The smell of socks and men’s cologne hangs in the air-conditioned room. Ten fluorescent bulbs dot the ceiling. Gray cement covers the floor except for a patch of carpet in the center, speckled by lavender and masala red triangles. The functional rug is suddenly pleasing amidst the room’s sparsity.
Where are the rosaries, copies of Al Koran, the Sudras on the wall? I ask.
I am alone. An engraved silver placard on the rug’s edge reads in Mandarin and English: This carpet is sterilized. On the other corner, another placard displays a compass denoting N-S-E-W for the faithful’s convenience. A small shower in the corner drips. Footprints evaporate on the cement, remnants of a recent pilgrim.
I shiver. The walls are stark white and slightly smudged. On one of them, someone has written the word Qibla and an arrow pointing to a phrase in Arabic. This post-modern house of worship is where I confess my sin. Here, in this room, I get religion on my layover.
The occasional jarring announcement startles me—for a gate change, or the last call to Bangkok or Budapest…in case I, the faithful, am too busy in prayer.
I grab my hangbags, Americano, and duty-free purchases. Outside, cell phones sing. Carryon wheels hum. The smoking room teems with passengers and fumes as I scurry to my gate.
P.S. If you’re itching to thoughtfully explore the world, check my video toolkit Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies. Here I lay out clear steps for how you can plan and create an affordable, meaningful international pilgrimage that can enrich your life and bless your own community.
Steve and I love to go on visitation with Pastor Dale—especially to deliver baskets to the shut-ins on Sunday afternoons. Highland Bible Church has given us this ministry while we’re back in Texas on furlough. Back in Naranjal, several of the Mixtec ladies have learned to go on visitation every Sunday, too. I smile when I think of them spending time with those who are sick. I’m glad we’ll see them again in a few weeks.
Dairy Queen is a lot quieter on Sunday nights after church now. Since Willy and Aaron saved enough money for Game Boys, they sit at their own booth and punch away at the buttons as their dipped cones melt. Little Ruth sits with Steve and I, chattering away as she eats her strawberry sundae. She is seven this year. She loves picking flowers from the yard and taking them along with verse cards to give to the people at the local rest home. Aunt Nancy gave her a princess outfit for her birthday. But she isn’t always a princess—Ruth loves playing in the mud outside in the garden with Dad. They both get covered from head to toe. I always remind them: dirt washes with soap and water…sin washes only with the precious blood of Jesus Christ.
Mom is the same. The home where she lives only has 12 patients. She recognizes us, but that’s about it. They tried to have a birthday party for her the other day and she didn’t understand. Steve’s Mom is not well either and is looking forward to going to her home in heaven. She can’t wait to be with Tom again. He was killed in the Calico coal mine explosion of 1958. Until that day, she has a health aid staying with her. Please pray for her and all the family.
Thanks to everyone’s hard work, the church pews made it Naranjal. The pews were donated to the ministry by Lakewood First Baptist. The planting of the Mixtec church has been a long process. We met in a park at first, then we rented a shop front…and now after years, we’ve raised enough money to purchase a two story house: the bottom floor being the church, the top floor the parsonage. Thanks to all of you who prayed and who gave, the church will have the best seating in all of Mexico!
This year will be our 25th year celebration of El Evangelio camp ministry that we began in Mexico with Huck & Karen. The camp is complete with hay rides, cabin devotions, scavenger hunts, and crafts—just like in Terrys Fork, Virginia, where I grew up. My brother, Huck, started the original camp back in Virginia. Every morning begins with a hike for the campers to explore the beauty of God’s handiwork. I always take a vote at sunrise: is there a Creator?
Huck works at the quarry – in what we call the ‘little house on the quarry’. If you are ever in the area, stop in and try one of Huck’s deer steaks. He’s always grilling them after work. You can also drive through to get your vehicle weighed at the quarry…Huck will weigh your vehicle, with you in it!
Huck’s son Jackson, my oldest nephew, got married last weekend. Jackson and Beth cut the cake at their wedding with the USMC sword that Jack earned while in Iraq. Over and over, we thank the Lord for sending a guardian angel to literally pick Jack up and carry him to safety.
Yes, the harvest is plenteous…and we thank all who continually help us in the work of the Great Commission. The churches throughout Naranjal continue to grow so much that we now need a church at each side of the village! We would like to make it to Big Lake Bible Church’s Homecoming next weekend on the way back to Mexico, but our suburban is still in the shop. Thanks for praying.
P.S. Unique voices can be found anywhere if we’ll stop to listen. My video toolkit Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies lays out clear steps for how you can encounter them. Use it to create an affordable, meaningful pilgrimage that can enrich your perspective and bring blessing back to your own community.
