I wrote finally, because I’ve suspected that I’ve had it for a long time.

While I don’t need to write about it, I am a writer and it’s nothing to hide. And as one who was diagnosed late in life, it feels important, and perhaps helpful, to share about publicly. I’m not writing as a professional or an expert, but as a person, walking (stumbling) through it all.

In high school, after hearing about something to do with ADHD, something clicked on in my mind like a small flickering light, and I wondered if I had it.

At my next yearly check up, when my doctor asked if there’s anything else she can do for me, I brought it up. Thinking about how I actually brought it up with her all those years ago, makes me a little teary now. As a teenager who used the least amount of words possible while in public, and someone who would likely say “I’m fine,” unless I was about to die and it was recognizable, I see how brave it was for me to bring it up at all. I am proud of myself now, for being brave and advocating for myself in a way that I rarely did back then. It mattered, even if the initial outcome made me think otherwise.

I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. I wasn’t hyperactive, but I did sit and stare out the window, play through scenarios and stories and a million other things in my mind when I was supposed to be studying or listening to a teacher. I struggled to start things that others didn’t seem to have any problem starting:

I was a stone statue housing a continuous inner storm of stories, memories, conversations, and rabbit trails.

It was the nineties, and as I’ve learned, there wasn’t much research on ADHD and how it presented differently in males and females. Until my recent diagnosis, I didn’t even know there were three different kinds of ADHD. Back then, it was often attached to boys and hyperactivity.

My doctor chuckled in response when I asked, as if she thought it was an absurd question, but gave me a single sheet of paper with a quiz on it anyway. I was supposed to check yes or no for each question.

✔️No, it’s not hard to stay still (I can stay in one spot until my legs lose their feeling)

✔️No, I don’t interrupt people (I try to be as close to mute as possible)

I gave it back to her, thinking, well, I guess I don’t have it, however, like so much of how I felt about who I was, I thought, something is still wrong with me. I would go on for decades with no name for this, among other things, and shame stacking upon shame for how it showed up in my everyday life.

The desire to be able to name things is inherent.

From stuffed animals to a new friend, from a place to a person, from what brings us joy to what causes us deep pain, naming is crucial and part of how we are made.

Monica DiCristina, therapist and author of Your Pain Has a Name, wrote, “Naming is not only a validating relief, it is brain science at work.”

After that doctor’s appointment I went on for decades, witnessing others do things with ease; things that were named as normal or everyday, and feeling as though it took me days and willpower I didn’t possess to do the same. Phone calls, studying, simple planning, being on time instead of anxiously way-early or late and nothing in-between. In college, I would forget assignments, not study, and then with a burst of creativity, write an entire a story for a creative writing class all at once. I didn’t know how to tell my roommate that it had been taking up space in my imagination for weeks before it flew out of my fingertips. It just did. My constant struggle also had a superpower but I didn’t feel as though I was in control of either aspect.

Fast forward to the last few years when I started to read about a “lost generation” of undiagnosed women with ADHD. Along with that, were articles and posts online about women in their late thirties all the way into their seventies, discovering they were neurodivergent in some way. Light bulbs had been turned on for them, no matter the age.

Every time an article popped up, I’d read it and resonate. I took tests online and would score high with each one. I wondered how much of all of this is another gimmick. Does everyone now suddenly have some kind of neurodivergence since after all, “normal is a myth” anyway?

When I finally asked my therapist, and we walked through everything together, it was simple.

Yes, that sounds like ADHD.

Yes, that makes sense considering what we now know.

Yes, there’s a lost generation of women like you.

And after the test, ✔️yes, you have inattentive ADHD.

A name.

I told a few of my friends that already knew I’d suspected this, and found myself feeling a swirling combination of relief, validation, hope I didn’t know I needed, and a recurring sadness for the younger me who knew but didn’t have a name and didn’t have support for one of the ways she was wired.

I’ve been talking to that younger me and inviting God into the conversation. Similar to Rememorari Divina that I shared about a couple of years ago, when a memory comes to mind, I try to think about how I can now name why I struggled. I can validate how much harder something really was for me. I can think about and look at my younger self with compassion, instead of shame or criticism, and say, “Wow, you figured out how to move forward anyway.” Like Rachael Wade writes in her poem, I grew anyway, I can affirm the same thing. And, I can ask God to join me in my sadness and help me know I was never alone in any of it.

“Naming what has lived unnamed, is holy work.” - Nancy Blackman

If you suspect you may have ADHD, or something else, it’s not too late to ask for help. It’s not too late to find a name for what you’ve lived and know to be true. And if you are a late bloomer and late to a diagnosis of any kind, be ever-compassionate with yourself as you look back and remain present. Invite God into your memories and receive your identity as beloved, then, and now.

You aren’t alone. 🫶

🙏 Breath prayers for a lost generation, or late bloomers, in one way or another

Inhale: Expansive Creator who sees every stage of me

Exhale: you loved me then and you love me now

Inhale: There’s nothing wrong with me

Exhale: I am ever-becoming and right on time

Inhale: I lift my eyes up to you

Exhale: Help me name what’s needed a name

Shalomsick with you,

That morning, however, would take a turn. At some point during our five-mile walk, a bike sped past us. We didn’t hear his wheels spinning as he approached, and I don’t remember him calling out, “on your left” like many bikers do. There was a group of women that had passed us going the opposite way, so there was room for him to pass when he did, and we weren’t in the opposite lane. All that to say, when he passed us, he yelled, “F---ing c--t!!”

We were stunned. And the first thing we both did was try to figure out how we made him mad. Isn’t that astonishing? As women, in response to a man’s anger, we have become so accustomed to assume we are doing something wrong.

We looked back to see how far the women who had passed us were. Did we leave enough room? Were we talking too loudly to hear him say, “on your left,” before he resorted to screaming obscenities at us? Was he late to something important? Did he see that we’re women of color?

For the rest of that morning walk, and a few rage-walks that followed, we were hyper-aware of everyone on a bike, and anyone who needed to pass us. We were aware of how close our feet were to the lane line, and how far our arms swung.

As my feeds are filled with news of the Epstein files, and local news about a young teenager from our community, whose life was tragically and horrifically taken by an online predator, this small, but not insignificant encounter on the trail keeps coming back to mind.

I can’t stop thinking about this little episode with the biker, and how we, as women, learn to live our lives. I can’t believe how accustomed so many of us are to thinking about how much space we take up on trails, in email inboxes, and in meeting rooms. Or how we all learn to think about what we are wearing, who is in the room, and why someone won’t be alone with us and others are trying to get us cornered and alone. I can’t believe how often we all think about where we will be and when, how close we are to exits and parking garage stairs and lights and call buttons. I can’t believe how normal it is to make sure a friend or significant other knows where we are, or how we make sure to hold our keys in the right way, have our phones handy, or how many hours we’ve thought about getting pepper spray or researching the latest tool for keeping women safe.

I’ve seen people saying that we have to do better about making sure girls and women and those who love them, do all the things to keep ourselves and everyone we know, safe. Of course I believe in being wise and doing what I can to keep others safe, but I feel the deepest rage over the fact the emphasis and responsibility, education and investments, are so often heaped on the shoulders of women, instead of the ones who are actually responsible for dehumanizing us to the point of violence, abuse, and harm.

This, along with the fact that in our nation, those in the highest level of office are allowed to get away with the horrific abuse of girls and women: from degrading them with words to thousands of victim statements that lead to nothing for decades, while racially profiling immigrants and scapegoating an entire group of people for supposed “crimes” that come nowhere close to the felonies they’ve been accused of.

It makes me feel sick and angry and rightly so.

One of the reasons I fell in love with Jesus as a teenager, is because of how he treated, pursued, wept with, partied with, engaged with, honored, and of course, created, women. I’ve been meditating on Jesus with the Samaritan woman, Jesus with his mom, Jesus with his dear friends, Mary and Martha, Jesus with the hemorrhaging woman, Jesus with the woman who wiped his feet with her tears, Jesus on teaching other men how to treat women, again and again and again. This is what our Creator and the lover of our souls intended for us as women (and men).

In John 1 (VOICE), John reminds us that Jesus (the voice) was there in the beginning of all things:

“Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.

‘The Voice was and is God.
This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;
His speech shaped the entire cosmos.
Immersed in the practice of creating,
all things that exist were birthed in Him.
His breath filled all things
with a living, breathing light—
A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,
blazes through murky bottoms.
It cannot and will not be quenched.”

And in Genesis 1: 27-28 (VOICE), we’re reminded of how we were made and what we were made for: flourishing, tending to, caring for, and honoring one another and the whole of creation:

“He created humanity in His image, created them male and female. Then God blessed them and gave them this directive: “Be fruitful and multiply. Populate the earth. I make you trustees of My estate, so care for My creation…”

I have to keep going back to not only how things are meant to be, but also what is still possible. Despite so much in our nation and across the world, this is still what is meant to be and what is possible.

We can continue to speak out about injustice, and to speak up for ourselves and others, and put our hope in Jesus without ignoring what is or turning away from the pain and horror that reveals how far from that “meant to be” and “possibility” things are.

In Cindy S. Lee’s book, Our Unforming, she quotes Walter Brueggemann and writes this:

“Walter Brueggemann assigns the practice of imagination to the work of a prophet, and in his book The Prophetic Imagination, he calls artists the modern-day prophets of society. Artists are not afraid to imagine what may seem impossible. Brueggemann writes, ‘Thus every totalitarian regime is frightened of the artist. It is the vocation of the prophet to keep alive the ministry or imagination, to keep on conjuring and proposing futures alternative to the single one the king wants to urge as the only thinkable one.’

Artists can threaten the controlling narrative of those in power. Artists reside at the borders of our broken realities and their imaginations of a different possibility. In that in-between space, they express through color, sound, texture, movement, and word what doesn’t yet exist. Artists can change the way we use words and help us hear and speak differently. Artists can help us change the way we imagine and show us an alternative reality. Imagination is the audacity to want, desire, and demand better-to break through the boundaries of cultural standards and norms, to experiment, and to express something new. I see imagination as the central posture to re-forming our collective soul.”

God is the ultimate artist. You and I have been birthed from our Creator’s vast imagination and carry that artistry in our bones. Women have been “built” from the heart and imagination of God, and every story of Jesus with women affirms this beautiful, irrevocable truth.

