Missteps

Lalish is the holy heartland of the Yazidi people, tucked in the valleys of the Nineveh Province of Iraqi Kurdistan. The nice folks there walk around shoeless, kissin' door frames, walls, and the ground here and there. They never step on, but always over, the thresholds of all the temple doorways—and asked that we do the same.

This was inside the Lalish temple. The ‘stached gentleman looking my way works for Baba Sheikh—the spiritual leader of the Yazidi people, akin to the Catholic's Pope.

"Stache" didn't speak much English, but stayed within spittin’ distance—watchfully somber and, I guess, curious about us and the boo-coos of photos I was taking.

The temple was dark and difficult to photograph. So as soon as I spotted the glory of God’s daylight bathing an opening in the wall, I pranced my little ambitious tail over to it and confidently planted not one, but two bare feet right atop the doorway's threshold—a threshold that, perhaps, not a single soul had tread upon in a thousand years or so.

Smooth, Jessie. Smooth.

About the time the camera met my eye, ‘Stache (and everyone else) started hollering some Kurmanji-something about gettin’ my damnable feet the heck off that holy ground. I flailed in fear like a fish on a hook. What a terrible thing I had done!

After gaining composure, I glanced at “Stache” (certain an arrest was soon to follow), but I kid you not...he stood there chuckling!

From then on he was astoundingly more approachable. He even came over and suggested I get a photo of myself, and offered his services. How very thoughtful! I eagerly handed off my camera, hoping it might atone for my “little” doorway mishap.

Anyway, I'm still terribly sorry for what I did. But, ya know, maybe seeing me misstep and make a fool of myself was wonderfully ordinary; thus, wonderfully kindred—wonderfully human. Which, perhaps, then made me wonderfully approachable—a thing of grace more effective than my most perfectly penned words or planned presentations.

Maybe we all need a little more brazen honesty about our missteps,—for others, and for ourselves (if we're honest). Don't ya think?

I Asked a Syrian Refugee What We Can Do

Joanna is a Syrian Kurd—been here about 19 months. And those American girls on either side of her are Maddie and Hannah, her two best friends. In recent weeks I've gone to ballet lessons, impromptu bike rides, and Stone Mountain park with them. I’ve heard the stories of their families over countless cups of strong black tea—and made it hopelessly impossible for myself not to love them dearly. I’ve been documenting their wonderfully uncommon friendship with my camera, and regularly adding to the bottom of a seemingly interminable Word document.

I haven’t a clue where it will all end up, nor do I much care. I just know it needs to be done—if only to teach me what I’ve yet to learn.

But if I may, can I share this bit from a recorded conversation last week with Joanna’s mom, Araz? And if it suits you, would you mind doing as she asks?

"Good gracious, the world is not right," I said after she relived their escape from Aleppo to Istanbul, "It’s not right that we get to live here in so much.... Most Americans...they don’t understand—I don’t even understand what you have seen with your eyes… And...in America you can go your whole day and not think or know anything about what’s going on in Syria, ya know? Everything is blue skies and fine… [But] you—you have seen what [you ran] from." She nodded to agree, so I asked, "If you could say something to Americans…what would you say to them? What would you say they can do?"

She looked at me as if it shouldn’t have been a question and replied confidently, “Pray."

Fire Under All Our Hind Ends

Dear friends, not to by any means make light of Friday's political happenings and your reasonable conclusion on one side or the other, or to curtail your righteous anger or proud "whoo-rah" for the prez...

But could it be that maybe—just maybe—the recent "upheaval" is a necessary (perhaps, then, good—can I say that??) fire under all our hind ends to take action? And I don’t just mean action like powerful poster protests, social media weigh in's, or healthy debates around the kitchen table—but to do what has been your responsibility all along? Perhaps channel all that passion and time given to participate and drive to and from public demonstrations or debates to instead go and care for the sojourners today: feed them, invite them in, *listen* to them, clothe them, and look after them. Imagine how different the world would be if each of us—you—did all you're able with your five loaves and two fish.

Atlanta, email me. I can connect you to plenty of refugees who are feeling very vulnerable and fearful in the wake of all this—they need you. Please make them the priority. (Also, odds are they’ll feed you a feast! Ha!)

If you're not in Atlanta, see link in my profile for a list of refugee aid organizations possibly near you.

@natebramsen said it beautifully:
"Do we actually care more about refugees (and each other) or just about making a raucous?

If you are aching, as I am, GO TO THEM!...

Hundreds of refugees STILL come into the USA daily. When was the last time you invited a refugee INTO your home for a home-cooked meal? How many refugees' phone numbers do you have in your contacts? How much does YOUR lifestyle CHANGE because you ache for refugees to be well cared for and compassionately loved? When did you last offer to tutor a refugee in English?
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Have we become a nation where carrying a sign is noble, but caring for your neighbor is virtually unheard of? What changes opinions more effectively? Protests insulting leadership or people demonstrating sacrificial love? Are we ready to live loud lives of love?
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Change doesn't start in the White House. It starts in my house."

