stone

We demand assimilation. We demand this of them.  And I confess, that left to my own understandings, I fall into living out the dichotomy. Today, this is what I mourn. 

My daily practice of empathy is just that: a practice. A practice that goes against my long-laden history of "English only", proselytization, and the labeling of others to keep ours safe. To keep myself safe. 

If they speak their language and I don't understand, where will my power be? (and if it has been lost, then mustn't I acknowledge that my power is merely a privilege?)

If they share their theology and it contracts what I know, will mine fall apart? (and if it does, would that not be evidence that our understandings are so deeply intertwined?)

If their label doesn't actually separate us, does the label have a say anymore? (and if it doesn't, from whom or what will our belonging come from?)

If these ifs transform out of questions and into realities, will my life be safe? Will it ever be the same? [No! Praise God, no!]

More and more I'm allowing questions to become realities so that truth can be the answer instead of fear-driven predictions. 

I open my heart and I live the truth that hearts of stone can be changed. 

And as I open my heart, I also watch borders close, stones be thrown, and walls built up.

And I mourn. 

But, perhaps these tears are a part of the work. They quicken the process. 

Stones turned into life. 

movement

With each plane that flies overhead I giggle a little: "I'm just the luckiest girl!" A plane. Pretending to be a bird. Carrying people. People! Movement. 

This is how my days begin, with the roar of an engine. I keep my eyes closed and imagine children returning to sleep, businessmen turning off mobile devices, and perhaps one or two giddy souls with their eyes locked to the window, prepared to see the sun rise and new lands. I try to time it so my eyes open right to the plane as it crosses the sky out my balcony door. I've practiced this for two years, wherever I'm lucky enough to live near an airport. Another one of my little games that makes boredom nearly impossible. 

Washing of the face. Feeding the dog. Teaching clothes packed. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal.

The salutes of security guards superfluous. It's another guessing game: which language will they greet me in, how long will their eyes follow me, and whatever do they do all day? My white skin is what men and women here labor for. In America, I'm pasty. But here I'm beautiful. Coupled with blue eyes? Sometimes I wonder if it is this combination that has gotten me so many friends. 

Eyes quickly return back to phones. Always back to the phones. Let's add filters to this time we have together. Let's enter into a more expansive world called "Online". Meanwhile, another airplane's engine roars and the joys of life-- the joys of now--pass over the heads of those around me. 

in this dry land

This is my first rainy season. My first time of packing ponchos and plastic bags "just in case". A season where all previous plans can be put on hold when the rains come. And, they do come. Before we even know it, the clouds have moved over the mountains and are upon us, in this valley. 

Many of these seasons have come and gone. It's the rhythm of the land and of life here. I'm joining into the rhythm late, but still joining nonetheless. I bring with me foreign eyes, which allow me to see more than I want to, at times. 

I see the rains, but I also see that I am living in a dry, dry land. 

A country where fear and politics are intertwined; where obeying authority is a core value in the country's education system. 

All behind smiles. 

The welcoming smiles world-renowned to bring in tourists and feed the economy. Yet smiles from behind which speak words of xenephobia and the need to protect from "otherness". 

This is one of the most well-off nations in the region, attracting migrants from surrounding countries, and even refugees from as far as Pakistan and northern China. Yet the government refuses to see refugees as such and a whole sector of economy is maintained by those who have been deemed unwelcome. Those who work under a shadow of fear cast from an unstable military [government]. 

There's a tricky dance happening between modernity and the preservation of tradition. I watch this dance every day. The more I learn the language, the more I'm able to speak this dance, as well. A dance to the tune of the monks' chants, revered songs of respect, and imported Karaoke songs which carry through the night. 

Tonight I lay in bed as the wind brings the music through my windows. I wonder, will the rain come like it does here? Sometimes quite suddenly. Or, perhaps, the clouds have already begun forming. Transformation is a slow work, and one that requires many ingredients. So I close my eyes, pray, and hold onto the hope that the rains, indeed, will come. 

Dear White Pastor,

Greetings! My name is Christina Hibbard and though I haven't necessarily been to your church, I want to thank you so much for your teaching, how you walk humbly, and your desire to shepherd the church. Currently I am in South Carolina, preparing to move overseas for teaching and ministry. While here, I feel compelled to share a piece of my response to the general white church, of which I am a part. 