If you, like me, feel disheartened and weary, I urge you to go sit with your own imagination for what could be. Sit with the stories of Jesus and how he turned imagination into reality. Let his heart for, his honoring of, his fight for women, remind you what’s true, heal your wounds, and give you the fire you need to fight against the injustice and oppression of women everywhere while imagining what should and could be. Keep creating from that space and express all that should and could be.

I also highly recommend weekly therapeutic rage walking* with a trusted friend who will let you show up whole, will not edit you or spiritually bypass you, will hold you and those you love with care, remind you of what’s true, and text you weeks later to say she wished she would’ve “kicked that guy on the bike between the legs.”

May you go to Jesus and let him embrace your multitudes, your layers, your bright light, and your darkest depths.

Breath Prayers For Women Who Feel Rage (and rightly so)

Inhale: I was birthed from Light

Exhale: I was made to take up space and be safe in love

Inhale: You honor and see the whole of me

Exhale: No apologies are needed for any part of my womanhood

Shalomsick with you,

* I need no convincing that walking helps me in multiple ways, but at my last therapy appointment, I was telling my therapist how much these weekly walks help me, and she decided to tell me the science behind it all. Walking is bilateral stimulation, and it feels therapeutic because it works to calm our nervous system. So, yay for walking, yay for science, yay for all the ways God has made us and given us to mend and be made new.

Please consider taking a moment to sign this petition, created by Hailey’s family

Yesterday, I decided to sit with these words and Jesus’ actual words, and invite the Holy Spirit into my reflection. Reading Jesus’ words with our national reality of on-going dehumanization, escalating human rights violations, and communal heartbreak in mind, made me angry. So I listened to my anger, then turned towards lament.

I lament the backwards beatitudes that are deeply embedded in me, in the Church, and in our nation.

If it would be helpful for you as well, I invite you to join me in reflecting on the words below, or to sit with Jesus’ words and heart in Matthew 5:3-11 . I also invite you to make space for whatever comes up for you as you do. If it’s anger, like me, I invite you to listen to her and express your own lament as needed. 💛

Backwards Beatitudes

Blessed are those who are super spiritual, completely certain, and rich in their own holy house… for they have so much they don’t even need the Kingdom of Heaven!

Blessed are those who cheerfully bypass their pain with praise….for they do not long to be comforted by the Comforter.

Blessed are those who are full with their own good deeds and treat justice and righteousness like optional electives in the course of life…their own power and privilege protect them!

Blessed are those who show no mercy… for they know they aren’t weak enough to need any themselves!

Blessed are those whose hearts are duplicitous and manipulative… for they will never have to ever see God if they don’t want to!

Blessed are those who demand and seek war… for they don’t want to be called children of the Prince of Peace!

Blessed are those who are charming and popular, no matter the cost…for they have esteem and status and are invited to all the kingdoms they want to be invited to already.

Breath prayers for welcoming every true blessing of our belovedness 🙏

inhale: Keep me tethered to my blessed belovedness in you

exhale: Help me resist grasping or chasing after any backwards beatitudes instead of you

inhale: Open me up to all that’s good, right, & true

exhale: Help me to welcome & walk in your good ways

Shalomsick with you and wishing you shalom, 🫶

Ways to help our Minnesota neighbors:

My friend Laura Fanucci lives in Minneapolis and has been sharing about ways to help on her Substack, The Holy Labor. Outside of this, Laura is an incredible human being, an author (she has a brand new book you can pre-order now, Living Easter) and everything she writes is worth your time. Subscribe to her Substack here:

It was in that same family room where Bethany introduced me to It’s A Wonderful Life, her favorite Christmas movie, and the delight of cinnamon toast. Before we put the movie in the VCR, she’d grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter and put two pieces in the toaster. She grabbed the cinnamon and sugar from a cabinet, and when the bread slices popped up, we covered them in some kind of spreadable margarine, and then shook the cinnamon and sugar over the spread like snow. We sat on the floor in that family room with our toast on paper towels, watching Jimmy Stewart’s singular expressions and incredible wingspan. I’ve loved that movie and cinnamon toast ever since.

I wrote about my friendship with Bethany in Tell Me The Dream Again. There are some childhood friendships that not only form you, but never leave you, and Bethany’s friendship is that way for me. Those experiences have irrevocably marked the way I see the world. We’ve both agreed that our understandings of our mixed race Asian American identities, and our understandings of faith have been shaped, and practically cemented from our growth together during that time.

It was through our friendship that I learned I’m not alone in my mixed race Asian Americanness, and it was also through that sense of belonging that I learned how different our experiences can be within such a uniquely shared racial identity.

On a small couch in that same family room, Bethany told me that both of her maternal grandparents, along with her great aunts, had been forcibly removed and relocated to live in Japanese internment camps.

Her grandparents, along with around 120,000 other Japanese American citizens, were incarcerated there during World War II. In our conversation that day, I learned more about that awful time in our national history than I’d ever learned in school.

I lament the way history and stories are silenced, and the way it hurts us all.

Ignoring negative parts of history, like so many other uncomfortable things we’d rather erase with a cheerful disposition, only invites those parts to stay wounded and fester within collectively, until they can no longer stay contained. They will emerge, or “come out sideways,” as I like to say, and won’t comply with being told to hide away.

Maybe it’s because some of my family and I watched It’s a Wonderful Life over the holidays, and it always reminds me of Bethany. Maybe it’s because Bethany and I have been in touch sporadically again, connecting over the season our kids are in — much like the one we lived through when our friendship began. Maybe it’s all of this alongside of the news that’s reminded me of her late, beautiful, grandparents, that made me think about the line between today and the atrocity of the Japanese Incarceration during World War II.

Like today, “national security” and “safety” were used as a justification, and like today, the policy violated the constitutional rights of Americans.

In my longing for hope, I did some research on how the Church responded during that time, and it was hard to find much of anything. Will it be the same in generations to come, when our children and theirs look back on this time in our history and wonder how the Church, responded to grave injustice towards immigrants in our country?

In a book review written by Paul Harvey, on Anne Blankenship’s book, Christianity, Social Justice, and the Japanese American Incarceration during World War II, the following stood out:

“Most Protestant leaders worried that too public of a protest would alienate parishioners. They thought it better to enlist sympathetic people behind the scenes rather than make public proclamations about the injustices done to Japanese Americans. Churches mostly worked to provide material and spiritual aid to interned people. But the receiving of that aid ‘reaffirmed the Japanese Americans’ lower social status and their sense of obligation to the outside churches.”

There must be stories about how the Church stood against injustice towards Japanese Americans, and stood for the dignity, humanity, and imago Dei in all. At least, I hope there were those who acted with courage and conviction, compelled by Christ’s love, not partisan loyalty and blindness, and inspired by the stories of their spiritual ancestors like Shiprah and Puah, Moses, and Jesus himself.

However, the larger story we’re left with, is one of silence and betrayal. And throughout history, and many instances, the Church has not only been complicit in silence over injustice, it has encouraged it.

I lament the way the Church often treats speaking out on injustice as divisive when it’s actually silence in times like these, that causes deep, long-lasting, division.

We can refuse the betrayal of silence in many different ways. All of it matters. If we are honest, we know how we can use our voice and where to use it. It won’t feel like holiday movies and cinnamon toast, but it’s still connected to our shared story of humanity and our responsibility to remember that we belong to one another.

That family room that holds so many memories of my friendship with Bethany, doesn’t discriminate between or erase some of the stories shared there. From the joy of cinnamon toast, to painful stories of injustice, carried through the generations of our families, that room held it all and more.

We too, are able to not only hold these varied stories of both joy and pain, we are to use our voices and our whole selves, to tell them.

I keep coming back to Henri M. Nouwen’s words about Jesus in The Wounded Healer:

“Jesus was a revolutionary who did not become an extremist, since he did not offer an ideology, but himself. He was also a mystic, who did not use his intimate relationship with God to avoid the social evils of his time, but shocked his milieu to the point of being executed as a rebel.”

As I finish writing this, one of my kids is making their own version of cinnamon toast. I can smell the butter and almost taste the sugar and spice. He shows me the swirl on bread and butter and I wonder, what will he think and what will his generation say about this time when he’s my age?

Shalomsick,

If you are looking for more ways to use your voice, and to love and support your immigrant neighbors and beyond, check out a few of the resources below:

Migration Bible Study - do this on your own, with a small community of friends or invite your whole church.

We Choose Welcome - a great site with resources ranging from stories, guides for the family, to how to take action locally and nationally

Immigrant Connection - an organization that’s been loving immigrant neighbors in this time and for the long-haul.

World Relief - a global org that was founded after World War II, that partners with churches and local communities to engage with world crises with lots of ways to volunteer, support and advocate for refugees and immigrants.

On Tuesday mornings, I walk with my friend Sandy.

The little city trail we walk on was built where a railroad track used to be. It’s still fairly new, but, as witnessed on our regular jaunts, it’s become a bright staple for many in our little city. Our weekly, almost 5 mile walk, is our time to catch up, laugh, collect blisters, and rage or celebrate in-person. I put this time in my schedule and have it blocked out as unavailable most weeks. I wouldn’t have done that a few years ago. However, in the last few years, both of our schedules and lives have shifted to make this possible in ways it wasn’t before. In addition to that, I have personally shifted in ways that have motivated me to make this weekly time possible in ways I wasn’t as motivated to do before.

I now see this weekly walk with my dear friend in a new light: essential for my soul and a grounding gift to be able to receive.

Friendship, like faith journeys, are all-too-easy to take for granted. Ironically, friendship and faith journeys that last are also really hard to come by. Any lasting friendship and/or faith journey will likely endure varied seasons and cycles of deconstruction and reconstruction. Sometimes both things are even happening at the same time in different areas of our lives.

Deconstruction has become a dirty word in some Christian circles, and a defining label of pride in other Christian circles. But beyond a disgraced description to fear, or an exclusive club to arrive at, it’s a natural word that describes a necessary process. We’d all benefit so much from by being able to talk openly about it.

