You don’t need me to tell you that Mother’s Day is complicated for many. A two-second pause to contemplate the people in your life for whom the holiday might be painful would yield evidence enough that the day (and the church-backed events that it often brings) can be tricky. Instead, maybe we can ask why is that so?

My hunch is that the labyrinth of emotions accompanying this holiday has to do with the elevation and highlighting of a very specific relationship. And relationships are layered, sometimes strained, always unique. They are formed between people, and no two people are alike. A day to “celebrate mothers” feels not altogether different from declaring a day to “celebrate health.” Can you imagine? The pain that would come from those whose bodies have received diagnoses? From those who have learned from their faith communities to not trust their physical selves? From those trapped inside of addiction, or those raging against the institutions that compromise our wellness, or those who have been traumatized by diet culture? Health is complicated because it has to do with a relationship between a person and their body. “Celebrating health” would be an oversimplification of such a complex human experience.

So too with mothers.

Here’s a Mother’s Day litany that is also simplified for such vastly different connections and experiences that surround us. But, I hope it makes a little more room for a few more people.

 *****************************************************************

Needed: A candle and lighter, something to represent bread and wine for communion (a cracker and juice, toast and milk, etc), and a little cup of dirt (plus a seed, if available). If reading with people, one voice will read all unbolded sections while the group joins in for the bolded sections.

“If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we are apart, I will always be with you.” –Winnie the Pooh

ONE: Right now, we push aside all the feelings we “should” have and people we “should” be, and we open wide our doors to what is

ALL: Welcome, old grief; 

Welcome, new reality; 

Welcome, fear; 

Welcome, worry; 

Welcome, exactly who we are right now

ONE: As we light this candle, we declare this space for remembering and honoring the children and parents we miss during Mother’s (and/or Father’s) day(s)

ALL: Be with us, saints; 

Be with us, Spirit

Song: Let It Be

ONE: For children who had to say goodbye to parents when they should have had so much more time

ALL: We hold you now: (name any names aloud)

ONE: For children who have watched the minds and bodies of parents deteriorate, no longer able to recognize or remember

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children whose parents were unable to offer their presence or resources, children who ached to know a different kind of paternal or maternal love

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children who have lost parents to suicide, disease, estrangement

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children who wrestle with the complexities of their birth parents, adoptive parents, and foster parents

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children who are navigating the milestones of life without their mothers or fathers there to call for recipes and family histories and old stories that have faded with years

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For LGBTQIA+ children who do not have homes to which they can return

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children who were abused in a multitude of ways:

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For children who dread the holidays because of their voids

ALL: We hold you now:

Scripture: Matthew 5:1-12

ONE: For parents who birthed babies straight into the arms of God

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For parents who have lost young children to disasters that make this life seem too unfair for the human heart

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For parents who have raised their grandchildren or other relatives because of a lost life or reality

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For parents who have lost children to suicide, disease, estrangement

ALL: We hold you now: 

ONE: For parents whose children were unable to offer their presence or connection, parents who ached to know a different kind of familial love

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For parents who have received a gutting diagnosis

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For parents who are raising children, and working jobs, and running households by themselves

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For birth parents who wrestle with the complexities of hard decisions and limited resources

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For adoptive and foster parents who wrestle with the complexities of hard questions, identity narratives, and ethics

ALL: We hold you now:

ONE: For migrant and refugee parents who are risking everything (even separation) for a better life for their children

ALL: We hold you now:

“If I had lost a leg—I would tell them—instead of a boy, no one would ever ask me if I was ‘over’ it. They would ask me how I was doing learning to walk without my leg. I was learning to walk and to breathe and to live without Wade. And what I was learning is that it was never going to be the life I had before.” –Elizabeth Edwards

ONE: To those who are not biological parents, but who step in to mother and father so many around them

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To those who chose not to be parents in a culture that so often pressures otherwise

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To those who would choose to be parents, or parents again, but who grieve the loss of a dream

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To those who have redefined family to go past lines of biology, nationality, and economics

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To those who did the best they could with what they had when they had it

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To those versions of ourselves that we never turned into, and the versions of ourselves that we did

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To the voices we wish we could hear say “Happy Mother’s and Father’s Day”

ALL: We honor you now:

ONE: To the ears to which we wish we could say “Happy Mother’s and Father’s Day”

ALL: We honor you now:

Scripture: John 1:5

“Sorry, but you don’t really get a choice—you keep waking up and you keep breathing and your heart keeps on beating. And because your blood hasn’t stopped moving through your body, your stomach gets hungry, and then your mouth eats. This is how it goes. Your sad little heart becomes a force of nature. Despite the depth of its wounds, it just keeps going and then the rest of your body has to follow. You eat. You sleep. You sit, and stand, and walk. You smile. Eventually, you laugh. It’s like your heart knows that if it keeps going, so will you. And your heart hasn’t forgotten how good it is to be in the world, so it pushes on, propelling you along to the fridge, the shower, a family dinner, coffee with a friend. In doing these things, your spirit catches up with what your heart already knows; it’s pretty good to be alive. I guess what I’m getting at is that if you too are mired in the early days of unimaginable loss, the only thing to do is follow your heart. Then listen to your body. And keep…going.” –Jamie Wright 

Song: Great is Thy Faithfulness

ONE: Hear our words to those we miss

ALL: Meet us in our celebration and in our grief 

Communion

ONE: The body of Mary’s son, broken for us

The blood of God’s son, poured out for the world

ALL: Thank you Jesus for the bigger picture of resurrection

ONE: God’s family table is open to all who wish to partake, in your homes, on these screens, though separated we are one.

(Participants hold cup of soil—and a seed if possible—in their hands.)

Remind us, God, that our faith makes room for death, that our faith can hold endings, though they are excruciating and devastating.

(Participants push seeds into dirt.)

Remind us that in a backwards kingdom, end is beginning, last is first, and burial is birth…eventually.

ALL: Thank you for love that was, is, and is to come. Amen.

Go now in the peace that passes our understanding.