I never dreamed I’d be a divorced woman. Those ladies were another sort. But, I don’t care about the stigma anymore. I’d rather drown than stay married to him. He was always gentle, but I never enjoyed it for a second. The first time we met, at our wedding ceremony, my heart sank. He was bony, dark, and old. And I was his property.
I remember that day. My mother tried to smile for me, the square corners of her mouth slightly rising. But she knew inside that this was a necessary evil.
After my father died, I left without explaining myself. While he was out for a morning game of durak, I packed a small handbag, and boarded a 2-day bus. There were no parting words. He knew better than to come here. You could say I married my mother, moving back to my village home in Lakkon.
~ 0 ~
Uzbekistan is vast, greyed, Sovietesque, and rugged. Although we were the rural region, our nation was once part of a world superpower. Now, we are forgotten. When Stalin carved up the USSR, he paid no heed to our people—to who is Tajik and who is Uzbek. He drew up our borders like a child with crayons.
When my eldest brother Dilshyod was my age, he left our village for Russia, in search of better work. It took Dilshyod five days to arrive in Moscow by train. But it took the police just minutes to arrest him and his friend upon arrival, demanding passports and 200 rubles. For the past three years, Dilshyod has been living illegally on the rooftops of dozens of construction sites all over the country. He, with three other Uzbeks, live in constant fear that police will find them. In Moscow, migrant workers are despised, though it is their work that holds Russia’s economy together.
During the winter months, Lakkon gets its blood back. The men flood home from Russia, including Dilshoyd. The provisions and presence of fathers, brothers, and sons light up each house. The streets teem with men in white robes and Uzbek skull caps. Chai steams as they lounge together on tap chans by the street, waiting for Navruz to come.
When the new year finally arrives, the fun begins—and lasts all night. Of all the peoples of Central Asia, we Uzbeks know how to do Navruz. Whether you are young or old, you move to the music. Flailing, unabashed, free. A good Muslim is modest, but knows how to dance the night away at Navruz.
When you’re not dancing, you take your shift stirring the sumalak. We all stay awake late into the night, telling tales and making prayers to the seven stones found at the bottom of the porridge. We stir in shifts, making a wish for luck with each churn.
Like this soup concocted uniquely at our New Year, our people are a medley—Russian, Islamic, Turkic, and Persian. The Silk Road left our homeland the remnants of many nations. It is as Al Qu’ran says: “Of His signs is the diversity of your language and color.”
~ 0 ~
The aroma from the tandoor never stops.
With start-up money Dilshyod earned in Moscow, my mother and I have opened a small bakery in our village. The front room of our home in Lakkon is now the hotspot for local sweets. With help from Mercycorps, we did the research. People in our village have the money to buy sweets and bread, so we’re keeping that money here in our economy. Instead of sending it away to bring in packaged Chinese treats, we created a plan to keep our resources—including our men—here in Lakkon.
After running this business successfully for four years, I have just started college in the capital. My concentration is Business Economics. Yes, at 32, an old woman, I will begin a new life here in the city.
“Dosve danya” I call out as my classmate transfers to another subway. Here in Tashkent, I speak in Russian. My hair is bleached blonde. My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans, summoning me to a study group or night club. Even in my own country, I feel like a foreigner.
Here in the city, at least, I may be able to marry again. I will find a strong Muslim man. He will be chaste and cultured, of good family and character. I will find a man who knows how to cook. He will let our daughter choose whom she will marry one day.
P.S. Unique voices like these are hidden all over the globe. My video toolkit Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies lays out clear steps for how you can encounter them. Use it to create an affordable, meaningful international pilgrimage that can enrich your perspective and bring blessing back to your own community.
You cannot tell your family directly. But after many months, when they see you again, they will know. Your dress is no longer the traditional Lahu. Your make-up contrasts sharply to the other village women. Even the words you now choose. If you were really a housemaid in Bangkok, your hands would be worn. Perhaps you change so slowly that you don’t even realize it yourself.
One Lahu mother working in Bangkok almost never comes home. She left her children with their old grandmother. This mother can’t send money home often anymore. She has to have it for herself, too. In the city, clothes, make-up, food, and accommodations are costly—HIV treatments, too.
~ 0 ~
Since Father G’ui Sha brought the first Lahu out of a green gourd, we please him with music from gourd pipes called naw. Many Lahu play the naw, which they make by putting five bamboo pipes into a dried gourd, setting them in with beeswax. Father G’ui Sha, the great Sky Ghost, brought down a boat from the heavens at the edge of the sea. The boat carried a gourd. A sparrow pecked at it for nine years. When it opened, the Lahu people walked out onto the land.