When Sandy and I first became friends years ago, we had tiny kids. We got together for playdates and chased our kids around while drinking coffee. We’ve gone through seasons where we shared the same faith community, and seasons when we didn’t. Our families grew and changed over time. If our friendship was founded on being moms of tiny toddlers, it would’ve only lasted that season. If our friendship was based on the church we first met at and served alongside of each other at, it would’ve died when we both left that building. If our friendship was based upon the small group we shared for a time, or other friends we had in common, or having everything in common from hobbies to opinions to how we educate our kids, it might not have lasted. It would be dishonest to say we don’t continue to share in a good number of things and both celebrate and rage over a long list of similar things… and yet, those things aren’t what have kept our friendship, and a lot of those things we’ve grown into together, over time. Our friendship has been a gift from God and one that we’ve worked to maintain through many shifts and cycles through construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction.

Friendship, like faith journeys and everything else in nature and life, are healthiest when they can flow from construction to deconstruction and reconstruction, and on and on again. As a side note, while those changes and movements can go through loud and dramatic shifts, they aren’t always that way. Sometimes we move through these transitions in subtle, gentle ways.

I see cycles of construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction all around me from watching the trees in my backyard, to the way cities are built and rebuilt, to family systems, friendships, faith communities, and the cycles of my body and spiritual journey: everything is constantly moving in this circular rhythm and I believe we are meant to move with it.

Things to consider and reflect on

• Look outside. What season of deconstruction and reconstruction are your trees in right now?

• Think about your own spiritual life, community, and neighborhood and the transitions they are in.

• What things in and around you are being built for the first time?

• What needs care, or attention, or perhaps even deconstruction or re-imagination so that it can continue to stretch and grow and thrive?

• What stories of construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction are unfolding and forming in you and all around you?

• What stories of deconstruction and reconstruction are you resisting out of fear and what are you afraid to lose?

• What scares you or gives you hope about deconstruction?

• What scares you or gives you hope about reconstruction?

While walking on the trail last week, I marveled at how full it was with people biking, walking, and running. People of all ages and demographics enjoy its presence in our city today. I remembered how upset some people were when it was announced that the railroad tracks would be removed to make way for this trail. Though I was someone who couldn’t wait for the trail, I’m also someone prone to feelings of nostalgia, so I understood why it was hard for some long-time residents to imagine the change. It makes sense that some experienced complicated feelings of resistance and fear for the forthcoming changes. And it makes sense for you and I to feel those things about our own journeys of construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction, and feel those things as we bear witness to that journey in others.

With time, consideration for what was, vision for what could be, and planning, the tracks in our city became a new trail anyway. Even more people use the space now, albeit moving in a different way than before, but still moving north and south like the train used to. The railroad was at once constructed, then deconstructed, and now it’s been reconstructed into a new path that carries the continually growing stories of a little city, and my friend Sandy and me.

Breath prayers

(inhale) Creator, you are the master builder and rebuilder who makes all things new

(exhale) Help me see the beauty and new work in and beyond deconstruction

(inhale) Jesus, you are with me and every story of reconstruction

(exhale) Let me rebuild on the firm foundation of you

Grateful and shalomsick,

Order Tell Me The Dream Again

When I was a little girl, I was in a number of on-going situations that led me to my knees in desperation. I didn’t know who God was, or if God was real. I’d heard of Jesus being someone in the room with me that i couldn’t see - like a ghost - and had a faint feeling or hope that whoever God was, that God could hear me and maybe even cared.

When there was turmoil at home, I ran to my bed or the floor of my room and cried out to God - asking if there was anyone there bigger than all the things in my life that felt too big and terrible and confusing. I pleaded for help and cried out for things to change. I let my pain show. I mumbled questions towards the universe, but more than the universe, towards someone I knew or hoped was there, even if I didn’t understand who that someone was.

Sometimes, I want to go back to that unpretentious time. I know who I pray to now, I recognize the Holy Spirit in me, and I know Jesus is with me. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, but what I sometimes long for is the way I threw myself at the feet of God without hesitation or feeling the need to know anything or do anything “the right way,” and poured my heart out alongside of snot and tears and mumbled words. There was nothing to prove or pretend, no list to check off and no need to show off.

Prayer is for all of us. It’s meant to be simple and ever-accessible for all — every age, every stage of faith.

I recently shared about a new children’s book on prayer, Kaylee Prays for the Children of the World, by Helen Lee, and today I have yet another children’s book about prayer to tell you about: All The Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere by Tanner Olson.

Tanner’s offering was a gift for the little girl in me who wanted to talk to God even before she knew if God was real. It’s a gift for all of us, big and small, to know and be reminded that we can talk to God anywhere, about anything. Here are some words from Tanner himself. I hope you’ll check his book out and order a copy for yourself, your kids, or someone you love. Leave a comment below by Tuesday, June 10th, for a chance to win a copy! I’ll pick one winner and announce it in the comments below.

In the Middle of the Ride

On infertility, hope, adoption, and the quiet surprises of God

By Tanner Olson

A few weeks ago, I looked in the rearview mirror and said with a smile, “This is what I prayed for.” 

My wife is in the middle. Judah, our son in his car seat next to her. Pancake, our dog, curled up on the other side. We were driving north as a family to see friends, a few hours away in Indiana. 

I remember when life didn’t look like this. 

There was a time I’d glance in that same rearview mirror and see only myself looking back.

With both hands on the wheel, I’d whisper something to God. Something like, “Please, God. Surprise me with something beautiful.”

Every time I drive north out of Nashville, I think of one particular morning in May 2022.

It was early. I was alone, driving from home to northern Michigan to spend time with my wife and her family. I had left before sunrise, hoping to make good time.

I queued up a playlist I created titled Every Song I’ve Ever Loved. It’s 88 hours long, mostly punk rock. Bands like blink-182, Jimmy Eat World, and New Found Glory. Music that’s carried me through the last two decades and is still helping me take the next step forward. I set the playlist on shuffle and jammed to whatever came through the speakers. 

A few hours into the ride The Middle by Jimmy Eat World came on and I belted along.

It just takes some time

Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride

Everything, everything'll be just fine

Everything, everything'll be alright, alright

After the chorus, I cut the music off. 

It was just the silence and me. How much time would it take? I wondered. Sure, everything might be alright in the end—but right then, it didn’t feel that way.

Tears began streaming from my face as I looked in my rearview mirror and wondered, “When will there be a child in the backseat?” 

God and I were about to have it out. A conversation I had been putting off. 

You see, after years of trying to start a family, my wife and I were recently diagnosed with unexplained infertility.

We dreamed of being parents, but now we were left wondering if that dream would ever come true. We grieved the news and were left exhausted, mentally and spiritually. Grief has the power to drain the color out of life. It leaves you feeling like a shell of yourself. You look in the mirror and wonder, “What happened? Who are you? Why is life like this? Will everything be alright?”

For months, we walked through the wilderness of unanswered questions and painful waiting.

Eventually, our prayer shifted from Why? to What’s next?And somehow, quietly and clearly, we were led to adoption.

So we began the process: Paperwork. Home studies. Background checks. Saving.

Like the song says, we were in the middle of the ride, waiting for everything to be just fine.

Life went on.

I kept working, doing the job I’d done for years: writing.

Up to that point, most of my writing had been poems and essays on self-discovery and faith.

But during that season, I found myself creating something new—a children’s book.

I often write what I need to hear, and this book was no different.

I wrote All the Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere while we waited to become parents. 

The book follows a little girl named Abby as she discovers how to pray all by herself. She does what I was too tired to do: speak with God. Through the book Abby learns how to express her gratitude, ask questions, pray for others, and use silence to communicate with God. Led by her own curiosity, she finds out that you can pray for anything and everything—God’s love knows no bounds.

Writing a book about prayer reminded me that I could still pray, even when life wasn’t what I wanted it to be. 

Even when I didn’t feel like myself. 

Even when I didn’t feel like praying at all.

When life gets heavy, I tend to shut down, to turn inward instead of turning to God.I bottle up the thoughts and emotions I don’t want to face, when really, those are the very things I need to bring to Him. 

Abby taught me that I could be like her—like the very character I wrote about.

I could ask God questions. I could thank Him. I could join Him in the silence.

So, I did. 

I brought my questions to God. I brought Him my grief and fears and frustration. I brought Him my hurt and hopes and dreams. I prayed anytime, anywhere, and about anything. 

It’s no longer May 2022. Time does what time does. It moves forward. So did we.

The grief remains, but it no longer weighs as much as it once did. I’ve learned how to carry it. To walk with it. To bring it along for the ride. To pray with it. And slowly, I’ve realized something else: While I move forward carrying my grief, I can also carry hope.

As I move forward with grief and hope, I stop from time to time to look back. 

Looking back has become a spiritual practice for me.

It helps me see what I couldn’t see when I was in the thick of it.

It shows me how far God has carried me.

It opens my eyes to the quiet, steady grace that was there all along.

It reminds me that even when I felt forgotten, I wasn’t.

God was growing something in the dark, seeds of love, trust, resilience.

I don’t live in the past, but just like when I drive, I glance back from time to time.

And when I do, I see it:

I see the faithfulness of God.I see the love of God.I see the comfort of God. I see the kindness of God.I see that He heard every single one of my prayers.

And Jimmy Eat World was right.

It just takes some time.

I can’t promise that everything in your life will work out the way you want it to. Actually, I can promise that it won’t. Life doesn’t work like that.

But I can tell you this:God is full of good surprises.He’s not playing a prank on you. Love isn’t a trick. It’s an invitation.

An invitation to trust. To rest in goodness. To hope. To continue. To look back and see God’s faithfulness. To believe everything will one day be alright. To pray—knowing you can talk to God anytime, anywhere, about anything.

.. .. 

If this story resonated with you, you might enjoy the children’s book I wrote during that season:

All the Things I Say to God: Learning to Pray Anytime, Anywhere https://www.writtentospeak.com/all-the-things-i-say-to-god 

It’s for kids and grown-ups alike—a gentle invitation to talk with God in the middle of anything.

.. .. 

Tanner Olson is an author, spoken word poet, and speaker. He travels across the country sharing poetry and telling stories of grace and hope. His work has been described as “hopefully unique and inviting” as it blends faith, humor, and curiosity. Tanner is the author of multiple books, including Walk A Little Slower: A Collection of Poems and Other Words, All the Things I Say to God (Zonderkidz, 2025), and an upcoming release of poems and essays with HarperCollins in February of 2026. 