I am not a Catholic. In fact, I was raised in the charismatic, protestant church in Scotland. A faith tradition which taught us that, “praying to saints” (especially Mary) was idolatry. 

This morning however, just after my husband read me the news about the escalating situation of war in Israel, Gaza, and Iran, I found myself praying with, and even to, Mary the mother of Jesus. 

For some years now, beginning in a time of deep grief, God has been “turning up” for me … with me … in me … beside me … as my Mother. The tender, loving, yet incredibly fierce and creative Life Force, which birthed our universe and our existence. An Eternal Womb in which I’m always held. This has been a wonderful “widening out” in my understanding of God and has brought great healing to my deepest wounds; in a way which only incredible intimacy can. 

But, unlike many others – who are also currently discovering the Divine Feminine Presence of God – I’ve honestly never given much thought to Mary of Nazareth, the earthly mother of Jesus. 

That was, until recently, when I spent some extended time in Mexico and found myself entranced – and frankly enchanted – by the incredibly abundant images, literally everywhere (murals, graffitied walls, bumper stickers, tattoos) of Our Lady of Guadalupe. 

For those of us without much knowledge of Catholic faith traditions, Our Lady of Guadalupe is a “Marian” apparition. That is, an appearance of Mary, the mother of Jesus, who came to an indigenous man, San Juan Diego (Cuauhtlatoatzin – Talking Eagle – was his indigenous name) in Mexico, 1531. 

The story tells us that after several divine meetings between the two: San Juan and Guadalupe. Meetings which took place over a period of several days. Meetings in which she beckoned, encouraged and instructed him; Guadalupe’s image was miraculously imprinted on this ordinary man’s cloak. This miraculous “painting” is still with us today and is available to view at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, in modern day Mexico City.

Here’s the thing … I, as a good protestant girl, wasn’t raised to be intoxicated by the smells and bells of Catholic “superstition”.  I was taught, not to use saints as intermediaries, but to address the Divine directly and on my own behalf. In the faith tradition of my childhood, we weren’t permitted to pray to an image, nor worship idols … but, suddenly here I was, surrounded by endless, almost omnipresent, images of this Mexican-indigenous “Mary” and I found myself enamored by her. 

I snapped photos of her on every walk and at every stop sign, until my phone and Instagram account were full. I found myself sketching her over and over in my journals; researching the meanings hidden in the symbols of her dress, her pose and her face. What could this alluring … comforting … almost protecting image possibly mean!? Why did it strike me so much? How had it inspired such incredible devotion in the people of Mexico? 

As I began to allow myself to surrender to the call, I found that in drawing her … piece by piece … again and again … I was sketching out a map of God.

Much like my ancestors – the ancient Celts – with their “three leafed” Celtic knot describing the mystery of the Trinity, I discovered that the people of Mexico had also been given a symbol to aid them in their understanding of the Infinite. This map came to them through an image of Mary … a poor, brown, pregnant, unwed, teenage, praying girl.   

Of course, my firmly western, pragmatic, protestant brain could hardly handle this kind of mystery! Mary was a human girl … like me. Not God. Not the Divine one. Not even the Holy Spirit, who I had come to know, so tenderly, as Mother. I wrestled with the “either – or” of the whole situation and rubbed my eyes again and again in frustration at this new vision of oneness that God was so kindly showing me about Herself and her saints; her dearly loved ones. 

During the last couple years this oneness has sunk into my heart, where my brain couldn’t receive it. I have begun to let go and trust. Christ is the Vine and I am one of the branches. I cannot find the line where God ends and I begin, so why should I feel such a desperate need to draw that line anywhere else? 

This morning, as we listened to the news coming out of the Middle East: that war may escalate and more  mothers will be torn from their children, more husbands may lose their wives, more babies may be blown up, orphaned  and abandoned, I found the words of the Hail Mary prayer … a prayer which I learned accidentally, growing up  surrounded by Catholic neighbors in a nation which was fiercely divided by religion … I found the words of Hail Mary, tumbling through my mind and out my mouth. 

Mary, that most Middle Eastern of mamas. She who knows the terror of occupation, the constant threat of murder. She, who watched her dearest child be ripped from her life by political mob violence. 

Mary, this Mary, who still dared to call herself “blessed” in spite of it all. Mary, who trusted in the resurrection long enough to see the crucifixion through. 

I found myself praying to Mary, with Mary, through Mary and with the Holy Spirit which binds us both together as children of God … praying for the mothers who are caught in this awful war. 

“Hail Mary”   

Mary … my heart salutes you, my heart salutes your heart … and through your heart I acknowledge and  listen … to God, who is our Deepest Mother. 

“full of grace” 

Through you I see the grace that is ours 

You who said, “let it be” 

You who opened yourself wide, in deep trust 

who gave your “yes” to God

Your yes to pain, your yes to joy, your yes to life and your yes to death … even the death of your own son 

“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus” 

This part of the prayer makes me choke with tears, 

because you are a human woman, a mother, a fruitful womb 

just like me, just like our sisters 

a woman who lived under the fierce violence of Occupation 

an Occupation which killed children and tore babies from their mothers 

You, like so many, had to flee to save your child’s life, 

to save him from a deadly force, breathing out violence against you, 

threatening to take his life – his tiny, precious life – away. 

We look at the horror unfolding in your homeland, and we wonder, “How could anyone slaughter children?” Oh Mary 

Oh dear Mother-God 

You know the fear and terror the mothers of Gaza and Israel face 

And yet still, 

still you called yourself, “Blessed”! 

You, whose very name, Miriam, means “sea of bitter tears”. 

You, whose son was murdered by mob-violence 

by an absurd system, calling itself just! 

You who knew agony as deep as the sea 

You named yourself, “Blessed”. 

You even foretold that we would call you “Blessed”. 

By doing this, you teach us 

To call ourselves 

To call all mothers … 

To call all children, fruit of our wombs 

“Blessed” 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God” 

You, who carried God in your womb 

who, like all of us, carried the Divine within you 

who, like all mothers, grew and bore, loved and raised, a child of the Creator. 