Father G’ui Sha gave the Lahu a saddle, but no horse. The saddle was heavy, so the Lahu left it, and the Chinese seized it. Then he gave the Lahu a plow, which also weighed too much. When the Lahu left it, the Thai took it away. Then Father G’ui Sha gave the Lahu a knife—which we kept because it was light.
The Chinese trade goods on horses, the Thai plow the rice fields, and the Lahu have only a knife to use for carving and hunting.
~ 0 ~
I became literate in Lahu thanks to my mother. As a child, she also taught me to sew. She spent her days taking care of our household and making us clothes. When I was eight, she passed away and left the six of us, including my three-month old brother. One year after my mother’s death, my father married my auntie—my mother’s first cousin—and we moved to the city.
Rangoon became harder that year. Our relatives began immigrating to Thailand. The Burmese army was cruel. Our hill tribe’s demand for rights caused clashes between our people and the ruling junta. In fits of anger, the junta would burn Lahu villages, driving us into the highlands. The ones who did not escape were forced to carry their guns and cargo. “Do not give food to these people” the junta warned other villages.
We joined the flow of immigrants crossing into Thailand. When my father was offered a position as a Lahu pastor in Chiang Rai, he took his entire family. Like many, we left Burma, never to look back.
~ 0 ~
When you are not documented, you have no rights. No right to vote, no right to buy land, no rights to get medical care, travel between provinces, or hold a job. When you cannot speak, read, or write Central Thai, how can you register even for a stay permit? Without citizenship, options are scarce. You can farm in the village for a few coins per day. You can work in the city—but they will pay you very low wages. If you open a small shop in the city, you may be closed down. If you don’t have citizenship, you must be discreet. You are not protected by the government. Your work is always in question. Anyone can take advantage of you.
If your parents are not literate in Central Thai, you were not registered. You must return to your district and apply for an ID card. But if your parents were refugees, they may not have legal status themselves. So, how can you expect to obtain it?
When a teenage girl I know went to register at age 16, they asked her to get a DNA test in the city—which is painful and expensive. Even if the test proves positive, how can a villager who makes 100 baht a day afford to purchase citizenship at 25,000 baht? How can you resist the appeal of working in Bangkok as a housemaid or massage therapist? If you can entertain 3 or 4 customers a night, you earn citizenship for you and your children in only a few years.
~ 0 ~
At the women’s center in Chiang Mai, our girls celebrate new life. In their escape, they reimagine who they are in a loving, safe community. The girls get skills training. They return to their villages one time per month, leading dramas that teach others the dangers. They challenge their people: if you have an offer for work in Korea or in Bangkok, how will you avoid problems? How do you know this high-paying factory job is real?
A Lahu motto is cheh shah aw peht – or “live easy, be easy.” Like most Lahu people, the girls have a love for fun, an easygoing way of life. They may have entered the modern world, but our stories are not forgotten. The Lahu accepted only a knife from Father G’ui Sha, but have learned to use it for sundry purposes. For instance, the girls carve naw gourd pipes during the festival season. As they become women, they learn to play the naw to “talk to others” during courting. What fun would Lahu New Year be without returning the music of your mate?
photo by Nathan Cima on Unsplash
P.S. Unique voices like these are hidden all over the globe. My video toolkit Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies lays out clear steps for how you can encounter them. Use it to create an affordable, meaningful international pilgrimage that can enrich your perspective and bring blessing back to your own community.
When you are married to two or three women, you’ll have the one you love most. My mother was suffering this when I was born. According to story, my father had no time for her. As his third wife, my mother had only one yellow lappa with which to tie me to her back and at the same time cover her nakedness.
When a woman farms swamp rice or millet and has a little child, she spreads a cloth to put the babe under a tree to rest. If he cries, she will drop her hoe and rush to give him milk from her breasts until he is lulled to sleep again. This was my mother’s fate.
When the rains come, and the waters increase, the ferry connecting Kantia to Freetown is unusable. For three or four months each year, we are cut off from the outside world. The waters that separate us from the city also drown our savings. We watch our millet go stale in the barrels if we cannot sell it locally at cost.
– 0 –
Many of us looked forward to free education and healthcare like the rebels promised. But with the diamond mines under their control, a lust for power overcame them. The year they took over our country, us young men came in from the provinces to mine diamonds. We left our villages in the North and journeyed to the diamondiferous areas in Kenema district.
Your boss might have ten supporters. Chinese or German business people. Some are officially registered diamond dealers. Many are underground. The supporters provide your boss with shovels, pick-axes, sifters, rice and sauce money—for stew to go with the rice. When my boss came to the village to recruit workers, we went—all of the young men—to dig. We left our provinces. We labored, digging all day at the river. Even several women arrived, panning the gravel with kitchen calabashes.