Tanner doesn’t take himself too seriously, drinks his coffee black, and cheers for the Orlando Magic. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife, Sarah, their son, Judah, and their dog, Pancake.

To connect with Tanner, find him on Instagram (@writtentospeak), on Substack, or visit writtentospeak.com.

A few ways (and places) I’ve been praying lately

• I’ve been praying in the car while listening to We Pray by Coldplay (I especially love the TWICE version ). This song takes me back to my childhood and how I went to God without knowing much except that those I love were hurting, and I needed help. I hear that that in the voices joined together for this song.

• I’ve also been praying and crying at my kitchen table while writing #lettersforgaza thanks to guidance from The Telos Group, and American Friends of Combatants for Peace. Letting each word and sentence press onto paper while I ask God to go with these words, however small of an act it is, feels right. Related to this, I recently discovered Sarah Musa and her beautiful Palestinian collection of scarves (100% of the profit from these select scarves are donated to relief efforts). So, I purchased a small poppy kefiyyah and am waiting for its arrival. As a follower of Jesus, I plan wear it in solidarity and as a prayer scarf — a felt, physical reminder to pray for Palestinians and the war to end.

• Sometimes I go back to The Lord’s Prayer, imagine Jesus instructing me on how to pray, and then follow along, praying for the things he listed for his disciples to pray. The simplicity of it resets my heart and mind and reminds me what’s most important.

• And, lastly, I’ve been using the Pray As You Go App while I get ready, or in the car on-the-go, or while I sit in my backyard, pretend to be a birder, and sip my morning coffee. Sometimes, I need someone else’s words to guide me in prayer when I can’t find my own very well.

Today, whatever you are carrying and wherever you are, whatever might feel too heavy and too horrific, too ordinary or small, turn towards God and tell God what you feel. Nothing is too much, too angry, too small, too difficult, too everyday, too doubtful, or too unspiritual to bring. Lay it at God’s feet with tears or whispers or loud cries. All of it belongs to the ears of God because God loves all of you, every day, in every language, every place, and in every way.

Grateful and shalomsick,

If you are AANHPI or APIDA, what acronym do you prefer to use and why? Would you take a minute to comment and share so that we can all grow our understanding a bit more?

Leave a comment

If you missed it last year, or if you’d like to go back and re-read, feel free to explore the series. It’s wonderfully Yellow. Make sure to follow and support the AANHPI creatives you read about when you do; that’s a great way to celebrate us and honor our heritage this month!

Yesterday, I (re)shared this after thinking I didn’t have anything to share or give for this month of ours, (at least online). A friend shared this writing I posted from a few years ago for AANHPI month, and it encouraged me to see how deeply it still resonates. So here it is for anyone who missed it.

Below is a poem I wrote about aging as the daughter of an immigrant and an Asian American with an aging Asian American mom. And since it’s AANHPI month, mental health awareness month, and almost Mother’s Day, it seemed like the right poem to share.

Please Leave a Few Persimmons for Me

by Tasha Jun

You say it’s because of your ancestors,

not tactile hallucinations, or

a sterile diagnosis. It’s because

of all the things you saw

in those dirt bunkers of stench and uniforms

Things these young American doctors and

your American daughter

can’t fathom-don’t understand

All these years later something

in your mind has begun to rewind

and you remember

Your father, a shadow without a face,

crouched down, his body eclipsed

by gunfire and hunger

Your mother, cutting the flesh of

a burnt orange persimmon while

the leaves curled outside

Knife in one hand, love in the other,

a wisp of a November memory

miracle that survived a diaspora

Ghosts now live in your mouth

where she once filled it.

You slice the cadmium-colored sun in half

to find a star-once-seed –

a resurrection sermon. Koreans say,

“We should always leave

a few persimmons on the trees for the magpies”

The bittersweet bites of fruit

received, pieces of hope like little anchors

sinking into my sadness

I swallow them. I ask Jesus

to leave a few memories like persimmons

on the trees for my mom and me.

On Celebrating Anyway (it’s a book birthday!)

In exactly one week, Tell Me The Dream Again will be two years old. I can’t believe it’s been two years. Just today, someone messaged me to say they “finally ordered (their words)” TMTDA after wanting to for the last couple of years since learning about it. The book has sold slowly. It’s hard to not feel discouraged about that at times, especially in a world that measures your success in numbers, values all things fast-paced, and even more especially so when we have a current administration that’s aggressively trying to destroy every DEI initiative, while also suppressing the history of people of color in our nation altogether. It’s hard not to be discouraged and want to completely give up.

However, despite that, I can’t ignore message after deep and meaningful message I’ve gotten from readers who’ve been impacted by TMTDA since its release almost two years ago. I treasure every single one of them and because of these known readers and others I haven’t met yet, I won’t stop telling stories or encouraging and inviting others to do the same. I can’t label TMTDA as a “bestseller,” but I know, that I know, that I know, it is good work and art, it matters, and it has companioned many who have needed it’s words and stories to help liberate their own. I believe it will continue to do that. Am I disappointed that it’s not more widely championed in faith circles? Yes, three hundred percent, because its message matters for the American Church and beyond. However, I can’t control how spaces and people receive it or choose to support and celebrate it or not, so I will celebrate anyway. I’m so grateful for those who have championed this book, continue to, and those who have done that while also allowing it to companion them towards embracing their own stories and learning to share them with courage. This is success. This is shalom at work. This is Yellow protesting with joy.

In Publisher’s Weekly’s starred review of Tell Me The Dream Again, they said, “This mesmerizes.” A friend and reader called Tell Me The Dream Again, “a love letter to her mom.” So if you want to be mesmerized, or you’re looking for another way to honor and celebrate AANHPI month + Mother’s Day, maybe it’s time to buy a copy or two, or ten.

A Breath Prayer for AANHPI image bearers

Inhale: The imago Dei lives in every layer of me

Exhale: May I celebrate all of the Asianness within

Grateful, shalomsick, and in celebration of us,

So, later in the summer, we couldn’t wait to watch the opening ceremony and see all that had come from the little we’d witnessed in process last spring.

Watching the Olympic opening ceremony with my family filled me with awe. We were impressed by the storytelling and the way each part seemed (from the little I know) so Parisian. We didn’t understand all the parts of the story, but it wasn’t our story to tell.

Maybe it was in part because we were just there last June, but to me it felt like we were the recipients of someone else’s hospitality as we watched it all unfold.

So, when I opened social media after watching the ceremony, I was surprised to find post after post expressing outrage and pointing fingers about various parts of it. I didn’t engage much with what I saw online, but I saw enough to feel brokenhearted by it.

I didn’t see an agenda in the opening ceremony. I didn’t even notice what many were calling a rendition of the Last Supper, which only looked like a fashion runway with spectators, to me (I’ve since learned wasn’t even meant to depict The Last Supper or any Eurocentric painting of The Last Supper, in the first place).

Instead, I saw a beautiful city trying to welcome the entire world to its home with all the history, art, and unique culture that makes it exactly what it is and has been known for. I saw an iconic city that I’ve loved visiting, would love to visit again, and a city full of people made in the image of God, who Jesus loves, whether they know it or not.

I wrote the words above last summer, shortly after our spring visit to Paris and Freiburg. I meant to finish it and share it here, but never did. It’s been sitting in my drafts for months.

And now, almost a year later, this draft feels like it missed its time. So much has happened. No one is talking about the Paris Olympics anymore. But, I’ve never really been timely with my writing as I’ve been told I should be, and then again, as I believe and say often: it’s all connected. Then and now. Us and them. Here and there.

As I re-read this draft thinking I’d delete it, I started seeing the threads that connected the dots between, well, all the things. So, for whatever it’s worth, and perhaps because it’s for one of you who happens to need these specific words now and not then, here it is.

Remember when Jesus told his disciples how he would suffer and die a humiliating death, and Peter responded with outrage as if there were enemies and agendas to fight against instead of people to love?  In that moment, Peter thought he was defending Jesus’ honor and name in the world.

In response to Peter’s mislead zeal, Jesus told Peter,

“Get away from me, Satan! You are a dangerous trap to me. You are seeing things merely from a human point of view, not from God’s.”  -Matthew 16:13

Jesus went so far as to call Peter, Satan, and I’ve wondered if he responded as firmly as he did to not only correct him, but also to express his own humanity and how hard it would be for anyone to not fall into that kind of posture of defense and outrage. It is after all, the easiest way to respond to the things we are afraid of or don’t understand.

May we never forget how easy it is for all of us to dangerously miss the point and see things from our own limited point of view.

It wasn’t long after Jesus told Peter to get behind him that he then predicted Peter’s betrayal. Peter responded with exclamation, essentially saying, “no, I would NEVER.”  And yet, those of us who know how the story goes, know that he does exactly what he thought he would never do.  And so can we. He is so adamant about his own right behavior and way to go about it, that he then goes on to cut off someone’s ear in defense of Jesus. And again, Jesus responds by not only healing the man who Peter struck, but by saying, in essence, “stop doing things you think are in defense of me.”

Jesus commanded Peter, “Put your sword away! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” -John 18:11

What cup are you and I refusing to drink when we choose to seek or support worldly power and might in the name of Jesus, and defend what or who doesn’t need our defense?

God did tell us outright who and what to defend:

“Learn to do what is good. Pursue justice. Correct the oppressor. Defend the rights of the fatherless. Plead the widow’s cause.” -Isaiah 1:17 CSB

Jesus did tell us why God sent him into the world:

“God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him.” - John 3:17 NLT

And Jesus also told us what he wants us all to do more than anything:

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength.’ The second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ No other commandment is greater than these.” -Mark 12:30-31 NLT

May we sit in Jesus’ words, learn from his posture, listen to his life and his heartbeat, and let it transform us, again and again.

Grateful and shalomsick,

It’s nothing new, and it’s all new at the same time.

At dusk last night, I watched three bunnies playing in our yard. They chased each other and hopped over one another. Seeing them play, while the sun set behind the trees, like it does every night, filled me with delight. I stared out the window at them until I couldn’t see them anymore. In that moment, every part of me needed to set my eyes on the story our backyard was telling, instead of on the newsfeed of current events as told from my phone screen.

Every year, my felt need for reminders of resurrection and redemption seems to grow more desperate, and this year, I feel it on a whole new level. I’ve been broken-hearted over the state of my country. I’ve been angry and anxious over so many things. I’m weary and flabbergasted multiple times a day, and while it’s important to me to stay informed, the non-stop information can curdle my insides and my view of everything.