“Pray for us, now and at the hour of our death” 

Pray for us …now and in all our deaths 

our daily deaths and losses 

our minute-to-minute worsening griefs 

too deep for words 

pray for us. 

Holy Spirit pray for us … within us … around us … over us. 

Your hand is always on our eyes – to light the way 

Your hand is always on our hearts – to still the storm of panic   

Your hand is always at our backs – to catch us as we fall 

You, Spirit, Mother of all mothers, hold us, carry our wounds. 

shed our tears and grieve our deepest grief   

Pray for us Mother, 

As we pray with and for the mothers, the sisters, the daughters, in Israel and Gaza, who are all your children. They are all us

We are all them 

within your holy love 

Amen. 

Let it be. 

In closing, please allow me to share with you why I feel it is such an incredible gift for me, as someone raised protestant, to feel invited by the Spirit to meditate on the words of the “Hail Mary” prayer.  

The place in which I was raised, the west of Scotland, was incredibly divided for generations – politically,  socially and religiously – between Catholic and Protestant. As you likely know, Northern Ireland, just thirty miles across  the sea from us, experienced decades of life-wrecking violence. After generations of hatred and loss – peace,  reconciliation, understanding – these things just seemed impossible. Yet in recent decades they have miraculously arrived.  

This Easter Sunday, just a few weeks ago, my parents sent me pictures of their Easter gathering in Scotland.  Starting at the local Catholic church, members from various denominations walked together from church to church,  singing, sharing and celebrating the resurrection together.  

It’s not just that it’s easier, or more pleasant, or a better life for all, when we have peace – but to feel actively  encouraged by the Spirit to engage in and understand one another’s prayers, surely this can bring us one step closer to  seeing an answer to Jesus’ own prayer for the human race: that we might one day, be one, and find ourselves empowered  to truly love one another.  

This must be our prayer too, not just for Israel and Palestine, but for the whole world. 

A simple answer comes quickly, like a response whispered back to my doubts: I’m here to live a life of community, prayer, and service. I want my life centered around those three things. With community, prayer, and service at the center of my life, I might grow into a better version of myself, a better Christian and disciple of Jesus. These are the quick answers, in this inner conversation I go through every week or so.

I daydream about how it could work. Maybe I could gather a group of my friends and we could get a place together, then let people who are homeless live with us too. We could offer meals around our table and host prayer and workshops about social justice for the public. I guess what I want is a life like how Catholic Workers I know live. Would the Catholic Worker lifestyle fit me better? Would it feel more natural to live in a Catholic Worker house than hanging out in these old buildings, between these institutional walls?

Some friends have been sending messages, asking me if I’ve read The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, by Shane Claiborne. Once I do, I weep as I take in Shane’s story and learn about the “new monastics.” I’m enamored by the description of how Shane and his friends live in an intentional community in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Philadelphia and serve their neighbors. I want to live simply with other Christians. I want to serve the marginalized too. That’s what Jesus modeled for us. I want to be close to the poor, close to Jesus. How is being a novice helping me to become a more radical Christian?

How could the structures, expectations and traditions of the Franciscan Sisters offer me freedom to serve the poor and radically follow Jesus like Shane and his friends are doing? I feel stuck and confused as I try to think it through, try to imagine how being a Sister will free me.

Sitting in the silent adoration chapel, I muse about my confusion and bob my head in prayer. Then, one afternoon, something happens inside me: I can only describe it as a widening in my heart. It feels like an opening, a gap that allows some light to soften the doubts tangled inside. This is where I am. I’m here with these good women. I’m lucky to be with them. They’re amazing! In the rays of light falling into me, a cavern is created for the Spirit to whisper. As quickly as I wondered why I haven’t yet left, I know why I’m here.

It’s the mothers. The spiritual mothers. The roots, the depth, the way that this form of religious life means I’m now in a beautiful web of connection, tradition.  The spiritual mothers are the women I’m interacting with daily. They are the gray-haired and stooping ones, who embrace me with their hugs, prayer, and notes of encouragement and love.

Then my mind flips through timelines and zooms to the spiritual mothers of the Middle Ages. It is St. Clare of Assisi and her Poor Ladies, in San Damiano. The mystics, and bold voices who spoke to power and advocated for reforms. Go back to Rome, St. Catherine of Siena told the pope who was lingering at Avignon! St. Teresa of Avila, outgoing (like me), and deep and intense, who was sought after for her spiritual wisdom, for her Interior Castle.

Being part of the Franciscan Sisters means I’m amazingly part of this lineage too.

These holy women are my mothers, my church, they are the reason I stay. Somehow, they help me know that I belong to this mystery, this communion. Somehow all of them are mine. I stare at the altar, the Blessed Sacrament gleaming behind the glass of the monstrance and I know: I’m their daughter, a little restless and weak, but I’m here for them, ready to learn.

Several years ago, I wrote Shane Claiborne and thanked him for writing The Irresistible Revolution. He wrote back, on the back side of a piece of scrap paper a hand-written response:

January Something 2009
Sister Julia —
Your letter warmed my heart. Thank you.
Sorry for the delay, it seems I stay behind on letters, but love writing—after all,
it’s an important Christian past time.
I admire your hope and discontentment—and certainly the Church needs both—it
is a beautiful thing to hear in your words the fiery passion of Francis and Clare—and the
humility to submit and seek the wisdom of elders. I’m also on an unfolding journey of
spiritual direction and discernment as I seek our Lover Jesus. Our communities and “new
monasticism” has its charm and fresh charism it also has its challenges and
vulnerabilities—and I think stability and supporting celibate singles, formation…are all
things we still are figuring out. So pray for us—I certainly will keep you in my prayers as
you continue the work of Francis and Clare “repairing the ruins of the Church.” You are
a gift to the FSPA. Send my love to all the saints and sinners there. May we continue to
become the Church we dream of.
Your brother—Shane Claiborne

Tucked inside the envelope I find a prayer card—with the classic peace prayer of St. Francis printed on one side and an image of Francis on the other—a tiny little plastic baggie filled with about a teaspoon of sand, and a rectangle of white paper with words printed on it: “This dirt is from outside San Damiano in Assisi, where little brother Francis heard God whisper: ‘Repair my Church which is in ruins.’” And he started working. May the repairs continue in us.