If you are lucky, you catch up with money fast and get out of there. If you are not lucky, you will be hand-to-mouth, hand-to-mouth—for donkey’s years.
“Spot me two pints of beer—when we find diamonds, I’ll get you back.”
We dig. We sift for the precious stones. Shake. Sift. Shake.
Double-crossing is an art. If the boss does not watch you closely, it is easy to lift a diamond while sifting. If you suspect a lazy boss, you move the diamond in the shaker until it reaches the middle. Then, you bob it in a flash—down, up—into the mouth. If you leave with a diamond under your tongue, you take 100 percent, instead of 50.
If a diamond worker bounces his shaker, the boss might yell: “I’m suspecting you!” They accused one man, forcing him to take medicine that made him go to the stool. He became sick and weak, but they would not let up. “You will take this until we see the stone in the latrine!” they hollered. .
Another man was butchered. The rebels hollowed out his belly—unzipping his body with a knife and exposing his tissues. He was suspected of swallowing a diamond.
Clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise, anti-clockwise, we shake.
~ 0 ~
In our present time, you find almost no diamonds in the shallow river beds and pits. Conditions are harsh for alluvial miners. Whether the years bring conflict or peace, Kantia does not change. We live on in silence, struggling as subsistence farmers. My mother is 78 this year. Like most, she has never journeyed to Freetown. Being the third wife of my father is now a benefit. As the only one left living, she is the matriarch of a large family. She is proud of the small fortune I made from my diamond panning days. The way she wears her new yellow lappa is proof.
Getty Images/CNN: Kenema, Sierra Leone, 2001.
P.S. Unique voices like these are all over the globe. My video toolkit Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies lays out clear steps for how you can encounter them. Use it to create an affordable, meaningful international pilgrimage that can enrich your perspective and bring blessing back to your own community.
After 10 days in Israel, I’m another man. Splashing in the Dead Sea, traversing about Galilee with an old friend, wandering the holy city of Jerusalem…I’ll never read Scripture the same.
As my epiphanies from this pilgrimage give way to the grind of school schedules, overflowing inboxes, and oil changes, I stop here to mark them.
That land invited me into a greater story than the one that I have imagined for myself. An ancient story being written across centuries, still unfolding today.
I saw it so clearly there, but now, I want to forget. Because it takes too much courage to figure out how to live out my small part in this mighty tale that God has been telling. I’d rather fade back to the quotidian safety of my work and relationships.
I sense I’m not alone.
Courage to live out the spiritual task you’ve been given doesn’t come easy. Faced with the realities of the holy land, I realize I’ve underestimated what it took the heroes of my faith to execute the roles given to them. When I visited the ruins of the powerful Decapolis city of Beit Shean, I couldn’t stop thinking of Mary–the bucolic teenager suddenly pregnant, tasked with reporting the angel’s visit to her conservative Jewish community. As if convincing them wasn’t enough, she had to believe amidst the Roman powers that set up Beit Shean–towering over her people with might and technology–that God was casting down the powerful, and raising up the lowly like He said. By the time she sang the Magnificat, God had been silent for 400 years. Her courage to sing it anyway amidst all this is as much a miracle as the virgin birth.
It is precisely this backwards, unlikely way that enchants the stories of Israel–this calling forward the weakest, most marginalized members of the community to do your bidding. It’s what Jesus did when he met the woman at Jacob’s well–Photina as she later became known. Considered as riff raff, this woman went alone for water in the heat of day. And He traveled out of His way just to meet her.
On this journey, we also went out of our way to the well. Into the heart of the West Bank, past checkpoints with armed soldiers and burned out homes, we ventured deep into Palestine. Kind faces strike a contrast with the half built houses and car junkyards that dot the landscape.
Upon entering an ordinary Palestinian town, suddenly you come upon the Greek Orthodox Church of St. Photina. Descend the stairs into the crypt beneath, and there you find it–Jacob’s well. Here, you can sing, pray, read the story, and drink the water in awe. Unlike so many holy sites, no tour buses of pilgrims throng this place. It’s just you, a smiling priest, and the well.
The hostility facing Palestine today is different from Samaria of the ancient world, yet highlights the same tension Jesus held when He met Photina in the heat of day. He moved toward her in courage, and Photina responded with the like. “Come meet a man who told me everything…the water He gives is like a well within you…”
So, how do I step forward in courage, weighed down as I am with the struggles of my heart and our world? I don’t know about you, but I have many fragmented puzzles to solve with my loved ones, church, and neighborhood. And just like in modern-day Israel and Palestine, our very land here in the US broods with complex issues of injustice and longing.