But last Friday, Good Friday, I spoke to a room full of people and told them that their sorrow matters. I reminded people and myself, that though Jesus did indeed rise again, Jesus also bent low in the dirt, desperate for another way, so crushed with sorrow he thought he could die from it. It’s significant that Jesus knows what it feels like to feel so sad you could die and so sad that all you see, wherever you look, is sadness, sorrow, desperate circumstances, and no sign of hope.

Jesus, hope of all hope, knows what it’s like to feel hopeless.

After my talk, a woman came up with tears in her eyes to tell me how she needed to hear that. She needed the reminder that our risen King of kings is also a king of sorrow. I told her how deeply I needed it too.

It’s post-Easter Sunday, but I think it’s appropriate to sit in the story for as long as we need to. I’ve been letting my soul soak into the stories I believe in and hold fast to, from the last supper to the morning when the women found Jesus alive again, and I need it all on repeat these days. Somehow, the birds and the flowers and trees and bunnies at dusk all remind me of it too: from the ache of darkness and winter and night, to the fullness of life in each new sunrise, there’s an unstoppable cycle of mercy and mending at work.

A few short minutes after I talked to the woman I met after speaking on Friday, I wanted to brush it off, because in light of everything and each new headline, the small things can feel like nothing.

The Holy Spirit immediately brought to mind all the small, or seemingly less shiny and important things from Jesus’ day, that Jesus emphasized as important, and how they were no less valuable or impactful when it comes to his kingdom come.

Mustard seeds. Little children. A boy’s few fish and loaves. Nazareth. Washing dirty feet.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed and afraid, angry and anxious, broken-hearted and weary, know that the small things really do matter in this time and always.

One soul offered hope and with-ness, matters. Going for a rage-walk in response to the world, and what’s happening in our nation right now, to tend to and offer release to your feelings , matters. One life reminded that they’re loved and valuable, matters. Sharing the truth about what’s happening to fellow image-bearers and neighbors, matters. One good story told, matters. Saying Christian Nationalism is wrong and against the way of Jesus, out loud, matters. Reading your kids a story that affirms the value and belovedness of ALL people, matters. Planting one seed in your garden, matters. Writing letters or making phone calls to fight for the dignity and rights of others, matters. Checking in on a friend or neighbor, matters.

Noticing the bunnies playing, and what delights your soul, matters.

A Book Giveaway

Speaking of books and good stories for our kids and the kid in us, and how they matter, this new book by Helen Lee, has been a delight to read with my youngest and, I’m giving a copy away to one of you!

To enter, re-share this post right here on Substack (or on social media) and tag me wherever you re-share so I can count your entry. If you don’t use Substack or social media, and would like to share another way (like text or email), just let me know you did in the comments on this post, and I’ll count it. Each share (in a new place) will be counted as an entry!

The giveaway closes on May 6, 2025 at 12am. I’ll announce the winner in the comments here.

If you don’t want to mess with the giveaway or wait, you can pre-order the book for you or someone you love (or both!) here.

Helen Lee is a writer, leader, and human whose work and life inspire me, and I’ve loved the artwork of Shin Maeng for a long time now (I have a prints and a t-shirt) - and with this book, we get to support and enjoy the work and heart of both of these wonderful creatives.

The Work of Welcome

If you need a place for guidance and easy action steps for creating spaces of welcome, We Choose Welcome has been helpful for me. From information, to easy ways to advocate, use your voice, and support those who need it most right now, they provide simple ways to learn and take action on national and state level issues.

They have a number of helpful free guides, and even have this simple guide for parents to use as they teach their kids what it means to be kids who welcome.

If you are a parent like me, I’m sure you have experienced your own kids’ reactions to what they hear at school about current policies and what’s happening to their friends.

A year ago, before the current administration was in place, my daughter had a few friends over. I was listening to them talk at our kitchen table while prepping some snacks for them, and I was so shaken by their conversation. They were eight and nine years old then. One of them brought up the then upcoming election, and how her parents weren’t citizens and wouldn’t be able to vote. She wondered what it would be like for her family, depending on the results. All of the girls had opinions about politics and had a whole conversation about it all. Our kids are talking about these things with one another, whether we talk to them about it or not. The way we talk to them or avoid it impacts their view and their friendships, now more than ever.

I think about that conversation I overhead almost every day in our current reality now.

Kids learning to be kids who welcome, matters, and it’s okay if you and I are learning all of this with them for the first time or in new ways.

Though Good Friday, Silent Saturday, and Easter Sunday has passed on our calendars, here’s a blessing for those of you, who perhaps, like me, need a little more time with it all:

May you find Jesus with you in the dark while everyone else sleeps and morning light feels miles away.

May you find Jesus the next day when life goes on and you are so weary from the night and the eerie brightness of another day, despite everything.

May finding Jesus weeping with you on Friday and Saturday, be what holds you and keeps you as you wait for redemption.

May the reality of our Savior of love and sorrow keep your heart awake to every mini resurrection story yet to come and on its way.

Grateful and shalomsick,

Tell Me The Dream Again

I found a folder of old writing today while cleaning. Along with stacks of poems and short stories, I found the mini memoir (pictured above) that I wrote for a memoir class, in 2001. I worked at a copy shop on campus that year, and in-between binding projects for customers, I put my mini memoir together into as much of a little bound book as I could. It felt like the most honoring thing I could do as I transferred my 엄마 stories from my mind and heart to my hands in an offering I could share with others.

This class assignment would stay boxed away inside of me and with other “memories” on paper, seemingly collecting dust, until it was time for it to become Tell Me The Dream Again, over twenty years later. I didn’t know this assignment was the start of the book it would become, but I can remember how the work carried an invisible weight of value all those years ago.

It was affirming to see it and re-read some of my writing from then. It reminded me that this is who I’ve always been and have been becoming. It also made me sad. I’ve been writing for decades in some way or another, even if some of the writing was more living than typing. This reality has me feeling melancholy as a writer and artistic thinker today, and melancholy as I reacquaint myself with the writer and artistic thinker I was yesterday. Neither of us seem to fit into the world of quick, hot-takes, shock-value, or writing for the times in the ways people want writing. I try to remember what I’ve said and even taught before: a writer isn’t a writer because the public says she is, but man, it’s really hard to believe that sometimes, and it feels harder than ever today.

My “writer” story-in-motion isn’t a, “I never wanted to be a writer, but here we are” story. My writer story is that I’ve always been one, even before I knew what it meant or felt comfortable saying it out loud. Writing (my own and others’) has always been a buoy and a lifeline.

So today, I know it all matters AND I’m simultaneously asking myself and God if it really does.

But then again, I look at this old, unfinished work and see my creative, writerly self in the poems and stories I rediscovered today, and it’s crystal clear who I’ve always been and have been becoming at my core. And I see how this being and becoming can’t be taken away, no matter how anyone affirms or doesn’t affirm it. It requires a hospitality towards the strangest parts of oneself, which in turn allow an offering of hospitality to others. It’s not bound by age, acceptance letters, the world on fire, changing roles and seasons of life, someone important and their opinion, or bestseller lists. Dare I say it cannot be bound by the spiritual language of being “called,” either (more on this another time).

“You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.” - Junot Diaz

Maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to know that. 🐅

A Communal Breath Prayer for Writers

Our work is communal, no matter how isolated and individual it can be and feel at times, and I think the way forward in hope requires us to see and care about our work in a communal way.

Some (not-so-new, but now-official) News

Months ago, I met a new friend a local chocolate cafe before a book event. I was so inspired by her presence, parts of her personal story that she shared with me, and her work as a paper artist in Indianapolis and beyond.

Fast forward to the recently announced publishing news that Shelley Hanmo and I (two Asian American women creatives - yes that is worth its own celebration!) get to work together on two forthcoming children’s picture books!

I wrote both of these two books some time ago, where they were saved on my computer for “later,” and a few twists and turns in my writing journey gave me the encouragement (along with my dear agent, Jevon) to try pitching them. They won’t be released for a little while now, but I can’t wait to see them in the hands and hearts of kids anywhere and everywhere when they do.

If you are an educator, librarian, book store owner or employee, parent, grandparent, auntie, or someone who loves and works with kids, keep your eyes out for these books. And, if you are local to or close to the greater Indianapolis area, Shelley and I would love to do an author/illustrator event with you and your kids.

A Buoy of Hope

The last couple of months have been really disorienting and I’ve struggled to stay afloat and not drown in the daily doom of my newsfeed. One small thing that has been a buoy for me is staying connected to and caring for those in my family and local community, and staying connected to the global church, and specifically, to Cambodia. I often feel small and powerless, and in the same way I wonder about writing and whether or not it matters, I wonder what I can do in the current reality of our nation and world. Signing petitions, speaking up, praying, and writing a letter can feel so minuscule, but doing these things together, communally (there’s a theme here), isn’t.

In my last substack, I shared about communal flourishing and about Cambodia and my travels there at the beginning of the year. The faith and love of the staff and students who are part of the Center for Global Impact in Cambodia has buoyed me time and time again since the start of 2025, and I want to invite you to join me in following and giving to the work there because we are bound to one another. In other words, we are created to be our brother’s and sister’s keepers, and they, ours. Our flourishing and liberation is tied to our brothers and sisters in our homes, in Cambodia, and across the world. If you are interested in learning more, find more information at the link above, or reach out and let’s talk. I’d love to share more.

“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

-Lilla Watson in collaboration with Aboriginal activist communities she’s part of.

Shalomsick as ever,

Tell Me The Dream Again

[Originally written for and published at (in)courage]

I remember how the fans whirred as the afternoon heat picked up that day. January is dry season in Cambodia, and every day I was there, the temperatures rose from a comfortable, cool, seventies, to a dry nineties by the afternoon. I resisted the urge to fan myself that day, and settled into the feel of heat rising under my skin.

I was sitting on a plastic chair, in a room above a restaurant called Green Mango Café, in Battambang City, watching a group of young Cambodian women graduate from culinary school. For the 15 months prior, these women from rural villages throughout the Battambang province had been part of the Center for Global Impact’s Culinary Training Center. Not only were these women trained as chefs and businesswomen in the café and restaurant below, they also took general education and spiritual formation classes. I also witnessed evidence of the galvanizing gift of community and confidence that showed with their lifted chins and wide smiles — parts of the program that aren’t as easy to list on paper but just as powerful as any classroom training.