As I listened with anticipation to your sermon this father's day, I felt hurt and unknown for how you addressed the massacre in Charleston. Though I am not a person of color, I try to make choices and act as an ally. For a practice in this allyship, I frequently examine issues and listen with ears not only mine but those from other groups: be it race, religion, sexuality, etc. I'd like to elaborate on why I felt so hurt, please, and I thank you for your reading and patience. 

What hurt is that the core issue of the shooting at the Emanuel AME Church has not been addressed by you: racism. This issue, though not pleasant, is, in one way or another, a daily reality for every black person in the U.S. To not address it as the cause for the massacre is to not address this reality for people of color--specifically the black community. When race is left out of the conversation where it needs to be, identity, culture, and history are left out for anyone who does not identify or look like the majority white. 

The forgiveness shown by the families of the victims was beautiful and I praise God that He can make good out of evil. This is a beautiful part of the event to share, and I am glad you mentioned this piece of redemption. Yet then you brought this ability to forgive to your congregation. You challenged the church to imagine their response if someone of another race had come and shot in your house of worship. When you said this, the race issue was normalized and minimized. The racist component--the core part of this situation-- was left out of the conversation. Racism cannot happen against us white folk. Prejudice, yes. But racism, in its nature, requires not only prejudice but also power. 

I grew up in Pella, Iowa. And Pella, you see, is a small, predominately white (specifically, Dutch) town surrounded by rural farms. When I was in Pella, traveled from Pella, and eventually moved out of Pella, I carried with me a white superiority complex. As you know, this is generational sin and this is systemic. I work daily to surrender and retrain my thoughts. During my 18 years in Pella, I never heard race discussed except as a concept in history. I believe there is deep truth in Desmond Tutu's words: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor." The realities of racism were not discussed when I went to school, to church, or at home. Or, if they were, there was no sense urgency or need for change. My formative years in Pella were neutral regarding the injustice of racism and my white superiority was solidified more and more. 

With a lack of diversity, I can understand this shortcoming in my upbringing and perhaps the shortcomings in your own church. All excuses must be thrown to the side now, though. Black Lives Matter is making voices heard through the systemic injustice to anywhere with internet. Furthermore, the violence has reached the Church and there is no excuse. (Why did it have to directly affect the Body of Christ before we listened? Are not any acts of violence a hurt to the Body?) 

This has to be addressed. Our black brothers and sisters in Christ are dying in the House of God. How can we remain silent? How can we not pray and ask God to show our own prejudices within?

In the last two weeks, there have been eight churches burned. Eight. All eight being black churches. I'd ask, please, that race is brought into the picture and mentioned from the pulpit. I ask that you would lead the church in prayer and in a humble response of listening. I pray against fear.

I really appreciate what Rev. Sekou, Jo Ann Hardesty of the NAACP, and Eric Knox of Imago Dei Community shared regarding responses of white Christians in this interview. It is deeply convicting to me and I continue to pray for all my white brothers and sisters regarding this.

I thank you for taking the time to read this and, again, for your leadership in the church. I thank you in advance for how you will continue to pray about this issue and for our black brothers and sisters. 

In peace and with hope for reconciliation, 
Christina Grace Hibbard    

The Waves of Questions: Colonization

I am not here to colonize. I am not here to live luxuriously while you suffer or to promote English Only. Listen to me: I'm not. 

But you can't just listen to my words and believe me, you have to listen to my story: my history. I am my own person, yes. But more than that, I am a part of a history and a culture and this is alive and active in who I am. To separate myself from that would be giving in to one of the biggest lies white culture tells.

My skin color and Christian faith is enough of a historical red flag. Add on my US citizenship and native language and I'm a recipe rich in imperialistic history that needs to be examined before I step foot onto a plane and off into some developing country with all my foreign money or good intentions.

"To hell with good intentions," Ivan Illich declared.

Generations have come before me. The land I live on is "mine" because of blood shed, people coerced, and proselytization. The education system I learn in and will soon teach for is white washed and not pretty; text books excluding whole peoples and realities.