I want to scream with joy, to run around and tell all the neighbors about my mail. But I sit still, reading the letter over and over, soaking in its message of encouragement along with the affirmation of what I’ve been praying about: I’m here, I’m a Franciscan Sister, not because the community or the Church is perfect, but because, somehow, it is home. In this home, I get to serve. I give of myself and try to help the suffering parts of Christ’s body be healed, repaired. I hope I do; I hope I can.

Excerpt from For Love of the Broken Body: A Spiritual Memoir, by Julia Walsh. Rhinebeck, NY: Monkfish Publishing, March 2024. Used by permission of the publisher.

“Pick a color,” she said. “Write down your color.” I was at a writers’ workshop in Minnesota, and this was our prompt. I wrote down “pink.” No one else will pick that color, I thought to myself. Then we were told our assignment: head outdoors and look for the color we had chosen. 

I couldn’t find anything pink. It was cloudy, with no streaks of a pinkish sunset brushing the sky. I spotted peach-colored raspberries ripening on the vine. Spiky lavender thistle blooms swayed high above the grasses. I detected tiny maroon slivers of crushed stones in the concrete road. Otherwise, I was surrounded by swaths of green grass and leafing trees in shades of emerald, jade, lime, pistachio, sage, and artichoke. No pink anywhere. 

Should I change my color? No one would know. 

No, I’ll be honest and stick with pink. 

Then I remembered a science lesson. The color we see with the naked eye is the hue that is not absorbed by the object; what we see is the color reflected back to us. Green leaves and grasses absorb every color in the spectrum except green, so what I see bouncing back to my eyes is green. That meant pink really was everywhere, even if my human eyes could not see it. 

Similarly, when I see your face, I see dimly. I can’t see your past, but if I’m paying attention, I might detect bits of joy flashing when your eyes light up. I can’t see your thoughts—though sometimes your emotions give themselves away. Sometimes, we only reflect back to others what we want them to see. Sometimes we think what we can see with our human eyes is all there is. Sometimes all others see is “different,” when there are really rich tones of melanin and shades of brown reflecting back, with all of their accompanying tones, tints, stories, and songs. 

Colorblindness 

In an attempt not to sound racist and separate themselves from obviously racist individuals, some folks will say, “I’m colorblind.” But the truth is we are not colorblind. Babies and children actually notice race at young ages—some studies indicate as early as three months. By nine months, babies use race to categorize faces, and by age three, children associate some races with negative traits.

I’ve heard the idea that America is colorblind: America elected a Black president, and therefore, we’ve overcome our obstacles. Electing a Black president is something many did not believe would occur in their lifetime, so does that now mean we’ve achieved racial equity?  Electing a Black president did not change the fact that Black Americans are incarcerated at five times the rate of white Americans. Electing a Black president did not radically alter the tragic number of police brutality cases against Black people. Likewise, just because we have neighbors in a racially mixed marriage, or a couple at our church adopted Black or Brown children, or we did so ourselves, does not mean that we’ve achieved ethnic and racial harmony. Proximity does not erase structural inequality. 

We can see color, and the idea of colorblindness actually cloaks the real issues of living in a racialized society and the systems perpetuating it. Colorblindness doesn’t work toward injustice. It may be well-intentioned, but colorblindness actually causes harm. “Colorblindness has a kind of homogenizing effect on communities: it suggests unity through uniformity instead of belonging in spite of difference,” according to David P. Leong, author of Race and Place. Instead, we are “color-blessed,” as Dr. Derwin Gray, pastor, author, and former NFL player, says.

***

In the science lesson I discussed where the only color visible is the one not absorbed by an object, we learn that the physics behind color itself is a multidimensional story. If color is a wavelength of light, then white is actually not a color on the visible light spectrum. When we see white, we are seeing all the colors bouncing off the object and hitting our eyes. 

For objects that appear black to our eyes, we are seeing the color black because all the colors are absorbed by the object; nothing is reflected back for us to see. That’s why darkness looks black: there is nothing for us to look at. 

It is curious that humans chose these two “non-colors” to describe color in each other. The physics behind the colors themselves is representative of what has taken place in our world, and how people of color from the African continent became referred to as “Black,” as if they were seen as nonexistent, nonentities. Colonizers and slave handlers erased their humanity by treating them as slaves and subjugating them. That is how many have chosen to “see” Black folks: not worthy, less-than, dehumanized. Additionally, the racial divide is often defined by this Black-white binary, yet there is so much more to be known, so many colors in-between. 

*** 

El Roi 

Imagine having a name that meant “Foreign Thing.” Unthinkable, right? Yet, that is the approximate translation of Hagar, the name of Sarah’s handmaiden. Sarah was married to Abraham, but in the story, Sarah gave Hagar to Abraham because Sarah and Abraham had no children. Hagar then gave birth to Ishmael. But Hagar’s name, which isn’t really a name, means something like “foreign thing.” And this is exactly how she was treated. Not as a person with autonomy, but as a slave, an object to be used at will. When Hagar was forced out of Abraham’s household, God met her in the desert, told her to return to the household, and declared that her son should be named Ishmael, which means “God hears” (Gen 16:11). Hagar responds by naming God El Roi, which means “the God Who Sees.” The “Foreign Thing” was seen, heard, and known. 

Though we may walk through life unknown by society at-large or in majority white spaces, we are known by the Creator. Being known necessitates a curiosity beyond stereotypes and toward specifics. Being known means we are known completely and loved by a Creator who sees the good, the bad, and the ugly and loves us anyway. 