These young women are daughters and sisters — like you and me, like our daughters or sisters — and each of them is worthy of anything you and I or our own daughters or sisters or mothers are worthy of. However these young women in particular come from an area where girls and women are vulnerable to human trafficking in ways many of us haven’t experienced.

Center for Global Impact’s mission is to bring the gospel of Jesus to those in the grip of poverty and bondage by practically providing pathways out of poverty. This is done through education, life skills, spiritual formation, and vocational training. Of course, I supported this work before I traveled to Cambodia, but after bearing witness to the very real lives this work has impacted over the last 15+ years, I now find my heart irrevocably tied to the women I met and this land of limes and tuk-tuks, and a deep warmth and hospitality I’ve rarely experienced in other places.

On the day before the graduation, I joined the American and Cambodian CGI staff team in visiting some of the students’ homes. From remote dirt-floor village homes surrounded by palm trees to a rented room nestled down a narrow alleyway behind urban businesses, I was overcome with how the women I encountered had such similar hopes and dreams as mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends as myself and the women I know and love in my regular life. And I was struck with the reality of how extreme poverty and the brutality of history can keep anyone barred from these same hopes and dreams.

I am not Cambodian, but I am the daughter of a Korean immigrant mother, who lived in the aftermath of colonization and war, and grew up in extreme poverty. I wrote about her story in my memoir, Tell Me the Dream Again. My mom grew up without food and then food became how she colored my own upbringing with love. It’s not lost on me that God would use what was so painful and the place of so much lack in her younger life to later feed and nourish my entire life.

I saw my mother’s face in the faces of the young women who graduated that day in Battambang. I imagined her having had the same opportunities these women did – training, community, education, spiritual formation, love, dignity, and care.

A little over ten years before I was born, our nation secretly carpet-bombed Cambodia. What was said to be an effort to contain Communism, and kept secret until the year 2000, is what led to anywhere from twenty-four thousand to a million Cambodian deaths, according to records. Entire villages, families, and neighborhoods were wiped out. Aside from the death of civilians in a neutral country, the attack also created fear, extreme vulnerability, and distrust. Many historians believe this is exactly what led Cambodians into the arms of the Khmer Rouge and eventually what led to the Cambodian genocide.

While we can’t go back and change the past, we can remember, learn from it, and work towards repair and a better tomorrow. There is so much going on in the world today, and much of it leads me to want to despair and cry out to Jesus, “How do I find you here?”

But what if there’s no better moment and place than the one we are in, to reach out and remember how connected we were created to be: to one another and Jesus? What if Jesus is right here, next door, and thousands of miles away? Your neighbor’s flourishing next door and in another culture means your flourishing. And your flourishing, wherever you are, is tied to hers. What if our communal flourishing is the flourishing of Christ?

Read the rest of the article here.

And to learn more about the work of Center for Global Impact and how you can be involved, head here.

Shalom,

Looking back at that memory, at a glimpse of my childhood in Tokyo, at how I would find my way to books by Nouwen and other contemplative Christians and the mystics when I was new in my faith, and feel so at home in their words, continually confirms what’s always been true of me:

I’m a contemplative soul.

Sometimes we try on lots of outfits before we understand what colors and styles fit our skin tone and body shape. It’s natural to want to look back and feel annoyed or upset at entire decades or seasons of the wrong fit or style, but there’s another way - a gentler, kinder, and more helpful way to see it. We can look back and acknowledge that something didn’t fit quite well, how we tried to wear it anyway, and also acknowledge the layers, nuance, and grace woven within those times. All of it somehow helped to lead to evermore becoming of one’s true self and shape.

I used to feel shame over choosing and desiring roles and personality labels that I knew deep down, didn’t fit me. I’ve spent a lot of time squeezing into wrong-sized clothing while not seeing myself as I am. But all of this helped me learn to see better and know myself (and others) better, and those times weren’t wasted, they just weren’t meant to be forever for me. I grew and I received so much goodness throughout those years alongside of all the inner wrestling.

I just finished reading Sacred Companions by David G. Benner and it was so helpful to learn about the distinctions between discipleship, mentorship, counseling, and spiritual direction. Even when discipleship and mentorship were part of my job descriptions in the past, I look back and see how I was being a discipler or a mentor that probably resembled a spiritual director in more ways than I realized at the time. Of course the roles can overlap, but what came naturally to me and what I struggled with in those roles makes so much more sense to me now.

Last fall, I had the honor of mentoring a writer’s track for emerging bipoc writers of faith, through the inaugural PAX fellowship. I wrote about the experience and the beautiful people and their work and lives that I was able to bear witness to throughout that time here. Working with PAX gave me a chance to be around, learn from, and connect with contemplative Christians in a way I haven’t before outside of books or online interactions. It was a little homecoming for my soul. At our retreat in January at the start of this year, it became clear to me that I wanted to pursue spiritual direction: both being a directee and being trained to become a spiritual director.

Do you ever feel too old or too far along in whatever you feel entrenched in, to take a step towards coming home to yourself?

Here I am, well in to my forties, and suddenly sure of something I’ve always kind of known and have lived, but am only now ready to name and act on. It’s only now that the timing and resources and our family life work well with it all. Here I am, taking one step towards my own becoming. Here I am, saying yes to being a beginner, when it feels like all the world wants are the experts.

So, as I write this, I’ve technically started my first year-long cohort of spiritual direction. Right now, I’m working through the books in our required reading and enjoying it so much. Over and over again, I find myself exhaling. All of it feels like one little homecoming after another, and that helps me push back on the lie that I’m too late. Shalom is not bound by the lie of too lates, too old, and should be by now.

God’s shalom is always tending to our becoming.

God’s shalom is always reaching for our true selves, reminding us how intricately and intentionally we’ve been created in love.

“The notion of becoming our true self-in-Christ emphasizes the fact that there are true and false ways of living. Most of us can identity ways we wear masks of our own creation. The fact that we are capable of thinking about how we want to behave in any given situation shows that we can make choices about this. Inherent in this choice is the fact that we can choose to live a lie; we can choose to pretend to be someone or something that we are not.

In his very helpful discussion of the true and false self, Basil Pennington suggests that my false self is made up of what I have, what I do and what people think of me. It is constructed, therefore, out of false attachments.

Stop for a moment and think about how you introduce yourself. It will tell you a lot about how you want others to see you. Whenever I invite people to see me in terms of what I have or do, I am living out of my false self.” —David G. Benner

It’s not too late to lean into God’s shalom at work in your soul and your story.

Our aging isn’t measured by how well we cover up any visual evidence of it. Our aging isn’t meant to make us grasp for youth or what was — it is another year after another year to rest in God’s perfect love and our identity as one who is wholly beloved. Our aging is a journey of ever-becoming who we truly are.

Our aging can be a love story between God’s shalom and our shalomsick hearts.

This year, this week, this summer, whatever your age and season in life, what part of your true self is reaching for you from the core of who you are?

Who are you becoming and how does this becoming align with who you’ve always been?

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Grateful and shalomsick,

Does the sun get lonely or ever tire of rising and setting?

I was in alone in a hotel room on my birthday because I was at a gathering as both a first-time attendee and as a speaker. I’ve been to a lot of gatherings— but this gathering was different. 

This gathering was a place of welcome and wholeheartedness. Created for those of Asian ancestry and others who are connected to them, it was a space made for paying attention to our hearts, souls, and bodies – not merely our minds. There was so much room offered for personal stories, deep conversation, and prayerful reflection. Truly, I haven’t been to a gathering like it before.  I’m holding many of the stories I heard and conversations I had, close in heart.

Our worship was led by Aisea Taimani of Minor Islands, and we worshipped through song and movement and breath.  We learned how to sign a song that Aisea learned from attending deaf church with a CODA friend, and we also sang in English, Korean, and Aramaic. We sang a song from the Black church. We sang a Palestinian worship song and I cried as we sang — lamenting with others and realizing that this was the first time I’ve been offered a space of communal lament in this way. For months and months I’ve been lamenting current events alone, while holding it together in spaces that only offer room for cheerful communal praise. Don’t get me wrong - I love cheerful communal praise, but if it’s all we are ever invited to participate in when we gather, our collective worship will run the risk of being lopsided and dishonest. The dissonance can easily become barrier that keeps people from experiencing authentic intimacy with God.

How right, and good, and needed it is to imagine the realities of fellow image bearers near and far, and be with them in whatever ways we are able. This too, is worship.

As I waited to board my plane on my birthday, I felt sad to leave the gathering early, but so eager to get home to my family, and thankful for the gift of feeling both things.

I was home in time to celebrate another year around the sun with food and my most favorite people (not all pictured).

They say your forties are “in the middle,” but in a way, there’s always a middle, wherever we are. In fact, I’ve always found myself feeling “in the middle” in a multitude of ways: in the middle of cultures, aches and longings, celebration and lament, here and there, and yesterday and tomorrow…

• Today, in the middle, I feel okay with my God-given pace and the pages that make me. I know that I don’t have to live in the chains of “should be,” “too slow,” and “too late,” but am free to live “right on time.”

• Today, in the middle, I am full of deep gratitude for the people I’ve been so blessed to love, the ones I am loved by, and how every single person I’ve ever met and known has helped me see the world, myself, and God in a new and needed way.

• Today, in the middle, I still wrestle with many things. I still question, I still forget and fall short, but today I know I can be honest about those things and bring it all to God, again and again.  

• Today, in the middle, I know I am held in love, even as I wrestle, question, doubt, forget and fall short.

• Today, in the middle, I’m resting more fully in my own belovedness and the belovedness of others – this is everything to me now.

• Today, in the middle, I am finding glimpses of shalom almost everywhere I look, and as an unexpected surprise, they are finding me.

What “middle” are you in right now? 

What has being loved in a middle space helped you to be and know?

Leave a comment

A breath prayer to keep for when you’re “in the middle”

Breathe in: Shalom can find me in the middle spaces

Breathe out: I can rest and be found

I mentioned being led by Aisea in worship and getting to meet him and his wife Elmira at the Abide gathering - together they run Minor Islands. Meeting Elmira and Aisea was one of my many highlights from the gathering. Their presence, and the glimpses of their stories shared from stage or over breakfast, somehow made me feel so at home.

