Writing this scared

Postcards of Hope: 001 | The power of love and community.

Friends, Most of you read this in your inbox or in the app. If this postcard resonates, it would mean the world if you’d take a moment to tap the 🤍 emoji and/or share this post to help it get seen by more people.

I have a dream of growing this space into the kindest corner on the internet, something that supports your creativity, connection, and courage even more in the days we are in. I can only do what I do because of you, and I am so grateful you are here. 💛

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This year marks 20 years of splattering my heart on a page for the whole internet to read.

Two decades of tracing my steps through war zones abroad and zones that feel like war at home.

I’m shifting in my seat as I type, debating 5 post titles, and weighing the very real potential consequences of sharing these thoughts amidst a powder keg of fear and fury.

It is not lost on me that a few of you may respond that you signed up for prompts, not politics, as you announce your departure.

But before you do…

I get it. I would absolutely rather be working on Valentine’s craft tutorials or Little Women Winter projects, or stripping the backsplash in my kitchen.

I’d most certainly much rather be curled up under 3 blankets reading a good book.

I get it. Me too. But here’s the issue.

At some inflection points in history such as this, mere breathing is political.

To be fair, breathing for some people has always been political. Just more of us are noticing these days.

Wonder does not exist in a vacuum. Neither do writers or their writing.

Reading doesn’t exist in a vacuum either. And we all need to choose the content we consume carefully to balance our well-being with the need to stay informed. So skip this post if you need to or bookmark it for later.

Please understand I am not here to debate political policy. There are many places that do that. This is not one of them.

A beautiful sunset in Central Equatoria, (South) Sudan. This was before they became their own country.

Rather, I’m here to honestly share something I began learning a world away that has special relevance for today.

I spent 7 years living and working in a part of the world that had, at that time, seen 40 years of civil war: what is now South Sudan.

I lived in there during the vast majority of their transition to and a little bit after, becoming the world’s newest nation.

When I initially arrived in South Sudan, it was considered to be one of the most dangerous places on earth.

I went in largely on my own as a civilian to work with local church and community leaders and to help build a project that took care of children and women that were at risk for exploitation and trafficking.

Honestly, getting to be there and to serve alongside such beautiful, brave people was one of the greatest privileges of my life. They taught me almost everything I know now about the power of community to shape resilience.

They showed me the power of people showing up for one another and taking care of each other, and in ways that I really hadn’t seen in the U.S.

We had some harrowing situations.

Instability and other armed groups regularly roved the unpaved roads.

Splinter groups from really violent militias across the border in Congo would sometimes encroach on the area I was living in.

Famine and food shortages.

Tribal violence, unimaginable trauma, and just dire, desperate situations.

There were cholera outbreaks in town.

I had the cerebral strain of malaria 16 times.

But I never felt alone, and I rarely felt scared because I was part of a community that I knew would take care of me. And one that I would have gladly laid down my life to protect.

Wonder grows in the rubble of war. In the middle of impossible medical diagnoses. The sky still bursts into rainbows against storm clouds of ink and drips with color at sunset.

Wonder exists in the cracks of our world. And in the cracked corners of our hearts.

I’ve been watching what’s been going on in Minneapolis and in Minnesota, largely from the stories of friends who are there.

Some things happening in MN are worse than things I, personally, witnessed a world away. And that is saying a lot.

But the way people are stepping up to take care of one another and to love their neighbors reminds me of the community I called home in South Sudan.

I’m not here to debate matters of policy or immigration reform.

I’m here for what’s not up for debate… at least not in this space. Wanton disregard for human life. Inhuman conditions of detainees. The utter lack of due process. The violence, cruelty, and lust for power.

Chemical agents¹ that are banned for use in international warfare being used against babies and schoolchildren on US streets.

Wonder cannot unfold anywhere apart from our lived experiences.

Here’s the catch. If we turn a blind eye to what’s happening around us, we also risk blinding our perception of the wonder and beauty that grow in the marshes and low places of loss, grief, and pain.

Wonder isn’t an escape from hard things; it’s what helps us thrive right in the middle of them.

And my Sudanese friends and colleagues taught me every day the thing that makes any place or people great is how we care for one another. Full stop.

How we serve the least and the last in our midst.

Love is what makes us great.

We can have all the money and power in the world.

All the cutting-edge innovation and tech.

We can have everything we think we ever wanted.

If we do not have love, we have nothing.

Take heart, friends.

Morning always comes.

Hold on to hope, because in the long lens of history, love wins.

1. Tear gas is banned for use in warfare by international treaties like the Chemical Weapons Convention. Its use in warfare was prohibited after World War I due to its indiscriminate effects, but it’s now widely used by domestic police for crowd dispersal. That boggles my brain.