Indeed, we have a God who sees us and knows us. We are not foreign things but beloved people, those who belong. We are seen, heard, known, loved, and embraced. And if culture at-large doesn’t see us or know us for who we are, we can be certain that God does and will not stay silent forever. We are not isolated or forgotten; we are seen, and as we negotiate belonging and assimilation, we are integrated into the story of humanity, and a story of love and belonging crafted by a God who sees. 

So, What Are You? 

God knows your name 

Your past, present, future 

You are seen, remembered, known 

In the land you are looking for 

You belong both/and 

There is no either/or 

You are known 

And loved as-is 

You are not out here 

Making it all alone 

Adapted from Beyond Ethnic Loneliness by Prasanta Verma. ©2024 by Prasanta Verma Anumolu. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com. 

August 2024 will mark two years since my daughter, Michelle was released from prison. Even though we have both been through so much these past thirteen years of her incarceration, in some ways, her life is just beginning.

On April 9, 2009, my daughter was sentenced to life in prison for a murder she didn’t commit. No mother should go through what I have, and no daughter should endure what she has. It wasn’t just that day when I heard the judge sentence my daughter to life that my heart broke. It was the thousand others filled with millions of agonizing moments of unrest, terror, panic and defeat I experienced as I worked tirelessly to get my daughter justice and to make sure that she would have a life once she got out.

When a person is released from prison, they are walking into a new existence. One that, ironically, may be harder than the one they left behind bars. Why? Our legal system wants to keep people chained to their past.

It shouldn’t be this way.

According to the National Reentry Center, there are “40,000 state and federal legal and regulatory restrictions that limit or prohibit people convicted of a crime or adjudicated for a delinquent act from accessing employment, business and occupational licensing, housing, voting, education, and other rights, benefits, and opportunities.” That’s forty thousand ways to hear ‘no’, when you’re looking for just one ‘yes.’ It is hard enough to have the mental energy to go to the bank to open a checking account, without having to face barriers, prejudices, stigmas and actual regulatory restrictions every step of the way. From getting a job, to renting an apartment to buying groceries or simply voting, people need help.

April is Second Chance month. I was forced to take this call; many of us can do so on our own – and should. We have to understand that once someone completes their sentence, they deserve a second chance at living – to make money, get an education, and participate in our democracy. People want to rebuild their lives. They want to be a part of society and do something that is meaningful. They do not want to feel like they are still behind bars with little to no chance at flourishing.

Michelle earned her degree; she graduated from Life University. She began studying while still incarcerated. She probably could have done this on her own, but my daughter had me by her side encouraging her to keep going. She had help.

With my daughter’s release, I’m working to get my own life back together. I’m constantly asking God, “What was all this for? What does it mean? Where do I go?” As I put the puzzle pieces together, I see the big picture: helping others.

There are still hundreds of ‘Michelle’s’ behind bars. I never forget about those ladies that are still in there. I didn’t want to say, “Goodbye, see you later” just because my daughter was free.  Now, I advocate for them. I give them a branch of humanity upon which to grab hold. I continue to fight for their second chance. I believe we all can.

I knew I wasn’t going to let my daughter down. I also knew I couldn’t help her on my own. I leaned on my belief in God. Faith was key. I truly couldn’t be here without it or without prayer – that was the utmost importance. I also turned to community. It wasn’t easy. There is a lot of shame, embarrassment and fear that rise up when you have to share this type of reality with others. There can be a lot of judgement, but United Women in Faith  helped me emotionally and encouraged me to offer my testimony. Once I put it out there that I needed help, it started rolling in. When others learned about Michelle’s education costs, they donated $2,000 toward her books. With my prison ministry, I made an ask for suitcases. We received 80. That wouldn’t have happened without United Women in Faith. Believe me, having a group of people on your side gives you discipline and spiritual friendship. When things get tough, people will stand by you. United Women in Faith helped get me connected to the National Council for Incarcerated and Formerly Incarcerated Women and Girls, build my skills and share my story. I eventually became an advocate at the Georgia State Capitol for the conviction integrity unit which ultimately helped with Michelle’s release. I’m a leader in United Women in Faith, a board member of Georgians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty, and a part of End Mass Incarceration Georgia. There are many organizations to turn to for help. The National Institute of Corrections offers a list here of Justice Involved Women Programs. You may also check locally.

Participating in Second Chance month can feel overwhelming or even unnecessary if you haven’t been affected by the carceral system as I have. However, there are two things I’ve identified in my work that help women (and others) after release. The number one thing is finding some place to stay. If women have this, it is a good start, and they don’t have it as hard. The other is to show value in a person. I show these women that they have worth; that they are wonderful human beings. For example, I write to them – even if there is no response – because you never know what impact you have on their lives. Helping someone have a second chance doesn’t have to be a family matter, as it was for me and Michelle; rather, it can be you letting someone else know they matter, and that life is waiting for them.

 – Cynthia Morrison Holland is a mother, advocate and member of United Women in Faith

LINKS in order of use:

1. https://nationalreentryresourcecenter.org/multimedia/re-introduction-national-inventory-collateral-consequences-conviction-niccc-and-clean
2. https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/presidential-actions/2023/03/31/a-proclamation-on-second-chance-month-2023/
3. https://uwfaith.org/
4. https://info.nicic.gov/jiwp/womens-programs-all?page=3

Excerpt from the Foreword

One of Hannah’s aims is to capture not only the courage and stoicism of the women who have suffered so much, but also the nobility, dignity, and extraordinary compassion that many of them manage to retain, despite their traumatic experiences. Her use of traditional painting techniques along with gold leaf (learned at my School of Traditional Arts), together with her spiritual outlook and intention, elevates the portraits to almost the status of icons–transforming the particular into the archetype and the individual mother into the Universal Mother, thereby speaking to every woman.

I very much hope that this beautiful book, Tears of Gold, will help enable the Yazidi, Rohingya, and Nigerian women’s voices to be heard, as well as to highlight the issue of the persecution of religious and ethnic minorities in general. All too often, their stories of suffering remain unseen and unheard–but Hannah Thomas is doing tremendous work in bringing their stories out into the open. May her powerful paintings spread the word and, God willing, have a positive impact in relieving the suffering of some of the most vulnerable and marginalised communities around the world.