Please check out Be Still and the latest release, Give Thnx, and listen to this podcast interview between Latasha and Aisea with Be the Bridge - you will not regret it.

I don’t know if the sun gets lonely or tired - but I know how grateful I am to feel it’s warmth on my face, and see how it reaches to bless each of our heads year after year, and how year after year, it keeps on rising.

Grateful and shalomsick,

Though nomadic and homebody may seem to oppose one another on the surface, I believe both ways of being and feeling are connected to a deeper longing for home. Maybe you know this dual way of feeling and being too.

Nomadic homebodies are shalomsick souls. We wander and we settle in because we hope and because we ache. We live awake to the tension of both.

And even though we can only be in one place at a time, some places stay with us long after we’ve left - changing us and reminding us of new ways to see and be, no matter how long it’s been since we were there.

Freiburg is one of those places for me.

What places have stayed with you?

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I’ve said goodbye to Freiburg so many times.

I knew nothing of this city until I was a sophomore in college. I still remember what that first weeklong trip over spring break felt like: it was cold and it filled me with wonder. And after that week, I added another the next year, and another the year after that. Eventually it became whole year packed into one huge suitcase-a first job and a first move overseas as an adult. And then I stayed another year and left with the hope to come back forever. But life, and marriage, and twists and turns, led me to believe I wasn’t meant to go back. And then almost five years later, we moved as a young couple after trying to move elsewhere. And this city became home again for a little while. This city is where Matt and I found out we were expecting our first child.

It was something to go back this year and hear that firstborn kid walking in the same places we walked when we first imagined him.

It was something to see how much has remained the same, while also noticing how much has changed. There are so many more Asian grocery stores in the city-and even a few specifically Korean places. There are even ramen vending machines in the train station. If you’ve read my book, and in particular, the chapter on living in Freiburg, you’ll know why this is so significant.

It was something to meet with my friend Carmen and talk about the things we remembered from meeting together for two years, over twenty years ago. And it was something to go back to the church we attended and sing worship songs in German again.

It was something to go to our favorite yufka kebab place and find the same menu (plus a new BBQ yufka kebab) and the same family running it all, just older (like us). I wanted to ask the mom what the last five years were like for her, but it was busy and the long line had to keep moving. All I could do was smile as she asked, “Mit scharf?”

Ja, mit scharf, bitte.

I’ll always love this university city though it’s never been mine to keep. 

On our last day in the city, I walked a few of the streets and alleyways I love. I practiced Rememorari Divina, thanked God for what this place means to me and for the chance and privilege to be back as a family, and said goodbye again.

A blessing for all the Nomadic Homebodies

by Tasha Jun

For the one whose heart longs to settle in over a cup of tea

and the regular rhythms of familiarity where roots grow deep and strong

whose same heart hears the songs that distant mountains sing

and ever-yearns for the feeling of new streets and soil underneath their feet

the one who sips tea here and remembers the taste of that tea in another language there:

You are not wrong to feel both when home means to belong.

Home is here and it has been there.

Home can be there and settled into here.

Home is ever searched for and ever found.

May you stay and go with joy that abounds

Home is and isn’t yet.

Home is shalom at work

bringing little homecomings here and there

May you see and receive them all

Dear nomadic homebody

heading home and creating home

You were made to know, wherever you go,

that Love is here and there -

May you find God’s love growing

in the language of your living room

And flourishing among

the languages your ever-wandering feet bring you to.

Grateful and shalomsick,

Rememorari Divina: divine remembering

Am I allowed to name my own spiritual practice?

I’m not really asking for permission, however, I do want you to know that I am not a professional and have no credentials when it comes to this sort of thing (it does seem fitting to share that I am just beginning a 2 year training to journey towards becoming a spiritual director — more on that to come).

This isn’t supposed to be something that replaces therapy or or other tools and resources you may have from a mental health professional — and if you find yourself stuck with recurring memories that impact your ability to function daily, I want to encourage you to seek help.

This practice is something I’ve done for some time, without knowing or naming it as a contemplative spiritual practice. I’ve always been someone who has looked back and carried vivid memories (both joyful and challenging) around as if they are in my back pocket. I haven’t always known what to do with them. At times I’ve gone back to them searching for something: closure, a clue, or another take. Other times, I’ve felt like some memories follow me like a shadow - making it hard to see the gift of today. At some point along the way in my longings and wrestling with the past, I started trying to invite God into those moments with me. It’s changed the way this melancholy girl looks back and that has impacted the way I am able to stay present where I am, and trust that God is with me.

I recently decided to name the practice so that I can share it, and I’m sharing it here in the hopes that it might be helpful for you like it has been for me. I also really like saying rememorari divina (in my best Hermione voice).

Rememorari Divina could be a sibling of Lectio or Visio Divina. The difference in this practice is that the focus is on a memory instead of reading a passage of scripture or looking at a work of art.

In addition to memories that come to mind, I also practice Rememorari Divina with photos, using the image and my own mental memory of it combined. There’s no “fixing” of what was, or anything specific that happens through the practice - it merely helps me connect the dots between a memory, God’s love for me, and experience God’s presence with me as I look back and consider both then and now.

A memory I’ve carried

In elementary school, while living in Japan, I had a traumatic after-school mix-up. In my confusion upon arriving home and not finding my mom home, and our front door a jar, I’d come to believe that my home had been broken into, and my mom, kidnapped. What began as a slight misunderstanding (she was with our upstairs landlords/neighbors), ended with me crying uncontrollably at the local subway station where I thought I might find my dad coming come from work.

After what felt like hours, one of the ticket collectors took me to the attached police station office, where I tried to tell them the elaborate story I’d created in my anxiety. They gave me tea and walked me home to find my panicked parents. As an adult, I can still remember how completely alone I felt standing in that train station, unable to stop crying and shaking, feeling like I might float away from everything I knew forever.

Henri Nouwen wrote:

“When I trust deeply that today God is truly with me and holds me safe in a divine embrace, guiding every one of my steps, I can let go of my anxious need to know how tomorrow will look, or what will happen next month or next year. I can be fully where I am and pay attention to the many signs of God's love within me and around me.”

Sometimes we have to go back, to learn how to be where we are.

Time is mysterious and complex, and yet the reality of God-with-us is not only for us in this moment, but for yesterday and tomorrow too. We don’t go back to stay stuck there, and we can’t change what happened, but we can go back and see something we couldn’t then. Inviting God into our memories can build our trust of God-with-us in the here and now, wherever we find our feet, heart, and soul, in this moment.

The memory I shared above is one that I’ve repeatedly invited God into as I’ve allowed myself to remember and retrace my steps. Of course, now I know how everything turned out, and though it seems like it should be enough to know it all turned out “okay,” for many years, it just wasn’t. The fear I felt all those years ago, and the way I held onto that experience and the questions that I had as a child, stayed with me long after the seeming danger was gone. Asking God to remember it with me and show me that I wasn’t alone, and am not alone now, has been mending and kind for my heart and soul.

During our family’s recent travel to France and Germany (more on that to come as well), I took a solo walk on a street in the city where I lived in Germany. I was flooded with memories from more than twenty years prior as I walked there. While the sun was still rising and the city still waking up, I invited God into that remembering and it was good for my heart and soul.

Try it for yourself

Imagine your younger self or think about a past memory (it can be a joyful or difficult one)

Focus on whatever image or feeling stands out, and ask God to show you your belovedness in that memory.

Include these breath prayers if you are comfortable:

Breathe in and pray: God-with-me, show me my belovedness back then

Breathe out and pray: I was never separated from your Love

Breathe in and pray:  God-with-me, ground me in my belovedness right now

Breathe out and pray: Nothing can separate me from your love

Feel free to save the graphics above and/or share them if it’s helpful to you and your community.

My friend released an important, beautiful book last week. I’ve been traveling with my family (more on that soon) and taking a break from social media, so I haven’t shared about it there as much as I’d normally do so.

Isn’t that a beautiful cover? The title and subtitle just draw me in. You too? Sarah is a dear friend, a deeply kind and honest soul, and someone I’d love to talk about belonging with, any day. She is a safe, welcoming, wise human being, and her words in this book are a gift to our ever-fragmented, lonely world. Here’s what I said about her book in my endorsement:

I hope you will mark it as a book “to-read,” order it online, and request it at your local library. Follow Sarah’s substack here while you’re at it. She is a generous writer, a gracious space online, just as as she is in real life.

Grateful and shalomsick,

Meet Katie Ito.

“Sisterhood” Perilla Leaf Chalice Set

sculpture by Katie Ito

Artist statment:

The topic of belonging takes up a very fluid space in my identity, but there are times where it feels rooted and strong. Like this past summer, when I shared a picnic lunch in a park with a group of Asian-American women in Indy that my sister got connected to through a colleague-friend at school. We shared our food proudly and without shame about the spice levels or hurried apologies about the strong smells of kimchi or fish sauce. We shared stories of our joys and wounds, and the dance in between of being both Asian and American.

One of the women at the fellowship, Rachel, a Korean-American mother to triplets, found out that my Mom was growing Japanese perilla leaves in her summer garden and asked if she could have some. My Mom gladly delivered her a generous portion the next day. This sisterhood of Asian American women shared their food and their abundant belonging with me that afternoon. So here it is: a toast to a magical afternoon in the park, to strong and tender women, to fresh, garden-grown perilla leaves and exchanges of space that Asian women can take up and not apologize for 🌿

Katie Ito is an Indy-based artist, potter, and chef, with a recent fascination in mixing needlework with found, natural materials. Her recent group exhibition at Taylor University, “KINSHIP”  in March of 2023 explored themes of hospitality and the table, intertwined with various joyous, painful, and funny moments of being a Christian Asian-American female born and raised in the Midwest. Katie is currently completing a one-year fellowship at the Harrison Center, focusing on arts administration and community engagement through food programming. In her spare time, she enjoys teaching clay classes at Yellow Door Ceramics Studio in Indy, learning how to master French and Japanese patisserie, and birdwatching at Eagle Creek!

Find and follow Katie here:

Katie is mostly found on Instagram @katie_ito and @_sobremesapottery, but I am best reached over dinner or a lavender honey latte! I love connecting with people and hearing their stories over food and drink!

