Be thoughtful. One aspect of human slavery that comes up every now and then – but not nearly as often as it should – is the heavy reliance those of us in a highly consumerist society have on sweat shops to keep us clothed in $5 tee shirts. Even expensive, brand-name clothing is often made by people who are not paid fair wages or protected by fair labor laws. It isn’t just Wal-Mart and the Dollar Store that keeps sweat shops in business. However, there are companies that are running today with a “triple-bottom-line.” Yes, they aim to be profitable, but not at the expense of paying their employees fair wages or giving them labor protections. Research these companies and, when possible, buy from them rather than stores where you can’t know the source of your purchase. (In the interest of full disclosure, I am guilty of not doing this all the time. I shop at Target often, and just yesterday bought a tee shirt off the clearance rack. I have no way of knowing whether the person who made that shirt was paid fairly or not.) But, in general, I try to ensure I am not directly supporting a sweat shop by shopping at charity thrift stores for most of my clothes and even some gifts. Shopping at local street markets supports local business and artisans. And shopping online at Fair Indigo, Ten Thousand Villages, or other “fair-trade” stores can help vet your sources. (For more on this, please read this excellent article from Green America.)

# # #

Sometimes when we are passionate about something for a season, that passion eventually wanes. I have been a militant vegetarian who has slipped into a “ethical meat” eater who has slipped into a “I’ll just run to the local store instead of the co-op this one time and get some factory chicken for this soup recipe.” Then, I hear a talk by the president of the National Humane Society and am reminded why I stopped eating meat in the first place. (For the record, I am an omnivore, but my husband and I only buy ethical and humane meat. We’re pretty firm on that now. Ethical meat or no meat.)

But every now and then, we need something to come along and remind us why “this” – whatever “this” is – matters.

This month, our nation is getting a reminder. And my experience at SEA-TAC on December 21 was my shot in the arm to not be caught off guard the next time the rubber meets the road in my own anti-human trafficking efforts.

# # #

What advice would you add to this? What are some things you have learned that you could share here with others? What organizations are you aware of that are working to address this horrible crime against humanity? Please share here and help me – and others – be better equipped to not just be aware, but be engaged in the fight to end human trafficking.

On Saturday, I attended the 14th Annual MLK Human Rights conference in Bellingham, Washington. I was there at the invitation of some friends who are doing important work on behalf of victims of human trafficking and the sexual exploitation of children in Whatcom County. Their presentation was great, and I plan to share a bit more about that this month, which has been designated by President Obama as Anti-Trafficking month in the United States.

But today is Martin Luther King, Jr. day. I am grateful for this holiday and what it signifies. I am grateful for the work of Dr. King, and I pray that his legacy will live on. Part of how that will happen is that present and future generations will continue to remember and reflect on the battle he fought and sacrificed on behalf of. My own legacy is closely tied to the Civil Rights Movement in America. My father rode from Detroit to D.C. for the historic March on Washington, and he still gets a lump in his throat talking about his experiences as part of the non-violent movement spearheaded by Dr. King.

On Saturday, I listened to a speaker talk about MLK, and one of the things he did was highlight the “Commitment Card” Dr. King asked everyone participating in his movement to sign. I had never heard of this before, but as I read each of the points of this covenant, I was stirred to revisit my own devotion to God and my fellow human beings.

Here are the words that were on Dr. King’s Commitment Card. I have them printed out and plan to carry them as my own testimony of covenant to uphold the things Dr. King stood for.

I invite you to do the same:

Commitment Card
Martin Luther King, Jr, 1963:

I hereby pledge myself—my person and body—to the nonviolent movement. Therefore I will keep the following ten commandments:

1. Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus.
2. Remember always that the non—violent movement seeks justice and reconciliation — not victory.
3. Walk and talk in the manner of love, for God is love.
4. Pray daily to be used by God in order that all men might be free.
5. Sacrifice personal wishes in order that all men might be free.
6. Observe with both friend and foe the ordinary rules of courtesy.
7. Seek to perform regular service for others and for the world.
8. Refrain from the violence of fist, tongue, or heart.
9. Strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health.
10. Follow the directions of the movement and of the captain on a demonstration.

I sign this pledge, having seriously considered what I do and with the determination and will to persevere.

Name __________________
Address_________________
Phone___________________
Nearest Relative___________
Address__________________
Besides demonstrations, I could also help the movement by: (Circle the proper items)

Run errands, Drive my car, Fix food for volunteers, Clerical work, Make phone calls, Answer phones, Mimeograph, Type, Print Signs, Distribute leaflets.