– HRH The Prince Charles, former Prince of Wales (prior to his accession as HM King Charles III)

Portraits of Nigerian Women

Survivors of Boko Haram and Fulani Violence

Since the beginning of the Boko Haram insurgency in northeast Nigeria in 2009, millions have been forced from their homes. Boko Haram abducted thousands of women, holding them captive and subjecting them to sexual violence and forced marriage. After the kidnapping of 276 schoolgirls in Chibok in April 2014, the hashtag #bringbackourgirls went viral, retweeted by celebrities and politicians from Kim Kardashian to Michelle Obama.

Since then, the security situation in northern Nigeria has been further exacerbated by escalating conflict between predominantly Muslim and nomadic Fulani herdsmen and Christian farmers. Fulani militants have used sexual violence to target women as a way to devastate communities. A report released by the UK government in 2020 describes the targeting of Christian communities in Nigeria as an “unfolding genocide.” (1)

In September 2018 I spent a week in northern Nigeria, leading an art project facilitated by Open Doors as part of a trauma healing programme with Christian women who were survivors of sexual violence either at the hands of Fulani militants or Boko Haram. As with my other projects, the aim was to create a safe space for the women to share their stories and begin to process their pain.

Like the Yazidi women in Iraqi Kurdistan, many opted to add glistening tears of gold to their self-portraits. For the finishing touch the women sewed vibrant local Nigerian fabric onto their paintings–with a lot of singing and laughter, which was beautiful to see! The women were so proud of the self-portraits they had created.

Charity had been kidnapped by Boko Haram and held captive for three years. When she returned with a baby, her husband beat her and refused to accept the child. On our last day together for the art project Charity said, “I am so happy. I have never held a pencil in my life before, and this is the first time I have been able to write my name and even to draw my face!” The art project was a drop in the ocean when I think of the trauma she has faced.  Yet the simple act of drawing a self-portrait helped her affirm her identity and value, especially important considering the shame and stigma that victims of sexual violence face in her community.

Conflict leaves many wounds, but perhaps the hardest to overcome is this ongoing stigma that so many survivors have to contend with. This additional burden, following devastating assaults, is almost unbearable. The perceived association of survivors and their children born of wartime rape with the enemy entrenches the stigma and often leads to further abuse, (2) as does the absence of cultural narratives that allow women to look upon their survival as heroic or honorable. (3 )

Dr. Denis Mukwege, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, writes, “As individuals and societies, we need to show . . . compassion and kindness to all survivors. Sadly, instead, we do the opposite. We compound their pain by treating them with suspicion, or worse, treating them as pariahs. The shame and costs of an assault all too often fall on women, not their aggressors. They deserve sympathy, support, and protection.” (4)

Living through and surviving sexual violence can be an isolating experience.  Art workshops can be a safe, nurturing, and nourishing space to break that isolation–“the idea of feeling surrounded by acceptance and protection, a space where it is possible to be oneself, devoid of threat, and to get on living life without fear.” (5) These projects can become a source of connection, an occasion for showing empathy, care, trust, and creativity–the conditions needed to reclaim human dignity. (6) By the end of the week in northern Nigeria, the women were all laughing, dancing, and singing together–a complete transformation from our first day.

One girl who took part in the art project, Florence, had been raped by Fulani militants when she was ten years old. On our last day together she said, “Here I have found peace of mind.” Initially Florence had kept her face covered and eyes averted; now she met my gaze with the most radiant smile.

Again, the purpose of the project was twofold: it was both therapeutic and also for advocacy–to empower the women’s voices to be heard through their self-portraits. The women’s self-portrait paintings have been shown alongside my portrait paintings in places including the UK Houses of Parliament, Lambeth Palace, and Westminster Abbey to shine a light on the issues of sexual violence and the persecution of religious minorities. In this way, the women are being a voice for other women who are also targeted on account of their religion and their gender. As one participant, Aisha, said: “I want the whole world to know that I have pain. I have gone through a lot, and many other women in my village are going through a lot, and that is what is happening here in my country. Women are going through a lot and they do not have anybody to speak out for them.”

Following my return to England from Nigeria, I poured my heart into painting portraits of the women. I used sacred imagery and early Renaissance tempera and Byzantine icon painting techniques. The headdresses are a vivid blue made from lapis lazuli, a precious pigment mined in Afghanistan, so expensive that it was traditionally reserved for paintings of the Virgin Mary. The patterns in gold leaf are inspired by indigo-dyed fabric from the region.

I hope the paintings have captured a glimpse of these women’s extraordinary courage, strength, resilience, and dignity–to show that they have not been defined by what they have suffered.

These portraits were unveiled in Lambeth Palace in November 2018, alongside the self-portraits painted by the women. The paintings have gone on to be displayed in places including Westminster Abbey; the Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office; Government Communications Headquarters; and churches across the United Kingdom. Open Doors UK & Ireland ensured that each of the women received a copy of my portrait painting and her self-portrait.

Gambo

Gambo

I regained consciousness and found that I had no clothes on my body. I tried to stand up but couldn’t stand. 

Gambo was gathering firewood in 2018 when a Fulani herdsman ran towards her brandishing a stick and demanded, “If you do not allow me to sleep with you I’m
going to kill you.” She later regained consciousness–naked, bleeding, and unable to walk.

Gambo’s body still has not fully recovered when I meet her in September 2018, and she is in the process of taking the perpetrator to court. Drawing her self-portrait, she explains her mixed feelings: “The first is a feeling of anger and bitterness and that is why I drew myself not smiling. The second feeling is a feeling of joy, knowing that God loves and still protects and takes care of me.”

Aisha

Aisha (28)

I had no peace in my heart.
I couldn’t eat, and I couldn’t sleep.

Whenever I was alone, I remembered how those two men raped me. It is a wound
that takes a gradual process to heal.