International Holocaust Remembrance Day

Yesterday on International Holocaust Remembrance Day President Trump signed an executive memorandum in an effort to grant Christian refugees and others from minority religions priority over Muslim refugees entering the United States by temporarily banning the entry of all Libyans, Somalians, Yemenis, Sudanese, Iraqis, and Iranis—even families on airplanes en route to America while the order was being signed. Further, Syrians were singled out as, "detrimental to the interests of the United States," and blocked from entry indefinitely.

That is a sizable portion of a region far too many brethren before us have assiduously pleaded before God to open doors to, that they might share together with those people that which we cannot lose. And today they are coming to us in droves! Yet we have instead sought to keep safe for ourselves that which we will all one day lose—and close the doors.

I am with you, America; I want to be wise and keep my family safe. But this? This?

Dear me, our brothers and sisters are surely rolling in their graves.

Hedges and Stops

This image from the Rwandz Camp of a few hundred Yazidi refugees brings more to my mind than is reasonable to write here, or perhaps more than is helpful. But I read some words in an old book a few weeks back that this image makes think of. See, I love the way these five young men sit—they sit like they’re waiting on something. And it’s true, we all know they are. They’re waiting to be done with the place God has them in—to go home and have their lives back.

And that’s why I thought of this: “Waiting is much more difficult than walking. Waiting requires patience, and patience is a rare virtue…[When] the hedge is kept around one until it grows so high that he cannot see over the top, and wonders whether he is ever to get out of the little sphere of influence and service in which he is pent up, it is hard for him sometimes to understand why he may not have a larger environment—hard for him to 'brighten the corner' where he is. But God has a purpose in all His holdups. 'The steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord,’ …at this verse George Mueller had a notation, 'And the stops also.’ "

"It requires a grander heroism to stand and wait and not lose heart and not lose hope…” -J.R. Miller
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Would you pray for the men in this photograph now? Pray that in their “holdup” God would come and “brighten the corner” where they are?

His Sorrow is Splendor

"It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live. I always thought this meant that no one could see his splendor and live. A friend said perhaps it meant that no one could see his sorrow and live. Or perhaps his sorrow is splendor.”
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-Nicholas Wolterstorff

Holy Temple of Lalish

This is Tariq, a kind Yazidi man from Sinjar who fled his home in 2014, at the holy temple of Lalish. Right now one of his sons is at a refugee camp in Greece, but he and the rest of his family are living in the Rwandz camp built by The Refuge Initiative.

The Yazidis are a small Iraqi ethnic minority whose ancient faith is a largely misunderstood blend of Assyrian and Mesopotamian pre-Islamic traditions, Christianity, and Islam. For centuries they have been a target of hatred for their reputation as 'devil worshipers.'

In 2014n ISIS raided the Sinjar region, abducting 7,000 women and girls as sex slaves and massacring 5,000 civilians who refused to convert, which led to the expulsion of nearly 500,000 Yazidis from their ancestral land. Thousands were entrapped on nearby Mt. Sinjar—the highest peak is considered to be the final resting place of Noah’s Ark.

Back in May I went with Tariq and a few of our friends to Lalish, the holy temple of the Yazidi faith in Dohuk—a place all Yazidis are expected to pilgrimage to during their lifetime. Tariq and other Yazidis kissed the doorframes, walls, and grounds of the shrine. They asked us to step deliberately over the all door thresholds for reasons I never quite understood. It was the only ritual we were asked to observe, aside from leaving our shoes at the entrance to the grounds.

Baptismal pool at Lalish Temple

Barefoot at Lalish

I’m Not Daesh

“I’m not Daesh!” the imam said with arms wide and proud.

I grinned. “Oh, I know.” I said, making my way through the door to a massive assortment of shoes. I could feel as many eyes on me as there were shoes long before I looked up from adding mine to the pile. I may have been covered head to toe like the gals in Soran, but I was still a gal—and this was a fella’s place and a fella’s-only prayer.

So confession: I was beginning to think my little “visit” was gonna be another one of those minor catastrophes culminating in some over the phone lecture from my dad on eleventh-hour-learning and the errors of my erratic ways...

Turns out, though, it wasn’t. And my dad really likes this photograph.
 

Her Chador Was Longer Than She Was Tall

Her chador was longer than she was tall. She came and sat close to me after this in silence while we listened to the imam teach over the intercom. He was upstairs with the men. It was Friday prayer and I loved the light through those windows, and how soft and white and clean the fabric wrapped around her was.