ALABAMA CHRISTIAN MOVEMENT FOR HUMAN RIGHTS
Birmingham Affiliate of S.C.L.C.
505 1/2 North 17th Street
F.L. Shuttlesworth, President

I travel to NYC several times a year, but this week there was unique in that I connected with many people from “my past.” I got to see a lot of old friends, some because we made plans ahead of time, and some because we ran into each other. In fact, I had many “random” encounters with old friends, so many that it got to the point that I just felt like God was winking at me. For example, I got tickets for a sold out off-Broadway show on Craig’s list, and the tickets were front row, dead center. This was a show that my husband and I were dying to see, one that we were told would be impossible to find tickets for, yet we managed to get the last two empty seats, and when the show began, I realized that one of the co-stars was an old friend of mine. It was a lovely surprise to see her on stage and connect with her after the show!

Another night, our last night there, we were walking in to the apartment and ran into one of my old neighbors, who informed us that another friend had just arrived in town that night. She had left the City two years before, but was back for a visit with her new fiancé. We invited all of them in for a glass of wine, and as we talked and got to know her new man (from Colorado), we discovered that he is good friends with the man who (accidentally, unwittingly) introduced my husband and me to each other in 2010. And my friend is working for a man in Colorado my husband was friends with in college.

New York really is a magical place.

# # #

Yesterday morning, my husband and I got up at 5 AM after just a few short hours of sleep. He had a 7 AM flight from La Guardia to Chicago, and I had to return the car we borrowed to Virginia, so I drove him to the airport and then, a few hours later, packed up the car and said goodbye to East Harlem and New York City.

In a very surreal way, that whole experience was, literally, a trip down memory lane.

En route from East Harlem to La Guardia, we passed Astoria, Queens, where I lived for a year in 1999. Memories of my time there (with my roommate, who wrote about that period of time) came flooding back. Since it was only 5:30 AM, the streets were unusually clear; I love driving around the City at that time of the morning.

From East Harlem, I headed down Second Avenue, it was like I was looking at a living scrapbook of my twelve years in NYC. There was my friends Danny and Sheila’s apartment, where we used to have praise and worship nights together. There was my current boss’s block, where he lives in a highrise with his wife and two kids. There was the block my first church in NYC was on.

I passed the block where Redeemer’s east side services were held, the theater where I saw Marcel Marceau perform, the building where I worked as an office temp to support my acting career. I also passed the Lexington Avenue station, where I used to busk, sometimes earning up to $50 in one hour playing my guitar and singing to people coming and going through the subway station.

At 39th Street, I crossed over to Park Avenue, waving at my IAM office just a few blocks west. I passed City Crab, where I went on a date or two and used to take advantage of the pre fixe menu during Restaurant Week. I passed Calvary Church, where I was in a Bible study and fellowship for people working in the entertainment industry for years.

At the corner of 17th Street and Park Avenue South is the building where I worked for two years as executive assistant to the CEO of a very famous cosmetics company. Across Park Avenue South is the deli that has the best cup of coffee I ever had in New York. As I crossed that intersection, I slowed down to see if any of my old co-workers were arriving to the office late – it would have been very fun to see one of them.

Continuing down Union Square East and then Broadway, I passed the Cosi where I met my friend Daniel and his then-bride-to-be, Gina, to discuss plans for the music I would play in their wedding. A block away was my friend and collaborator Gary‘s loft, where we co-wrote music for Walden Media’s children’s musical, Nautilus.

This is just a partial list of memories I had as I drove through Manhattan from East Harlem to the Holland Tunnel. I had the soundtrack for Once playing as I drove, and it was absolutely perfect accompaniment for my journey. My heart swelled as I thought of the twelve years I had there. New York will always be part of me, and even though my home is now in Seattle, New York will always feel like home.

# # #

On Thursday night, International Arts Movement hosted the launch of a brand new book, and it was a really awesome night. Space 38|39 was packed, the author did an incredible job speaking to the audience about his journey as a writer and, specifically, about his passion for the topic of his book. A woman from International Justice Mission was there as well, and I facilitated a discussion with the two of them on the issue of human trafficking. Afterwards, many books were sold and signed, and people stayed way past the time the event was supposed to end, energized, no doubt, by the passion and creativity represented in the room.

During the reception, I had a brief conversation with a young woman in her early twenties named Emma. She had come with her cousin, who is an artist getting involved with the movement. I asked her how long she had been in the City – a customary question at these kinds of things – and she said that she had moved there last August.

I asked her what she was doing, and she smiled in a way that was very familiar to me. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “I’m working in an office, and just seeing where it goes. I just always wanted to live in New York City, so I came. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, or what, exactly, I’ll do. But I’m here.”

That touched me deeply, because I knew exactly how she felt.

From the time I was twelve or so, I knew I wanted to be in New York City. True, I did have career ambition as well – I wanted to be Christy Tennant, star of stage and screen. But it was all about the city. The poster of the Manhattan skyline in my bedroom fostered my adolescent dreams, and when I was twenty-three years old, I finally took the plunge. I found a sublet and arrived by train in February that year, with a suitcase, backpack, guitar, and $47 in my checking account after paying my first month’s rent. I didn’t know what was in store – I had no way of knowing how long I would stay or what I would do.