A group of Fulani men attacked Aisha’s village at night. They took her husband away when they saw he had a
Bible and brutally raped her in her own home. Amazingly, Aisha’s husband was not killed. When he returned, he
showed her the support many women in Aisha’s situation do not receive. He assured her, “I will never leave you, so
I’ll stand by you.”

“I want the whole world to know that I have pain,” Aisha says. “I have gone through a lot, and many other women in
my village are going through a lot.”

Esther

Esther

How people treat my daughter really makes my heart ache.

Esther and her family were hiding in the caves in the hills, in fear of Boko Haram. When she returned to the village for food one day, Boko Haram attacked and she was taken into the Sambisa Forest, where the Chibok girls were also held.

Esther was in captivity for three and a half years. She was sold as a slave and forced to become the fourth wife of a Boko Haram leader. When this man was killed, Esther and the other wives escaped, trekking for three days without food or water and with no shoes on their feet. Esther was seven months pregnant.

After time being held in a military camp, Esther returned to her village.

When she arrived home, Esther’s family tried to make her abort the baby, but she refused.

After Rebecca was born, the family rejected her, calling her “Boko.”

FOOTNOTES: Portraits of Nigerian Women

1 “Nigeria: Unfolding Genocide?: An Inquiry by the UK All-Party Parliamentary Group for International Freedom of Religion or Belief” (June 2020).
2 United Nations Security Council, Women and Peace and Security, III.C.41.
3 David J. Morris, The Evil Hours: A Biography of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2015), 70.
4 Denis Mukwege, The Power of Women: A Doctor’s Fight to End Violence against Women
around the World (London: Short Books, 2021), 327.
5 Lederach and Lederach, When Blood and Bones Cry Out, 64.
6 Eva Feder Kittay, “A Theory of Justice as Fair Terms of Social Life Given Our Inevitable
Dependency and Our Inextricable Interdependency,” in Care Ethics and Political
Theory, ed. Daniel Engster and Maurice Hamington (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015), 67.

The writer of the email was not a Christian (ironically) but wanted to tell me how to be one for the sake of maintaining an abusive relationship. She had herself experienced abuse in the family dynamic she was defending. The email conveyed that Christian forgiveness means abnegating the right to talk about and resist experiences of abuse. Because my confrontation with abusive authority and my reluctance to stay in an abusive relationship caused pain, my action had to be inappropriate and un-Christian.

A few months later, I found myself unprotected in a situation where I was in close proximity to the person who had harmed me, whose influence I had long tried to escape. This person asked me on the spot, “I know you’ve had trouble in the past feeling like we could move forward in our relationship. Can we talk about this? Do you forgive me?”

Unable in that moment to find a safe way out of the situation, I quickly nodded, trying to disguise my vulnerability with casualness. “Sure,” I replied. “It’s fine.”

This was clearly the response the person wanted to hear. They quickly called others into the room and smiling through tears announced to the gathered group, “Susannah told me she forgives me! Everything is fine now!”

Fine . . . except that the harm done in this relationship had never been acknowledged. Fine . . . except that I wasn’t sure what “forgiving” someone whose actions in my life had been so catastrophic would entail. Fine . . . except that I was sure then that forgiveness was, once again, a concept being used to control me. Fine . . . except that the abuse would be repeated on other occasions, and I knew it.

The logic of forgiveness struck me as deeply wrong, but I was unable to figure out what forgiveness was at that time. Instead, that line in the email lodged in my mind (and that line is something I have revisited regularly). At that moment as a young adult, I felt as though I was selfishly choosing myself over long-standing relationships and even my faith— and yet I couldn’t force myself to relent from this seemingly un-Christian action.

Though I might not have articulated it then, the God who created me in his image, the Jesus I follow as Lord and Savior, and the Spirit who had led me on my way would not permit me to “forgive” in the way demanded. I knew I felt love for everyone with whom I was setting boundaries. I was not vengeful. I was not trying to cause harm, even though others certainly felt I was sowing discord. All I wanted, all I needed, was for my relationships to reflect that I was a child of God, worthy of safety, dignity, and love. My direct experiences of God didn’t seem to line up with the definition of forgiveness I’d internalized from church and my family. Could I really have been so misled?

What I knew I needed to do seemed to be a departure from scriptural tradition. But then again, I didn’t know too much about Scripture back then.

Content taken from Forgiveness after Trauma by Susannah Griffith, ©2024. Used by permission of Brazos Press.

“Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,
    happy is the one who repays you
    according to what you have done to us.
Happy is the one who seizes your infants
    and dashes them against the rocks.”

After the initial feelings of intense discomfort and repulsion at such a notion, we seek to find some rationality for this passage being included. Seemingly in such a matter-of-fact manner. And so unlike the “Happy are the peacemakers” Beatitudes that we’ve grown accustomed to. Searching commentary upon commentary to convince ourselves that surely God is not endorsing such an option for our rage and revenge against another group – and especially infants for goodness and God’s sake!

Matthew Poole’s commentary mentions the idea of this representing “just retaliation.” In Barnes’ Notes, Albert Barnes and James Murphy write,

“In regard to this passage, we are not necessarily to suppose that the author of the psalm approved of this, or desired it, or prayed for it. He looked forward to the fulfillment of a prediction; he saw that a just and terrible judgment would certainly come upon Babylon.

Marc Zvi Brettler, Professor of Judaic Studies at Duke University, shares that similar language can be found in Isaiah 13:16, 2 Kings 8:2, Hosea 14:1, and Nahum 3:10. However, he goes on to assert, “Heaven help us all if we ignore the savageness of this text, and instead discuss it only as historical-critical philologists, in a dispassionate manner.”

I would agree with the word “savageness.” I understand its meaning is ascribed to both people and behavior. It is used to remove humanity from those assigned the name savage or merely as three – fifths human. Savageness is also condoned by those who declare inhuman status on anyone. Sometimes collaterally to everyone. This includes infants and babies.

It’s 2024. The hope is that no one is taking their cues from the savageness of this text!