As I move into middle age, will I accept this invitation to courage, transcending deeper on my journey into this upside down story? Or, has my spiritual imagination become captive by the dream for autonomy, influence, and safety? Will I sedate this struggle with the same fledging promises of Baal, Babylon, and Mammon that warred against ancient Israel–now in a modern package?
I can’t let that be enough for me. What about you?
Could we imagine today, in our day, a new community that chooses instead:
Water for our enemies from the well
Healing at the pools
Life again at Nain
New wine in Cana
Forgiveness in Jericho
Compassionate welcome for today’s strangers, unclean and outcasts
Salt and light pouring into the darkest margins of our hearts and neighborhoods and world
Christ walked the land of Israel with a small band of brothers and sisters to give a vision for this. When he healed the sick, centered women and children, and celebrated with the rich and poor together, He showed us the beginning of a new order, a different kind of reign–what it looks like when God restores the world. A glimpse of what the new city will look like. I am making everything new.
Like me, you are invited to play a unique role in this story–one that no one else can accomplish for you. It doesn’t matter where you are on the Jericho road–as beat down as blind Bartimeus or as trapped in broken systems of privilege as Zacheus. It’s never too late to join. You don’t have to have it all sorted to be part of this story. In fact, it actually seems like the more ragged and broken you are willing to show up, the better.
But that paradox is the hardest part for me. If I’m going fully in, I want certainty. But, perhaps what I actually need is the courage to accept that I don’t get to shape or see every part of the story. Like the scientist-priest Teilhard de Chardin admonishes:
Above all, trust in the slow work of God. We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. We should like to skip the intermediate stages. We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability— and that it may take a very long time.
And so I think it is with you; your ideas mature gradually—let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste. Don’t try to force them on, as though you could be today what time will make of you tomorrow.
Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming within you will be. Give Our Lord the benefit of believing that his hand is leading you, and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.
Will you settle for the easier, competing stories beckoning you, or will you work and wait in courage as your place in the ancient story unfolds?
P.S. If you’re ready to plan out a pilgrimage yourself, check my video toolkit: Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies. Here I lay out clear steps for how you can create an unbelievably affordable, meaningful experience that will enlarge your perspective and bless the world.
It’s here—2022. We burned the effigy with neighbors on New Year’s Eve and turned in early. From under the covers, I hoped the rain would dampen the cacophony of fireworks as I fell to sleep. It may not feel like it, but the new year has come. Maybe it’s just the January blues, but I feel stuck in 2020.
The journey since Profit & Pilgrimage was born 2 years ago has thrown me off. We now wade into another year of this endless global pandemic which has shifted travel and investing priorities significantly. And the rules keep changing. More shots. New variants. Strained relationships. Economic unknowns. How do we live well this year in the midst of all these variables?
I don’t know what your coping mechanisms are, but when uncertainty strikes, my quirks go wild. I obsess over spreadsheets, overeat Tillamook, and (as my wife will confirm) incessantly clean and banish clutter to Goodwill. I browse job postings and startup websites, dreaming of a super-me that could overcome all this. These escapes offer a temporary high, but it always wears off.
Arthur Brooks, a happiness researcher at Harvard, talks about this irony in his writing and podcasting. The things we think will satisfy us—money, power, pleasure, and fame—always leave us wanting. We imagine they will give us a certain control, relief, or respect leading to security, but it’s the opposite. Ironically, his studies show that faith, relationships, and earned success through work are what create happy, content human beings.
The first two—faith and relationships—are helpful affirmations, but seem a bit obvious. None of us expect to reach our deathbed regretting having taken spiritual journeys or loved others well. I find the third one, earned success through work, more complex and intriguing. Whether your earned success is making music, designing bridges, alleviating hunger, raising babies, or curing patients, this leads to a sense of satisfaction that wealth, power, and prestige can’t touch.
It’s why my brother’s basement bar he built from scratch will always bring him more satisfaction than if he inherited a multi-million dollar business. It’s the reason my little housing endeavor, much as I can barely hang drywall or snap together PVC, gives me such joy. Though scrappy as hell, but it’s a model I created through my own blood, sweat and tears to empower others—which brings contentment. Though this year is shaping up to be full of unknowns, one thing is becoming clear to me: a happy new year will be one where I shun external metrics of success, and lean deeper into congruency with how I’ve been created.
But this isn’t easy to figure out. Thankfully, the poets offer us a third way of seeing—as does the late Mary Oliver in her poem The Journey. Breaking away to find your own voice may be a dark and wild road:
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice –
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late enough,
and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do –
determined to save
the only life you could save.
I’m not one to make resolutions, but this new year, I’m ready to move toward living wholeheartedly. As DeGroat says, to “nourish your very life that serves as a conduit of grace to others”.