I didn’t know that I would book my first acting job in New York – a small walk-on role as a protester on As The World Turns – within two months of arriving. Or that I would volunteer to read scripture at my church that Holy Week and be offered a role in a play after the service. Or that my faith in Jesus would grow wings and fly in ways I never imagined.

I just followed my dream of living in New York City.

I just went.

# # #

I don’t know how many people read this blog (or how many are still reading right now – this is an unusually long post!) But if you’re reading this, I want to say something very specific to you:

If you have ever dreamed of living in New York City, DO IT.

For a month, for six, for a year, for a decade – that’s something for you to wait and find out. But please, if there is a part of you that has always wanted to take a bite out of the Big Apple, I implore you – do it.

My friend Glen grew up in the midwest and lived for years in Long Island. He had many friends in the City, but he was always just a visitor who secretly dreamed of living there. It was completely impractical – he was a teacher in Long Island, he had a car, he was paying reasonable rent and everything he needed was there. But he was also a musician who was working on a recording. He was also a writer with an idea for a novel. Finally, when a friend mentioned he wanted to sublet his apartment, Glen took the plunge. I don’t think he stayed for more than a year, but at the end of that time, he was ready. He moved back to Long Island, asked his girlfriend to marry him, and, CD and manuscript in hand, carried on with his life.

He had done it.

It wasn’t “forever” for him, but it was something he would never have to look back on and wonder about. He never had to face the question, “What if…?”

# # #

I know couples who sold their houses in the suburbs of Connecticut, Florida, and Georgia, and moved in to apartments in Manhattan. Some have children who are now attending New York schools, some have children who are grown and on their own. But they always wanted to live in NYC and they decided to do it. It was crazy, and many of their friends and family could not understand why they did it, but they did. And they love it. I talk with them at parties and gallery openings and they are so vibrant and full of life. They were New Yorkers trying to live like suburbanites, and now they love to talk about living in small spaces and shopping at Fairway or Trader Joe’s (yes, there’s one in Manhattan) and going to Broadway shows and art galleries and museums. One goes to St. Paul’s Cathedral during his lunch break from his high-powered job.

I talk with people all the time who have visited New York and love it, but they have never lived it. Visiting is not the same. You can only live New York City by living in New York City. Doing your laundry there. Grocery shopping. Attending a home group. Having a routine.

If you are one of those people – one of us - I beg of you, live in New York City. Find a sublet for three months and make it happen. Need to work? Register with a few temp agencies or look for temp work on Craig’s List. But for heaven’s sake, do it.

You must.

###

I live in Seattle now.

According to my mom, in 1996, after my first visit there (on a business trip), I told her I would someday live in Seattle. I had forgotten that, but then again, it makes sense. Seattle is the only city, besides New York, whose skyline I have had hanging in a frame in my home since I was twenty-one. Of course, no one could have imagined the circumstances that would get me there. And honestly, Seattle was the last place on my mind when I began fantasizing about leaving New York. I had narrowed it down to L.A. (to either go to seminary or pursue acting out there) or West Virginia (where I would buy a house with lots of land and live an agrarian lifestyle inspired by Jayber Crow and Hannah Coulter. Seriously, that was the plan.)

When I was in Seattle on a short business trip in May 2010, I was not thinking I would be back for years. I was as surprised as anyone when I began corresponding with a man I met in a coffee shop the morning I flew home to New York. And I certainly did not anticipate marrying that man and moving there less than a year later to set up house with my dog, cat, and new husband.

I could not have known that less than a year later, I would be leading music at a small church in Seattle, I would have an agent for acting, and I would be joining the booster club at my local public high school.

Seattle welcomed me with open arms, and I am at home there now, making loads of new memories and, hopefully, shaping and being shaped by that beautiful city.

That city which is not New York.

# # #

Of course, not everyone dreams of living in the Big Apple. My parents moved from Detroit to Roanoke in 1982, and they can’t understand why anyone would ever want to live anywhere else. I have talked with people who, upon hearing that I lived in New York, commented on how much they did not enjoy their one visit there. They were intimidated by the subway, the dirt, the people, the fast-pace, the bright lights, etc. etc. etc.

Those people should not move to New York. It’s not for them, and they’re clearly not for it.

But for the rest of you, I’ll say it again: if there is a small part of you that has always thought, “I’d love to live in New York some day,” I beg of you – do it. At least for a little while.

Just to say you did.

Just to know what it’s like.

Just to satisfy that curiosity – a curiosity that will not fade away with time, but will grow, haunting your thoughts as you lay in bed on a sleepless night.

Because it is my opinion that everyone should live in New York City at least once in their lives. Everyone should experience what it’s like to “be” a New Yorker.

And when you do, promise me that you will live deeply. That you will visit the museums and see shows and eat in Little Italy and Chinatown and Harlem. Promise me that you will take the N train to Astoria at night, gazing at the skyline behind you. Promise me that you will toss money to the buskers (if they’re good) and that you will walk through Central Park in every season of the year. That you will have a game of chess in Washington Square park, that you will eat Grey’s Papaya, and that you will sit in Strawberry Fields and “imagine.”