I cannot ignore the systems and history that shape who I am and how others see me.

Does this mean staying? Not necessarily, because too often staying "home" means staying stagnant. And, no, because I have to believe that systems change. That power can be transformed. Not in and of myself or with my white friends. But in realistic communities which reflect the life around us. In asking questions and listening for understanding.

The waves of reality come in and I let them wash away any facades I have of my good intentions overriding my racial, ethnic, and religious history. My intention is not to colonize, but my history lends me towards subconsciously acting out of a colonizing mindset.

I keep walking, next to my brothers and sisters from different countries, races, native languages, sexualities, and religions. And I push through my paperwork for the new school I will teach at: A Christian school in Buddhist Thailand. Here I go.

Water and Buds and Lightning Across the Sky

For an hour (maybe it was more or maybe it was less)
I had sat, captivated by the lightning I saw right when I blinked my eye. So I stayed and I watched the branches of the trees become silhouettes while the still-brown leaves of the oak trees rustled in their goodness. Wind through the leaves and the tufts belonging to the geese who just returned home.

Then there was that time, the wind paused and it was silent. A holy silence filled with the many thanks from the trees and the blades of grass still under the soil and the now-calm water on the lake. Thanks given in a million different ways from the millions of different creations around me and I, there, in the midst of it
a witness to this gratitude.
A gratitude filled with trust. Trust that life is being redeemed, it is being made new;
the rain will come.

And when it did come, I, the last of all,
gave my thanks.

The Invitation

In these last few weeks, I can't help but return to the same image again and again. In it, sometimes the sun is shining bright so I have to squint, and other times the sky is a palette of greys, blending with the frozen lake. No matter what, there's the tree. Bare of leaves except at the tippy top. There, on the small branch coming from the larger one, coming from the trunk, there's a leaf. One leaf, just hanging there.

When I first saw this, I sat, puzzled and feeling contemplative with my cup of Earl Grey in hand.

Then I heard, so clearly from somewhere inside of me or maybe whispered from the tree: 
"you weren't created for this."

But what, exactly, is this? Does this refer to the place I'm at right now? Or the place I'm preparing to go? Or maybe it's more of a spiritual state I'm in? Or a way of operating? Is it the friends I have or maybe the ones who have left me? 

There's no answer. So, I continue returning to this image and continue asking this question.

I wrote a poem about the leaf (what a tree-hugging Romantic, I know...bear with me). And as I re-read it, I realize that maybe it's addressed more to myself and to you than to a leaf. 

The Invitation 

When the southern winds move northerly, there comes the invitation you were created for, though maybe you didn't know it until the winds themself sung:

"Come learn the dance which begins

with letting go of what you know

until something greater can grow.

But first you must leave.

It's in your name, you see.

Come,"

she laughs and dances on.

But you stay, somewhere between being a faithful companion and a stubborn coward, and ask questions on the details of matters you can't yet comprehend.

So you see seasons you were never prepared for, full of joys and tears and trials just as life always is. And when you finally pause you hear, again, the never-ending chorus of the winds:

come, let go of what you know, and join in the journey.

Again and Again

After your soft heart has been ripped through

by Suffering Unexpected

and it seems nothing will grow here again,

Grace remains

patient to hold you tight when you pound and pound,

begging questions with no answers.

Held tighter still.

Grace that never stops, always present

and chasing after you as you

scurry about,

retracing memories and promises and always

needing just one more piece,

looking under rocks through the woods

and sometimes the houses too.

Which began when first words were uttered, now,

it sits with you, on this tree stump

and tears help flowers grow

where life was taken.

A Dance

During my short, 

and bone-chilling walks 

through the snow I often 

admire the bold Evergreen. 

He stands tall and rarely 

bows to the wind; 

reminding me that 

life and hope prevail. 

Then, today, I looked 

to the great Oak. 

She, too, stands out amongst the others 

with her old brown crunchy leaves clinging 

closely to the branches. 

"I'd prefer the Evergreen," 

I thought. 

Then, I heard her leaves rustle. 

And I realized, the great Oak knows, 

more than any other, 

to dance with each whisper 

of music the wind provides.