Bride and Divorce

by Laura on January 28, 2014

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If the Church is really the Bride, I’ll admit I’ve wanted a divorce for a few years now. 

She isn’t who I thought she was 20 years ago when I said, “I do.”  She hasn’t been kind, either –to the people outside of her club, to those who question or doubt, to me.

And, so, I’ve essentially lived in an off-again-on-again state of separation from this dysfunctional being that is the American Church for a solid two years now. She tells me I don’t look or act or think or believe rightly. She sells me a promise of community, and then sits me in a pew facing forward. She takes my money, but hides the Jesus I adore. And every time I muster the hope to try again, she disappoints. So like a scorned spouse, I’ve walked away from her power, her manipulation, her legalism. Her abuse.

But here’s the thing about the disgruntled and hurt partner whom I’ve become, sitting outside with arms crossed and denying the inherent good mixed with the ugly, I haven’t found life or hope or joy in that space either. I thought I’d divorce and walk away completely to find nobility and freedom, but instead what I’m finding is cynicism, bitterness and a tendency to cast the stones right back.

But here’s the thing– the person this potential divorce is hurting the most is  . . . me. 

Disbelief in the Bride’s redemption is leaving me lonely, prideful and self-righteous. Cynicism of her role to play in my own life and in bringing light to the world has left me with my back turned in the counselor’s chair–closed, hardened. Done.

And try as I might to excuse it, this posture doesn’t remind me of Jesus, either. I don’t get to love the world and hate the Bride. I don’t get to cast unconditional grace on other lovers but deny it to my own family. 

Because Jesus had this wild plan for the evolving beauty of His church, and he wants me part of it. And I can’t claim to follow him if I divorce the one he’s redeeming for Himself– not the institution or the doctrine, the method or the damage– but the idea of her, the vision of her. 

Following Christ might not mean living under the same old roof, the same old system with the Bride; perhaps periods of separation can be redemptive.

It does mean, however, leaving the lawyer’s office with the signature line intentionally left blank.

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“There is a song for my family, Outside the walls of Sunday Morning from some within.

This is a song to confess our sins, Lay it all out, and try to begin again.

To hope again. 

Please forgive our ignorance, In looking down on you, 

Please forgive our selfishness, For hiding in our pews while the world bleeds.

While the world needs us to be what we should be.

This is a song for my family who, Just can’t believe in the Jesus that you’ve seen on Sunday morning.

This is a song for the cynical saints, The burned out and hopeless.

The ones that we’ve cast away, I feel your pain.

Please forgive the wastefulness of all that we could be
But don’t forget, there’s more than this
Her beauty still exists
His bride is still alive

His bride is still alive.”

- Gungor, Song for My Family


On an unrelated note, this post gave me a new sympathy for our heterosexual brothers who struggle with the imagery of Christ as the Groom. I get it now, guys, I get it.

Also, an earlier, unedited version of this accidentally got into my RSS feed yesterday- sorry about that. Ignore that one, and thanks for your internet-grace. 


Is the Purpose of Missions KINGDOM or GOSPEL?

by Laura on January 21, 2014


“It reminded me of other conversations we’ve had with many in the church-world who’ve said to us essentially, “Why save them from an earthly hell if you can’t save them from an eternal one?”

And I’ll be brutally honest, that type of thinking hurts. It hurts that Christians would so quickly write off justice if there’s no promise of the Romans Road. It hurts us personally, as we are bleeding out for this mission, but it mostly hurts for the girl behind the locked doors–the one who desperately needs brave, compassionate people to rise up on her behalf,regardless of her spiritual choices, past, present or future.

And I get that in missions there are church planters and evangelists and gospel-in-word-givers. And I’m not saying that missions can’t be that, but can’t it also be ushering in the Kingdom?”  

Please read the full post today, and the ensuing conversation, over at A Life Overseas.


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Elementary school was a dream for me until the second grade.

In the second grade, a new girl named Wendy moved to town. She was cute with brown curly hair and she quickly set her sights on my best friend, Sarah.

What ensued over the next 259 days of the school year was not so good for little blonde-haired, love-the-world Laura Leigh (yes, I grew up in the South).