Promise me.

This past year, I’ve taken “reinvention” to a new level, though. In the past twelve months, I have moved across the country, started a new job, gotten married, and changed my name. My hair is much longer than it was a year ago, and I have swapped out most of my clothes since moving to Seattle, realizing that, while no one would accuse me of dressing exactly “New York Chic,” my east coast wardrobe just didn’t seem to fit once I became a Pacific Northwesterner. My knee-high black high-heeled boots aren’t as attractive to me as my Dansko clogs are now, and I opt for cozy rather than classy more often than I care to admit. I also started running this year, so I’m physically reinventing myself as a committed athlete, rain or shine. This has been a year of reinvention, it seems.

I was thinking about reinvention, because it’s New Year’s Day. Yes, I do realize that its actually January 2, but I spent New Year’s Day in bed with a nasty virus, so today is MY New Year’s Day. And while I have still spent the day in bed or on the couch, still quite ill, I was able to take advantage of the down time by watching one of my favorite reinvention films, The Devil Wears Prada.

I love stories of reinvention. I love the idea that if you don’t like who you are today, you can change. You don’t have to stay the mousy, repressed victim; you can break out, surprise the world, and be more than you were yesterday. Better than you were yesterday.

The end of a year is a time when I, like many others, examine my life and take stock. I do some pruning and planting, and head in to the new year with a sense of newness, hope, and possibility. I consider areas I failed myself, others, or God, and I seek to do better in the year to come. I consider things, habits, thought patterns, and, on rare occasions, people, that have held me back or dragged me down, and I do what I can to change their impact in my life. And I set goals, things I hope to accomplish in the coming year. Some are big (book a role on a major network television show), while others are relatively small (make the bed every day).

This blog has been reinvented, too. After contemplating whether to keep my maiden name or take on my husband’s name professionally, I’ve decided to make switch, so I’m now Christy Tennant Krispin. Since I had a really cute logo based on my old name, that means that I’ll need a new look, too; that will come in time. And one of my goals is that there will be a new post at least once a week.

How about you? Is the new year a time of reinvention in your life? I’d love to hear about it. What are some things you’re leaving in 2011? What are some things you’re hoping for in the new year?

As my vocation has placed me squarely at the crossroads where the arts, the Judeo-Christian faith, and the common interests of humanity at large intersect, I am grateful for the perspective and insight I gained through Dr. Ellen Davis (view video) and Makoto Fujimura (view video) at the 2011 Brehm Lectures. For several years, I have wrestled with other artists and creative catalysts – and within myself, in the closet of my own mind – to understand the very questions that provided context for these lectures. Specifically, I have considered the role the arts played in the way the Hebrew prophets communicated God’s word to God’s people, as well as the prophetic function of art today. The Brehm Lectures provided additional fuel for my exploration of these themes.

Any serious study of the prophets calls for careful consideration of the artistry that permeates these pages of scripture. Poetry and performance art were integral to the Hebrew prophets’ effective communication of God’s message. As Dr. Davis pointed out, Jeremiah was “one of the greatest poets ever to compose in Hebrew.” From the very beginning of our record of Jeremiah’s interactions with God, metaphor is pervasive. The branch of an almond tree and a boiling pot are images of God’s watchful eye and warn of impending disaster. Throughout the book, Jeremiah relies heavily on poetic devices to communicate God’s heart to God’s people. (Read more…)

But the only kind of book I read at night, besides the Bible, are novels. At the end of the day, when my work is finished, nothing is more fun for me than to curl up in bed with an engaging story that is interesting and well-written, but not so heady that I need to work hard to follow. And most recently, the book that has accompanied me to bed is Mary DeMuth‘s The Muir House.

The Muir House is the tale of Willa Muir, a winsome yet flawed heroine embarking on the journey of a lifetime as she seeks to solve the mystery of her past. A functional orphan (her mother is alive, but the relationship is broken), Willa has baggage, to be sure, and readers who have unresolved bitterness toward a parent will identify with her struggles – perhaps cathartically so. As Providence forces Willa to revisit her childhood home and confront her demons once and for all, we bear with her through her moments of foolishness and self-sabotaging behavior, and we rejoice as she begins to move into a new season, made possible only by the painful work of facing her past and staring it in the eyes.

The requisite characters of a good story are present, including not one, but two leading men, a quirky girlfriend, a kindly older gentleman who pops in as a kind of angel-in-disguise, and an antagonist in the form of a hostile, stubborn woman who seems hell-bent on thwarting Willa’s plans. Each character is well-developed and interesting, and together, they tell a story that I found to be at times frustrating (as I wanted to get the mystery solved), at times inspiring, and ultimately redemptive.