I want to nurture my faith and relationships. To visit the monastery, to make fasting a rhythm again. To say yes to more kids books. To get on the phone and on the trails with old friends, to sneak my wife away for happy hour dates. If it facilitates more love in the world, count me in.
And, I’m pressing mute on the compelling yet banal voices I’ve been giving ear to. Instead, I’ll throw myself into projects that aim at satisfaction and success more deeply aligned with that voice I am learning to recognize as my own.
Those of us who delight in traveling the country and the world have hit a wall. Even with a vaccine newly arrived, there are no trips on the calendar and few adventures to look forward to in this new year. And now, cold temps have forced us inside. This is going to be a long winter.
To make it through, I’ve bought a rick of wood for outdoor fire pit hangs and adopted a weekly gratitude meditation plan. And, to give myself something to look forward to besides grinding out work behind a screen, I’ve also began to travel vicariously through eating. It’s a double win really—I enjoy delicious global cuisine while supporting a myriad of small restaurants and workers whose cash flows are down.
Join the fun—mask up, order to go, and watch the weather for a mild day to enjoy your delicacies in the sunshine (or beside the fire when chilly). Here are a few Chattanooga favorites:
Thai Esan (4.6 out of 5 from 406 Google reviews) I spent months taking grad classes in Chiang Mai, so let me vouch for this place. It’s outstanding, a staple for weeknight takeout. I like…everything. The Pad Kee Mow noodles, Spicy Basil stir fry, Massaman peanut curry, Tom Kha Gai coconut soup… Aside from being tasty and budget friendly, Thai Esan doles out generous portions and quick, honest service. For a bonus, Frutylandia next door does great smoothies, too, for a healthy dessert.
Olive Branch Mediterranean (4.8 out of 5 from 338 Google reviews) This small operation is impeccably clean and serves up excellent Mediterranean and Greek fare. Treat yourself to falafel, gyro, hummus, fresh pita, and my favorite—homemade Baba Ganoush (roasted eggplant dip). If you must make the trek to Hamilton Place area, Kabobster runs a similar operation with more of a Middle Eastern flare. I love both places.
Tata’s Grill (4.9 out of 5 from 34 Google reviews) This new Bosnian joint out in East Ridge is terrific as the reviews prove. And the name of the place says it all for authenticity. (No time for urban dictionary market research—they’re focused on good food!) We ordered the family platter for carry out and were wowed by the diversity of flavors. Grilled treats abound: Cevapi kebas, Pljeskavica, Lepinja bread….my mouth is watering just thinking of this place. I see Balkan food in your future.
Pupuseria Marelyn (4.7 out of 5 from 205 Google reviews) The Guatemalan couple who owns this one ran a restaurant in NYC before moving here, and it shows—they run a tight ship. Ignore the barbed wire fences and focus on how your taste buds dance! The pupusas are cheap and delicious, and the street tacos are perfectly done. For a few bucks more, the mains boast a homemade taste worth your money, too. I like this place so much my office rented it out for a workplace Christmas party a couple years ago. Although few of us speak Spanish, the night was a total hit.
Miss Gs Tortas and Tamales (4.7 out of 5 from 225 Google reviews) Miss G is the jovial owner that transformed this little shack on Rossville Boulevard into a culinary dream. There are still few frills, but the food tastes like you’re eating straight out of an abuelita’s kitchen. From stuffed chilis to homemade enchiladas, I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve ordered at her place. You won’t be disappointed by her tortas, tacos, or sassy jokes. Bonus: you can call ahead for drive-through service and never have to leave your car.
Just a couple more for the road. If you venture out of town, Gyro Tabouli on the way to Nashville will blow you away. Right off the Murfreesboro exit, this place serves sizzling Mediterranean dishes in generous portions. Along with their 4.8/5 review, I was charmed by the friendly service and ancient Christian artifacts dotting the place.
If you’re going the other way to Atlanta, stop at Moon Indian Cuisine at the Marietta exit. Like most authentic international food, it’s hidden away in a strip mall among big box stores and nail salons. But you’re not there for ambiance. I had the best cashew masala of my life in this place, after which the friendly owner himself came out to talk with us.
Chances are you may not live in my city, so I challenge you to explore yours this winter using your taste buds. Put joy in your belly and money in the pockets of local workers. Light a fire with me in your yard and let’s eat our weight in hope and international fare until this long winter lifts!
Photo by Audrey Brown Menard
P.S. If you’re scheming to thoughtfully explore the world as soon as this pandemic lifts, get ahead with my video toolkit: Pilgrimage to Any Country for Pennies. Here I lay out clear steps for how you can plan and create an unbelievably affordable, meaningful experience that will enlarge your perspective and bless the world.