Meet Maggie Johnson.

You Can’t Have Courage Without Connection

originally published at (in)courage

by Maggie Johnson

Penny was the runt, the smallest kid on the playground in a new place to call home. We had landed in this unfamiliar Michigan town just three days prior, both grieving over what we lost and longing for what we knew. But this day at the playground promised to bring reprieve for our hurting hearts.

We got there early and planted ourselves close to the swirly green slide. My girl loves a swirly slide, especially if it’s green. Up she went and down she came, over and over again until I heard the familiar “Mama, help” from my curly-headed toddler whose legs were too tired to climb up the fortress once more. So up I went and down I came, over and over again until she regained her strength and independence.

That’s about when all the other kids descended upon her solitary playtime. Penny was halfway up the wooden stairs when two excited peers barreled past her on their way to the top. My girl stood frozen, clinging to a post in wide-eyed terror. She silently crouched down in an attempt to make herself invisible to the flurry of energy buzzing by.

As soon as the coast was clear, she called out with tears streaming down her face. Still crouched in her corner spot, I swooped her up and carried her to a nearby bench. We snuggled for a bit, then I knelt down and peered into her glassy eyes, “Penny, I know that was scary, but you can be brave because Mama will be right here.” Then her little hand squeezed mine as she responded, “Okay, Mama,” just before running off to conquer the swirly green slide once again.

That’s when it hit me: courage is derived from connection.

Read the rest of the article here.

Maggie is a wife, mom of two, and pastor who believes the best kind of ministry happens in ordinary, unexpected places. Armed with blunt truth and tender care, there is nothing she loves more than helping people know God’s word for themselves.

One of Maggie’s sermons

Find and follow Maggie here:

Web - maggiehjohnson.com

IG - @maghjohnson

Advent Devotional : Prepare Him Room

Finding My Roots in Any Forest

by Prasanta Verma

I was born in a small village in India, near groves of orange trees, and almost didn’t survive. We moved to the United States when I was one year old, and I grew up in the shade of pine trees in the deep south in Alabama. Now I live in the Upper Midwest, near maples and cedars, and I’m collecting stories of belonging, identity, and finding our way to the truth of ourselves.

I know what it’s like to look different from other people on the outside—but feel the same on the inside.

Growing up in the same place, the same town, wasn’t enough to belong, to make me “one of them.” To others, I looked Indian, but I felt like everyone else. Finding a sense of belonging has been a long journey.

I wrestled with my roots, my heritage, my current place of belonging, and my identity. I wrestled with God. Who was I? Why was I born elsewhere and then brought here? I was both grateful and confused. I felt like I belonged neither here nor there. Was there a place for me? And what did that place look like? Where do I fit, where do I belong, who are the people who love me as I am, cheer me on in private and public, who are kind, who stand by my side, who care for me no matter what I look like or where I’m from? I longed for this kind of community, for this kind of friendship, for this kind of sweet camaraderie and  fellowship. 

After all these years, to make the story short (very short), God drew me to him and gave me my true identity: a beloved child of God. This place gives a sense of rootedness, like a tree planted in solid ground, a firm place, a tree of shade and blossom. I share pieces of this journey of marginalization and belonging in my book, Beyond Ethnic Loneliness, released in April 2024, available wherever books are sold.

Prasanta Verma was born under an Asian sun, raised in the Appalachian foothills, and resides in the Midwest. She is a writer, poet, and public health professional, and the author of Beyond Ethnic Loneliness, released in 2024. Her writing has been published in numerous places in print and online. When she’s not working or writing, she can be found reading, walking, drinking chai, or traveling. Connect with her on Instagram @prasantaverma, her Substack newsletter, or her website.

Meet Rohadi Nagassar.

Representation or Liberation?

by Rohadi Nagassar

Growing up I recall only one Asian personality represented anywhere across traditional media (this was before the internet). David Suzuki hosted a weekly TV show called, “The Nature of Things” (yay science!) shown on the public broadcaster here in Canada. At the time, I wasn’t aware how rare Asian representation was which might explain my affinity with the show—someone who looked like me was on TV. Representation mattered a great deal because it was so rare. Today it still matters, however, I’m curious what it would look like if Asian folks sought to represent rather than reaching for representation.

Representation in North America means Asians (along with others) are a minority vis-à-vis the normalcy of whiteness. On one hand, representation legitimizes the existence of minority groups. It can even shape how we perceive ourselves individually and collectively. On the other hand, striving for greater representation at the top of any media food-chain that’s neither ours nor equitable is problematic. Namely, in order to participate we must adhere to the terms and conditions. Media, in all of its forms, is not innocuous. They are systems designed to favor that dominant gaze of whiteness while trying to define broader cultural ethos in its image. That’s why I don’t think it’s necessary to pursue the “top”. Getting to that “top” requires participation through acquiescence—it demands participants give up a piece of themselves by assimilating prior to catching a whiff of maybe success. It’s playing into an already rigged game where minority groups can never exceed the quota. In other words, the pursuit requires playing within the parameters that maintain white supremacy. For example, in cinema there is only one exceptional Michelle Yeoh. Yet in the cinema industry there can be only one Michelle Yeoh at a time, and every Michelle, of which there are few, must be few and far between. For the individual, the top is an achievement. Perhaps collectively it even gives us something to cheer for. But it’s not an example I want to contend with or even dream of. (Easy for me to say as someone who will never make it big, but would also love to have a best-selling book someday, for reasons I’m now unsure of.)

Asian folks sit in the dubious “middle” of racialization, where if we play our cards just right, whiteness promises to crack open the gates of belonging and even power. Playing into the “model minority myth” builds the caricature that Asians will match the prerequisites of whiteness for those partial rewards. Yet participation comes with consequences. Contorting to the demands of whiteness can be stripped away in an instant. At any moment whiteness (as a system) will vilify “foreign” bodies—including the token few. That was one of the many painful features of the early global pandemic. Anti-Asian hate skyrocketed where any face looking remotely Chinese to the general population absorbed increased violence that comes attached to those terms and conditions of white supremacy. Suddenly, we were reminded that pretending to exist in the middle ground between Black and Indigenous on one side, and white on the other, was (is) a fraud. 

So maybe representation isn’t the goal? After all, whose approval are we trying to solicit with perceived success? Is it really that important to garner top accolades? Is the top a worthy American Dream to purse? Don’t forget there’s that quota…. All of these reasons sound compelling enough to reach for a different way. Pathways where Asian folks continue to find and raise our voices for the things we’re good at, while simultaneously participating in ventures that seek not merely individual success, but collective liberation. That’s a very different goal than what the American Dream purports. That model minority myth crumbles when we choose the side we’ve already been placed, and then work intersectionally with Black, Indigenous, and other folks towards new ways of being. I’m seeing variations of these decolonial ways of being coming into focus more and more, especially every May for Asian History Month (what we call it in Canada). I get to see and learn from more and more Asians sharing stories about who they are and where they are from. 

There was a time, and in many ways it still is, when Asian participation in collective liberation movements led by Black and Indigenous kin was few and far between. Now I’m seeing a change. It’s affirming to watch the growing movement of voices reclaiming and celebrating our people. But it’s not only volume, it’s the type of messaging I’m hearing more and more too—the collective voice reaching for that collective liberation. Not just for Asian folks to be represented at the top, but for all marginalized folks holding space for one another to thrive. A rising voice representing a more just way of being, not only for Asian folks, but a shared hope for a more beautiful future where all can belong in their own skin and flourish.

Rohadi is from Trinidad with West Indies, Chinese, and Japanese roots. He lives on Treaty 7 Territory in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. You can find Rohadi and his weekly newsletter on his website

https://www.rohadi.com

His podcast, ‘Faith in a Fresh Vibe’ engages Christianity and decolonization. Find him online mostly on Threads and Instagram. Read his most recent book, When We Belong. Reclaiming Christianity on the Margins.

Meet Susan Park.

Living as a Double Agent

by Susan Park

Growing up as an eight-year-old Korean American girl in the 1980s, I lived like a double agent. By day, I carried a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box with a ham sandwich, Doritos, and an apple. I spoke fluent English and traded stickers with my friends. I listened to Michael Jackson’s Thriller album and wore jelly shoes. I tried to fit in by doing everything I thought a true American did.

By night, I carried a pair of chopsticks to the kitchen table to eat a delicious Korean meal. My family and I would eat spicy Korean stews with kimchi, side dishes, and rice. We watched taped Korean variety shows on the TV/VCR machine as we ate tangerines for an after-dinner dessert. My parents would speak to my sisters and me in their fluent Korean, immersing us in Korean traditions and expectations in our suburban Chicago home.

As I grew older, I began questioning my life as a double agent. Who am I? Am I either Korean or American? Can I be both? What would happen if I merged the two worlds? I couldn’t imagine bringing Korean food to school in my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. I wondered if the other kids in my school would frown at the sight of kimbap and kimchi. One time, my identity as a Korean was “discovered” when a non-Asian friend asked me why I was trying to act American. I didn’t know how to answer her.

However, I’ve learned to embrace being fully Korean and American over the years. I gradually left my life as a double agent. I realized that being Korean American and everything both experiences had to offer is who I am. God created me to be a Korean American. I still love Doritos and kimchi. I love sharing my Korean culture and its unique nuances with my non-Asian friends. I teach my boys the importance of Korean and American traditions and to be proud of who they are as Korean Americans.

I would tell my eight-year-old self that being Korean American is a gift. Experiencing two beautiful cultures is who she is. I would share that being Korean American is the way God created her and to celebrate that truth. Then, I would pack a delicious Korean meal in her Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.

And a pair of chopsticks to go with it, too.

Susan Park is a Korean-American Christian writer. She loves to encourage women with words of hope and joy. She is passionate about how we can co-create with God in our creative work. She is working on her first novel about a second-generation Korean-American woman.

Susan was a writer and assistant copy editor for the Christian online magazine Marked Ministry. She also spoke about creativity at The Extraordinary Faith Summit and wrote for the Dawn Bible app. She has been a featured writer and podcast guest for other Christian writers.

She is one of the contributing authors of the book, “Life Changing Stories: A Devotional Collection Revealing God’s Faithfulness and Transforming Power.”

Susan lives in the Chicago area with her husband and three boys.

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