Set alternately in Seattle (my hometown since March of this year) and Rockwall, Texas, DeMuth does a great job of capturing a sense of each place. Her Seattle references all struck me as authentic, from the coffee shops to hiking at the base of Mount Rainier. By the same token, her descriptions of Rockwall, Texas are likewise organic, thanks no doubt to the fact that DeMuth actually lives in that town. As a reader who loves stories that allow me to get a true sense of place, whether that be Hollywood or the Deep South, I appreciated her attention to detail in this respect.

There were points in the beginning of the book when I wished the story moved forward more quickly. In truth, the story did not draw me in immediately. DeMuth is very gifted with words, and in The Muir House, the language sometimes felt laboriously flowery. There were a few times when I wished the story would move along, rather than spending quite so much time on descriptions. However, these small complaints were all but forgotten during the book’s second act, when the story really picked up momentum as the characters become more developed and the clues began to fall into place.

The book, published by Zondervan, will certainly appeal mostly to women who are Christians (no doubt the intended audience). With its many references to prayer, Jesus, and Christian devotion, non-Christian readers might find these elements contrived or odd. But for those of us who live in that world, DeMuth presents a very believable character wrestling with not only her past, but with the God who put her there. Through the letters (and blog posts – a creative device, I thought) exchanged between Willa and her would-be fiancé, we witness a character who is honestly seeking truth, in both literal/historical and spiritual senses.

There are some surprises in this book, which is one of the highest compliments I can pay it; I am usually hard to surprise, and that element is one of my favorite traits in a story. The journey is worth following, and the book is worth reading. If you are looking for Christmas gift ideas  to give a woman in your life who loves to read feel-good novels with hopeful and redemptive outcomes, I recommend The Muir House by Mary DeMuth, which may be ordered here.

Read what others are saying about The Muir House! Leanne Penny reviewed it yesterday, and tomorrow, Tara Rodden Robinson will share her review as well. We’re part of a twenty-two-blog book tour, an innovative new way to review and discuss new books.

In April, I attended the Q Conference in Portland, where the President of the Humane Society was among the speakers. He spoke on a biblical response to animal cruelty, and I was very moved by his talk, particularly on the emphasis on the evils of factory farming. At the time, my wedding was a few weeks away, and we had a few meat dishes on the menu. But the stats about factory farming, which were not new to me, prompted me to re-visit some old convictions, and I felt moved to action. A reporter from the Humane Society caught wind of it, and interviewed me for an article  in All Animals magazine (print and online). Here is an excerpt and link to the entire article:

It has been at the back of her mind for 17 years, ever since the night she lay awake listening to the slaughter-bound pigs. A truck driver had pulled his rig in to the motel lot, and for hours Christy Tennant, 19 at the time and on a theater company tour across the Midwest and South, heard the cries of crowded, thirsty, hungry, frightened animals. “I was deeply convicted, like physically moved,” she says. “… They sounded almost human.” The next day, she became a vegetarian.

Some people took offense at her choice—they felt like she was judging them by her diet. And after about a year, she began to eat meat again, especially in situations where refusing might insult people. In February, when a wedding director pitched a backyard barbecue theme for her rehearsal dinner in southwestern Virginia—pulled pork sandwiches—she reluctantly went along.

Then in April, just a month before her wedding, Tennant was unexpectedly hearing the message again, at a conference for evangelical Christians: Wayne Pacelle, HSUS president and CEO, and Christine Gutleben, senior director of the organization’s Faith Outreach Campaign, are at the front of the hall speaking about people’s responsibility toward animals. They were talking about the very sort of suffering Tennant heard that night as a teenager, the very sort of inhumanity the Bible itself condemns.

Before the presentation was over, Tennant got up and left the big room to contact the caterers for her wedding. She had decided: There would be no pulled pork at the rehearsal dinner, no bacon bits in the salad at the reception. Instead, guests would get fish and humanely raised chicken (Pacelle directs her to a website where she can find some). Not exactly a conversion. More like a confirmation of what she knows, already, is true: that the dominion humankind is given in the book of Genesis doesn’t mean people are entitled to just do anything they want. That instead it’s like God has given his followers stewardship of a gift. “How we handle that,” says Tennant, “is an exact reflection of how we feel about God.” In other words, she wonders, will people be faithful to God by taking care of his creation?

Evangelical Christian circles have gotten involved in so many causes that Tennant welcomes the attention given to animal advocacy at the conference. “Mercy is not a left-wing agenda,” she says. (More…)

On April 21, 2011, Tim Soerens stood before the 50 or so people who had shown up at the South Lake Union neighborhood community center, where Seattle mayor Mike McGinn was holding a town hall meeting. As the moderator, Soerens’s job was to create a hospitable environment for discussion of issues ranging from local dog parks to a $2 billion tunnel through downtown—and to hold both the citizens and the mayor to their allotted time.