There’s nothing worse than learning the hard way—and having no one to blame but yourself. I suppose the silver lining of failure is that, with a speck of humility, you can glean a thing or two for next time. So, what have I learned by failing in my little business as I help neighbors attain homeownership? If I had to sum it up, I’d say: slow down and stay engaged. Here’s what I mean.
Let’s rewind to 2011—nearly 10 years back when I boasted a fresher face, no idea how to change a diaper, and a contagious idealism. As you may remember, I’d just helped my neighbor Santos to finance his place, watching him transform a shell of a house into a cozy home. It must have been a lot less magic and much more hard work than I realized. But you can’t blame me. This place of ugliness and blight next door became a home radiating warmth and friendship. It does to this day.
So when the next guy knocked on my door inquiring about a house, I felt great about it. Though it wasn’t next door to me, I’d just bought another boarded-up shell very nearby and had no plans for it yet. We discussed the numbers and terms. Though I didn’t know him like I did Santos, he and his wife were sincere. They gave me a downpayment and we signed the contract. It felt effortless.
But it didn’t take long to realize that something was off. The house was not magically improving this time. I assumed things were just starting out slow, but it wasn’t long before payments were missed and citations from the city appeared for code violations. Domestic disputes and separation ensued. Finally, after months of pleading and struggle, tensions came to a head when I started to receive fines for leakage of raw sewage into the environment. To make a long, tragic story short, we settled the case in court. To this day, garbage and clutter cover the dilapidating property—an ongoing reminder of my immature idealism. A hard lesson learned.
The dark part of me would delight in scorning these people to you. In airing their dirty laundry. In justifying myself. But it won’t give me relief. To be honest, no matter who is at fault, my heart aches to this day. Because in spite of how the blame is divvied up, I’ve still failed. Instead of eliminating blight and strengthening relationships on my block, in this ironic nightmare, I’ve fostered more instability and contentious relationships here on my block. How can this be? How is it possible that I’ve facilitated this—the very opposite of my dream for our community?
Of course, now I see that not everyone is ready for homeownership. In this case in particular, I now realize that many in the community would have advised against going into business with these people. But the real problem is that I wasn’t listening—or even asking questions.
I love how my model opens access to homeownership for under-resourced people, insisting high levels of participation from people who are economically vulnerable. This ain’t Habitat for Humanity—nothing will be built for you that you don’t create yourself. But, where could I better slow down to listen and learn? Like the Slow Movement’s challenge, our work should aim to be done as well as possible, not necessarily as rapidly or efficiently as possible. At the right pace and size. As a practitioner of community development, I claim to live and breathe these ideas. To focus on existing assets. To start by listening to the community. In practice, however, here is a clear example of how I’ve failed to do this slow, discerning work. I’ve had to learn the hard way how important it is to take the time necessary to build relationships and vet buyers carefully. Since I’m not a formal financial institution pulling credit scores, this discernment is imperative. And while this example was by far the most difficult case in which I’ve been involved, surprises and challenges have been common in every single contact I’ve taken on.
Since even undertaking this with trusted friends in the community is difficult, I’m to the point where I would not consider entering into a new contract with someone unless I know and trust them in some other relational context. In that regard, another thing I’ve had to reckon with is the inevitable relationship shift from peer to business that I’ll face. The dynamic will change. The relationship becomes more formal and even distant. For the most part, I’ve become alright with that because it’s worth the benefits of homeownership for a family. I look at their young children and pray that owning this asset will shift the tide for them, boosting this generation toward financial stability, better education, and a sense of place their parents didn’t have.
Because my failures have caused me to slow down and discern upfront before making agreements, I now insist we have thehard conversations in advance. Tough issues will arise. The kindest thing I can do is be clear and direct when negotiating every detail of the contract—and then stick to it carefully. Before the final signing, I’ll bring a trusted third party to talk with us together before we sign on the line in front of a notary. The gravity of what we’re entering into must sink in, and there’s a better chance of that happening when it’s discussed aloud across multiple meetings and in front of someone else that we both know and trust.
Once things begin, I’ve also learned that my role is to stay engaged throughout the duration of these contracts. If one stage is negotiating and signing the contract; the other is working through the implications of what we’ve agreed to. It’s always better to get ahead of problems or violations as they germinate, even when it requires ongoing, sometimes uncomfortable conversations. For example, when a family breaks code or fails to pay on time, I explain directly how this violates our agreement and give grace once. While this creates some tension at first, it sets a standard for ownership that allows for smoother years ahead.
I’m in this with families for the long haul—at least 5 years—because I want them to be homeowners for life. You can do this for a family, too, but you’ll have to play the long game also. And at some point, you also may fall flat on your face in these well-intentioned attempts. You’ll pour yourself out—and then fail.