Because we remember the beautiful Indigenous children of God and the devastating legacy of calculated genocide that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful African children of God and the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful Japanese children of God and the terror of the atomic bomb that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful Jewish children of God and the hellishness of the Holocaust that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful African American children of God and the sheer terror of KKK lynching and bombings that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful Cambodian children of God and the horrific Killing Fields that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful South African children of God and the apartheid system that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful Congolese children of God under King Leopold’s brutal reign and the horrors now that dashed their infants against the rocks.

We remember the beautiful Bosnian children of God and the systematic ethnic cleansing that dashed their infants against the rocks.

What all these atrocities have in common is that at some point misinformation and propaganda about the humanity of a certain community of children of God, nurtured rage and hatred. People became comfortable with collateral damage. They felt justified to see collateral damage as a viable and justifiable option.

Today we hear the cries of the beautiful Ukrainian children of God fighting for their existence with war all around that is dashing their infants against the rocks.

This past Christmas, we heard the sermon, When We Justify the Bombing of Children by Palestinian Christian Pastor Munther Isaac. Asking the world to hear the cries of the beautiful Palestinian children of God. Fighting for their existence with war all around. Literally, dashing their infants against the rock as he declared that Christ could be found this year not in a manger, but in the rubble.

Despite the inclusion of such a horrific passage of unyielding brutality, other Psalms like 127, declare “Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift?” Psalm 139 reminds us that all humanity is fearfully and wonderfully made. Being made in the image of God, found in Genesis, looks more revolutionary and remarkable when mirrored by the way Jesus taught on a mountainside surrounded by rocks. Instead of “happiness” being linked to the savageness of dashing infants against them, in the Beatitudes, He spoke of happiness being correlated to those who are merciful, pure in heart and peacemakers. Peacemaking is what children of God do. War is not the answer, is what we were supposed to remember. Remember?

There are accusations of being “anti” this group or that one. We hear aggressive demands to demonstrate where you stand in every conflict. Many, who are now canceled for refusing to stand passively among the rubble, find themselves in between a rock and a hard place. Because they dared to desire peace and justice instead of more war. They are compelled to actively live out their peacemaking child of God status. Unhappy to continue witnessing devastating horror and terror that dashes any human being created in the image of God, against the rocks.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C2a1xR2sSMF/

We have no more time to wait, and no more excuses to offer. The United States must end its reliance on fossil energy that is killing us slowly but surely through air pollution, toxic by-products, and further exacerbating the climate crisis.

The march was a precursor to the United Nations’ Secretary-General’s Climate Ambition Summit, which was held on September 20. The historic turnout at the march was a demonstration of growing impatience around inaction on climate change. We are no longer willing to wait.

In total, more than 75,000 people participated in the march including national environmental and faith groups, people of all ages, and even international allies. For our part, United Women in Faith marched faithfully following the lead of frontline communities and joining voices of all faiths in demanding justice for people and creation.

As I thought of the significance of the gathering and the growing frustration over the lack of action to ensure clean energy, I realized that my work has cultural and spiritual significance. As a Latina mestiza, I recognize the legacy of resilience and resistance in my Latinix community, our practices to conserve paired with trust in providence to always welcome more at the table. Many of these practices are rooted in the wisdom of our Indigenous ancestors and Indigenous communities that have long resisted and maintained a relationship with creation based in mutuality and interdependence.

Mark Magana, founder of Green Latinos calls these practices – passed down from our parents and grandparents to conserve food, energy, water – ‘cultural environmentalism.’ And while you won’t see los abuelos y abuelas; our grandparents in a ‘Who’s Who’ of climate activists, for our Latinix community they were the first teachers of environmental stewardship we had, teaching us to love all what God has created. Spiritually, I get to not only answer to my Christian call to stewardship but to see God’s love and creativity manifested in creation. I’m often in awe by the many forms it takes and how God’s love lives in relationship to complex systems which I get to witness and be part of. This is both a humbling and dignifying experience.

As a Christian woman I strive to honor the sheer act of love it took to create the world that we enjoy today. Creation is a manifestation of God’s love for humanity. And as a Christian, I should be embodying the love that God has shown. Our faith calls us to love one another and creation and to take the streets and march for justice in times like these.

Participating in the march was meaningful as it was an opportunity to see grassroots organizers of all races, ethnicities, and religious affiliation. It was a chance to see myself as part of something so much bigger than myself. But it was also a chance to be a faithful witness in the fight to end the reliance on fossil fuels. It was a chance to say to people – including Black, People of Color, Indigenous and frontline communities like mine – who are living next to oil and gas facilities and infrastructure, I see and honor you. For people impacted by fossil fuels and climate disasters across the country, this was a moment to remind ourselves that our fight is global and that we are all impacted.

I marched with the intention of carrying on the work of people like Dolores Clara Fernandez Huerta, one of the most influential labor activists of the 20th century, and Ceasar Chavez, a staunch advocate for environmental justice. I marched understanding that as a Christian, I am mandated by God to care for creation, and nothing is more caring that advocating for the elimination of fossil fuels through a prompt and just transition that leaves no one behind.

We know that our work is much broader than marches, but we cannot forget the beauty of uniting in solidarity with people who are similarly fighting as we are. We also know that important work happens between mass mobilizations such as the Sept. 17 march. We have been supporting partners’ direct action, engaging our members, sending letters to legislators, and otherwise making our voices heard. For instance, we united in solidarity with the Green Climate Fund’s appeal to the White House to for the second replenishment of the Green Climate Fund (GCF). The GCF is the world’s largest multilateral fund dedicated to investing in developing countries to address the climate crisis. This will ensure that transitioning to just energy is broader than an intention, but an embodied commitment. We cannot achieve just energy if we are unwilling to fund it. As Christians and peacemakers, we are being called to the peripheries of this ecological crisis and respond to its many challenges, but we must see this as an opportunity to re-build our relationships with human and non-human creation centering justice, equity, and love.

IIka Vega is the executive for economic and environmental justice at United Women in Faith.