Soerens, 32, is a church planter and one of the founders of the Parish Collective, which seeks to help local churches be both “rooted in neighborhoods and linked across cities.” For Soerens’s church in the South Lake Union neighborhood, that meant helping to start the neighborhood’s first farmers’ market, hosting a weekly BBQ, and working with their neighbors in a local community garden—getting involved with existing nonprofits and initiatives whenever possible rather than starting new efforts from scratch. Many community council meetings later, he’s now active in Wallingford, a neighborhood about a mile from South Lake Union, where he says he is “beginning the listening, organizing, and [finding] pathways of connection.”

How does a church planter—or any Christian, for that matter—become a civic leader? According to Soerens, “You just need to show up and be consistent for a while. About 100 people run Seattle. Certainly the mayor and City Council, but from there you begin to see about the same 75 people or so at everything. This might be a slight exaggeration, but not as much as you might think.” For Soerens, the link between civic engagement and the flourishing of the city is inextricable. “Democracy is a brilliant system if people show up. But if they don’t, that vacuum will quickly get filled, and not always for the best.” (Click here to read the entire article.)

One of the first emails I read was news of the death of a man I cared deeply for. He was about my parents’ age and had suffered with pancreatic cancer for the last year and a half. The email was from his wife, a dear woman who wrote beautifully of her husband’s last moments. “Our family has had quite a week. Mike struggled with pancreatic cancer and metastasis into his lungs over the last year and a half. Now, Mike struggles no more.”

After going to the emergency room last week because of intense abdominal pain, the doctor discovered damage to his intestines and kidneys caused by chemotherapy and radiation. Kathy wrote, “The doctor asked Mike about removing the IVs and changing the focus of his care to comfort. Mike was very aware of his situation, and told the doctor, ‘Yes, please, and how soon can you remove them? Can I have a piece of chocolate?’ At 3:00 PM Sunday the IVs were removed and Mike was informed he could have some chocolate. At 8:15pm Sunday, our dear Mike passed away.”

I read through Kathy’s email several times, and as I did, I thought about the last time I saw Mike. He and Kathy had been at IAM’s Encounter in March, and I had spoken with them briefly a few times. Since then, Mike and I had emailed back and forth several times, me checking in on his condition and him writing candid responses about his latest prognoses. We knew his time was short, but I had not expected this email. It seemed to happen so fast.

As I usually do when I hear sad news, I tucked it away and went about my morning. I generally do not react to very bad news right away. When my grandmother died, I was on tour with a theater company, playing a lead role in a children’s musical. I learned of her death moments before going on stage. My performance that day was no different from any other. It was not until that evening that I began to “feel” the effects of her passing, and it really was not until days later, after singing at her funeral, that I cried for her loss.

The same was true of my grandfather’s death. I received the news and remained quite stoic as I sent emails to my boss and co-workers informing them that I would be away from work for a few days, made my travel plans, flew to Michigan, picked up my rental car, greeted family, sang at his funeral, and played cards with my relatives that evening. It was not until I was sitting on the airplane to go back to New York that I cried for the first time.

So this morning, I read the email through, thought about Mike, and then continued about my morning routine. I poured a cup of coffee, read two chapters from the Bible (Mark 5 and 6), began thinking about the day ahead. I returned a call to my aunt, fed the dog and cat, washed the dishes in the sink, and tidied up the house a bit.

An hour and a half later, I was at my computer and I opened Facebook. One of the first posts in my news feed was my friend David Taylor’s announcement of the birth of his first daughter. “I am so in love with this little girl I think I might pop. Here’s Ruby Blythe Marie Taylor’s Facebook debut. Chunky-cheek yum yum. Born 10:46 pm on Sunday, September 11.” Ruby was born two hours and thirty-one minutes after Mike died.

Both of these events took place on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. That was the day that millions of people were going about their days when their routines were immediately disrupted. At that time of day ten years ago in New York City and Washington, DC, many were checking email, pouring a cup of coffee, reading the Bible, on the phone with a relative or friend, feeding their pets, cleaning up their kitchens, tidying up their homes, and suddenly everything changed. Of course, the events of 9/11 were a surprise.

Not so with Mike and Ruby. Mike’s death was anticipated. So was Ruby’s birth. One with sorrow, the other with great joy, and as I sit here holding these two pieces of news in my heart, I am feeling the reality of the “now and not yet” more than ever before. Richard John Neuhaus described what I’m feeling right now quite well:

“On the one hand, we have come to Mount Zion, the New Jerusalem. On the other, we have here no lasting city but seek the city that is to come. This is frequently described as the ‘now’ and ‘not yet’ of Christian existence. Christians live ‘between the times’—meaning between the time of Christ’s resurrection victory and the time of its cosmic fulfillment in the coming of the promised Kingdom. All time is time toward home, time toward our true home in the New Jerusalem.”

Today, my heart is between the times. Sunday in Seattle was one of the most beautiful days I’ve seen. It was sunny and warm, and my husband and some close friends and I went hiking in the Snoqualmie Pass. Climbing the trails, I felt so alive. My muscles felt strong, my skin eager for the warm sun shining down on us. I was walking closely with my husband, whom I love so deeply sometimes the joy of it feels like an ache. When we got to Lake Margaret, the view was stunning, and though the water was frigid, we all took the plunge, coming up from the water with all our senses heightened by the cold, refreshing baptism of a glacier-fed lake.