And failure stings. But when we embrace it’s instruction, recognizing we’re never really fully in control, we’ll see how God is working our spiritual muscles, building them up for greater work ahead. If we slow down and stick it out, then even when things burn down, the ashes of our failure create fertile soil for new things to grow.
One of my buyers found someone squatting in the shed behind the abandoned property we purchased together. He discovered a mattress, dresser, soiled clothing and cosmetics…everything. A small living quarters had been set up in the tiny structure. My attempt at mercy was to leave a note, explaining that we’d return in 48 hours to board up the shed. I included contact information for the community kitchen and shelter.
We pulled up again early on a Saturday morning. For safety, I phoned the police upon arriving, and was surprised when five cops sped up within minutes. “Where is he?” they demanded.
“Hold on” I said, after giving the description. “Where will he go if this is where he lives?”
“That’s not your problem“ they huffed passed me onto the property to search the shed.
No one was home. In fact, we never saw the man. He never came for his things. I assume he has moved on—or sadly, has even passed away.
My wife and I are having an ongoing conversation about spiritual imagination—the creative ability to dream about and act upon the world in new, unbelievable ways through God’s power. This incident may seem forgettable in the grand scheme, but it got my imagination going: what should the practice of mercy and justice look like in such a situation? Since police integrity has risen to the surface of our national conversation, I started thinking about the justice system we’ve created, too.
My grandfather was a state trooper in New York for many years, so I’ve heard the stories of sacrifice and service firsthand. When you consider the average pay for the job, too, the work of police officers is even more commendable. I’m so grateful for trained law enforcement who will show up to help me in a matter of minutes. As for the inequities in the US justice system, these reflect an everyday reality for most of the world’s marginalized. Like the work of International Justice Mission (IJM) reveals, many global citizens move about in fear of police who extort and abuse them, bought out by corrupted systems. Imagine when the people who are supposed to protect you actually harm you.
However you believe the US compares to this global reality probably depends on your experience with police. Although I live in a low-income neighborhood, I’ve had nothing but good experiences with our officers. But, I’ve always been the landowner. In this brief encounter, I couldn’t help but imagine what I’d want if I were the man squatting in our shed. I wonder: instead of five officers, what if four officers and one social worker rushed to the site? What if our tax dollars also paid for someone to arrive at crime scenes with a voice saying: do you want another chance? Is this the moment you’ll make a change? What barriers are you facing? In sum, what if we insisted our justice system was bent toward restoration—toward mispat, setting the world right again?
I am disturbed that the police dismissed this man’s well being, telling me it wasn’t my problem. But it makes sense. In the retributive economies of Nebuchadnezzar and Pharaoh, it’s absolutely true. Might is right, and you get what you earn. My property rights are my first and only priority in the situation. I bought the property with my hard earned money, and this homeless man was trespassing. He deserves what happens to him next—and it’s not my concern. Period.
But what about the ethic of the kingdom of God that governs me, His child? If love of God and neighbor truly are the greatest commandments, there are questions I must face. Questions like: What responsibility do I have when I find someone who is poor and vulnerable squatting on my land? A look at the ancient gleaning laws of Leviticus gives a glimpse into God’s vision for situations like these. It’s true that we no longer live in an agricultural society—and thus we must let our spiritual imaginations run wild.
To do so is unsettling. If you struggle to ask questions about your own responsibility in such a situation, you’re not alone. You are like me—one of so many whose spiritual imagination has been stolen and whose priorities have been deformed by power systems that protect our greed and fear. The glories of Babylon work wonders on us, dampening our imaginations with perverted stories of justice and truth. When Nebuchadnezzar colonizes our minds with Babylon’s tales, we become obtuse in our love of God and neighbor. We can’t dream about a third way.
For those of us that the justice system protects well, this blindness comes easy. We can’t see that justice is not restorative for those at the bottom of it. We have built a system in the image of our gods—autonomy, individual rights, and safety—and it seems to work for us. Here’s the insidious thing that I’ve discovered. The more bricks that I own in Pharaoh’s economy, the more his talking points become my talking points, and his gods my gods. The affirming voice of my idols rings louder with each property attained, promotion earned, successful investment made. Before I know it, the haze is thick. My ears and eyes are so dull that I can’t see or hear God’s dream for the world. All I can imagine are Pharaoh’s bricks and Babylon’s charms. My mind is captive.
When will we take back our stolen spiritual imagination and envision justice that restores?
P. S. To imagine restorative housing that tips the neighborhood toward justice, check out my video toolkit: Homegrow a Housing Business for the Greater Good. In it, I share detailed steps and resources on how you can build a thriving side hustle that creates cash flow and pushes toward setting the world right.
photo by Chapman Chow on Unsplash