On Monday, the weather had changed dramatically. The sky was overcast and the temperature was chilly, and a sense of “fall” was in the air. By yesterday, I was feeling it on a very visceral level. Throughout the day, a soft hint of melancholy tugged at my heart, my head aching slightly with the the overwhelming sense of both loss and hope. Loss of the weather I love, loss of sunshine, loss of outdoor meals and warm hikes and leaving the front and back doors open so a breeze could flow through the house. Hope for… I don’t even know what. Just, hope. Perhaps, because I am in Christ and Christ is in me, hope is so much a part of my DNA that even when I can’t articulate what I am hoping for, I am hoping. Perhaps that is part of the miracle of Christ in me: the hope of glory that cannot be driven out by any sorrow or loss or melancholy.

I made a big pot of vegetable soup for dinner and served it with rolls fresh from the oven and lots of soft butter. I kept busy throughout the evening doing laundry and puttering around the house. But when my head hit the pillow, I was grateful for the warmth and coziness of my bed, which means a lot to me especially when the weather is cold. Most nights I lie there, fading to sleep, deeply grateful for the mercy of a warm bed. I am well aware it is a privilege to sleep in a warm bed, while many on earth do not.

And then, today, the news of Mike and Ruby. The sorrow of one, the joy of the other. The reality of death, and the miracle of life. I ache with sadness for Kathy, even as I ache with delight for David and Phaedra. I grieve the passing of summer, and I welcome the delights of fall: fresh bread in the oven, soup simmering on the stove, warm, fuzzy slippers on my feet, bundling up for a walk with my dog, layering up for a hike with my husband, planning recipes for the holidays.

Before we know it, we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving in the San Juan Islands, even as Kathy is grieving her first holiday without Mike, and David and Phaedra are delighting in Ruby’s first Thanksgiving. Christmas, too. And while joy will be present in both places, Mike’s passing will coat one household with yearning, and Ruby’s birth will coat another household with enchantment.

And all of this, of course, points me to Jesus – his life, his death, his resurrection, and his return. Mike would want it that way, and so will Ruby, I expect, someday – she has been born to two people who love Jesus and will lead her to love him as well. Mike’s passing is a stark symbol of the way things are now, when death still has permission to exist. For a while longer, death will continue to rob, kill and destroy.

But Ruby is an even greater symbol, because her new life is a profound emblem of hope, the hope of new birth, and life with Jesus now and forever. The tears that are pouring from my eyes as I write this are tears of grief and joy. Yet these tears will one day no longer be needed. The burning in my throat as I choke back tears, considering the gift of Mike’s presence on earth and being encouraged by his joy and zeal for art and beauty and music and sucking the marrow out of life, will be gone, because there will nothing left to grieve or yearn for.

Instead, there will be joy.

Sunday was, as it turns out, a time to be born, and a time to die. It was a time to plant, and a time to uproot. It was a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

I find that every single day, I live somewhere between these two “times.” As Newhaus wrote, “Each world penetrates the other. The present is, so to speak, pregnant with the future to which the future gives birth.” Yet even the darkness of death is not completely dark, because a light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. Christ is coming, and Mike’s body will not just be restored, but glorified.

As I make my way through the day ahead, I will continue to contemplate these things. I will return email, set up my new office sofa/guest bed, go grocery shopping, write articles, spend hours on social media, send cards. I will make dinner for my husband, plan worship songs for Sunday, and do whatever else needs doing before I go to bed tonight, all the while, my thoughts penetrated by the now and the not yet.

And through it all, a breath prayer will be on my lips, echoing the words of my brother in Christ who prayed two thousand years ago: “Come, Lord Jesus. Come.”

I love retreats. I started participating as a leader in retreats over ten years ago, when Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan hired me to be their worship leader for a Fourth of July retreat in Vermont. I had been leading worship for an arts group that met in Manhattan, which one of the pastors of the church attended, and that’s how I booked that “gig.” But I realized after that how much I love the unique opportunity retreats provide for spiritual formation, and when they are centered on a shared quality – i.e. “women’s retreat” or “arts retreat” – even better.

In the past decade, I have led worship for more women’s retreats than I can presently recount, and around three years ago, I began speaking at retreats as well. If I recall correctly, my first full, four-message women’s retreat was for a Lutheran church near Albany. They were having their first women’s retreat, and their leader Googled “women’s retreat New York” and found me. They took a chance, I did a lot of homework, and, by all accounts, it was a good weekend, and since then, I have spoken at retreats on missions, Bible study, the arts, and spiritual formation.

As I was traveling back to Seattle on Sunday afternoon, basking in the afterglow of another truly beautiful weekend, I was thinking about the qualities that make a retreat truly special. Here are some of the things that I noted about Imago Houston’s retreat, and I would propose that they are the marks of a good retreat anywhere.

1) Hospitality. The leaders of Imago Houston, Eric and John, treated me and everyone who came with tremendous hospitality. They were welcoming and encouraging and gracious to each person who showed up. As the only outsider of the weekend, I was touched by their desire to give me a “genuine Houston experience,” taking me out for some of the best barbecue I have ever tasted. Their enthusiasm for their city was contagious, and by the time I left to come back home, Houston held a very special place in my heart.

2) Multi-generational. I loved that the participants in the IMAGO Houston retreat ranged in age from ten to over sixty. The ten-year-olds did not participate in every aspect of the retreat – sometimes they were off exploring the grounds of the retreat center during my talks – but it was so valuable for them to be there, and to participate as was appropriate for them. Their presence (and this could be because they are both remarkable individuals) added value to the weekend for me, as their innocence and exuberance for life were examples for the rest of us to follow.

3) A loose schedule. At larger retreats I’ve been part of, it is hard to have a loosey-goosey schedule, but I loved the fact that, at IMAGO Houston’s retreat, we had a schedule, but we held loosely to it. If people were engaged in their art-making or in conversation, the leaders didn’t stress out about starting on time. Schedules are great, but when cool things are happening, a retreat, of all places, should be a time to loosen the grip on our agendas and be open to the rhythm of the people there.

4) Time for interaction. I had four scheduled talks – one in the morning, one in the afternoon, one in the evening, and one the following morning. But there was also an entire evening that was devoted to giving each artist who wanted it a chance to talk about a piece of their artwork and have it critiqued. This time of engagement was extremely valuable, as it provided the iron-sharpening-iron time that so many artists lack, especially those who create in the vacuum of a studio, alone. The meal times and art-making times also gave us lots of time to sit around tables together and share stories and experiences. I learned about a man who, with his wife, is currently foster-parenting four children under the age of three, whom they hope to adopt. I learned about a woman whose second-grade teacher told her she couldn’t draw, and turned her off drawing for two years (which was a shame, because the woman is tremendously gifted). I got to hear stories of people I would otherwise never have met, and I was enriched because of it.

5) Good food. I’m not gonna lie to ya: part of why I loved this retreat so much was because the woman who did the cooking for us, Jenny, went above and beyond to serve really good food. Homemade lasagna made with fresh veggies… salad… a breakfast casserole… fresh fruit… a sandwich bar… and some great desserts and beverage selections. And good food, served with a smile, is a non-negotiable for practicing hospitality.

I remember another retreat I spoke at a couple of years ago, on the Jersey Shore. At that retreat, the women involved were trading off cooking, and it became somewhat of a friendly competition – who would serve the most delicious feast? We had steak, shrimp, and some of the best pasta sauce I have ever had. I love that kind of competition!

6) Singalongs. Most retreats I lead have several “worship times,” but since this weekend’s retreat was more focused on the pragmatic aspects of art criticism, we didn’t have a singalong until Sunday morning. But what a singalong it was! I had planned for us to sing a couple of well-known worship songs, then they had asked me to do a short concert of my own songs, which I did. But before that, someone mentioned a song he hadn’t heard since childhood – “Lord of the Dance” – and I started playing it on my guitar. Several people with smart phones googled the lyrics, and next thing we knew, we were singing in beautiful harmony! That made me wish we had set apart more time during the retreat for singalongs! Something beautiful happens when people who normally don’t sing together, well, sing together. It is a divine thing. A heavenly language.

There are plenty of other things that could go on this list… the beautiful setting of the retreat center, with a gorgeous view, in spite of the current drought… the rustic charm of the building we were in… the inside jokes I became privy to… the art lessons I received. But these are the things that stick with me as I reflect.

I commented to some, and I’ll reiterated here, that retreats are rich soil for relationships. There were people on this retreat who knew of each other, but didn’t know each other; now they are friends. I went in barely knowing two people, and not knowing most of them at all. I left knowing many by name, with hopes of future connecting. We prayed together, we ate together, we made art together, we sang together – and some even cried together. It was a beautiful time.

On Saturday morning, I sat outside (briefly – it was hot as blazes in Houston!) and journaled some of my thoughts. The main thing I wrote about was how grateful I am for the gift of retreats – both as a speaker/worship leader, and as “just” a participant. The time to step out of a busy life, to be totally focused on the people in the room (as opposed to the people on Facebook or Twitter) was refreshing to my spirit. I came home physically tired (I had, after all, just given four talks in two days!) but spiritually and emotionally refreshed and encouraged.

If this sounds good to you, and you’re wondering where to start, may I suggest you check out Laity Lodge in Texas? They have year-round retreats with all sorts of themes, from technology to the arts to women to theology. Otherwise, ask around in your community and see where churches nearby might be holding retreats. Then, sign up. Perhaps get a friend to go with you.

Get out of town for a couple of days, unplug from the world, plant yourself in some good soil… and see what happens!