Wendy demanded that Sarah choose between the new and the old best friend. It was a declaration made on the playground, a line in the sand,  beside the literal sandbox– Sarah could not be friends with the both of us.  There were tears by the swings that day and then later party invitations without my name on them. Eventually, Wendy, in the logical wisdom of a seven year old, came up with a plan of altruistic compromise–Sarah could be best friends with me on Tuesdays and Thursdays but would ignore Wendy on those days. However, the alternating days of the week– Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays--I was the one by herself on the playground while Sarah and Wendy giggled and shared secrets.

I guess you could say I learned at a young age that jealously causes wreckage, that competition divides, and that the idea of “not enough” leaves everyone feeling the burden of scarcity.

Fast forward 25 years, and I find myself discouragingly in turf wars again–this time the landscape isn’t the playground, it’s the nonprofit sector.

We began working in the charity world about two years ago, and the longer we’re in it, the more cynicism we have to fight. We’ve had prominent leaders ignore or belittle us in conversation– we, the new kids on the nonprofit block. We’ve seen speakers position themselves and employees defend themselves, seen the ineffective groups market excellently while the real heroes go unsung. And we’ve watched with sadness as turf wars ensue– over donors or ideas or Facebook likes or that next dollar. We’ve seen people hold things tightly to their chests– methods or research or contacts.

You’d think we were in competition or something; I guess it’s a competition to out-good the next guy. 

Honestly, it’s like second grade all over again. We see and battle with a mentality of scarcity that drives ownership instead of open source, mine instead of ours, self-importance over the applause of the greater good. 

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We have a question that I’ve written before on the whiteboard at our home office and it is simply this, “What would a victim of trafficking want us to do?”

It’s funny how easy it is to forget that simple focus when you are launching and building and raising funds, and then raising some more funds, and then some more. But it’s a question that has to remain central to our thinking at The Exodus Road, and its the type of question that has to remain in focus for any nonprofit attempting to bring light into the world in a particular sphere.

Is it best for a girl trapped in sex slavery for us to share that trusted government contact with another field partner? Yes. Then we should do that.

Is it best for trafficked victims for the Western donor to understand the truth about certain organizations? Yes. Then we should tell them.

Would a sex slave care who rescues them or who gets the credit? No. Then we shouldn’t either.

The focal point must be the people we are serving– those girls behind the locked doors for us at Exodus Road right now. And the moment we start caring more about our brand, our fame, or our job security, is the moment we begin throwing other people and organizations under the bus in an attempt to position ourselves on top. It’s the moment we become like Wendy– competing for attention, marking territories, dividing friends.

And this is a mentality we all must fight tenaciously–both as leaders in the nonprofit sector and as donors or advocates for causes or faith-communities.

There is no scarcity of evil to fight in the world, but there’s also no scarcity of resources or people or passion to bring good, either. 

It’s an awfully big sandbox we find ourselves in. And there are a million different ways to play nicely in it. 


*The second photo is evidence that my own children do not play nicely oftentimes on trips to the grocery store.  But, hey, their excuse is that they are literal children.



The Manger Wasn’t Instagrammable

by Laura on December 19, 2013

The pressure to have the perfect Christmas looms large this time of year. I would assume, for most of us. We want to deliver the pumpkin bread tied in Martha Stewart bows and we want the kids to have matching socks (note the photo below)– at least for the Christmas concert. We want the deep conversation around the table and the chestnuts on the open fire. We want Normal Rockwell. Or the magic of Ralphie with his Red Ryder BB gun. Or, at least, a decent family picture, forcryingoutloud. 


And us? We’re in the midst of a kitchen renovation. At Christmas. Not the brightest timing-plan, I’ll admit. And literally, all the stuff in our cabinets in strewn all over the living room. The pots and pans are on the floor in front of the couch, which is piled high with three loads of laundry. The utensil drawer is near the tree, like the unwrapped present even worse than socks and underwear. The countertops are gone. And so is the sink until tomorrow. It’s a disaster. And the chaos doesn’t stop there.

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The Christmas parties at school are in the morning, and the best I could muster tonight was buying cheap cartons of orange juice that I’ll send in as penance to the room moms who planned the event and asked for  help two weeks ago. I tried to get the kids to lay out their outfits for the Christmas sing-a-long tomorrow, but my youngest is actually demanding to wear two dresses–the one I chose literally underneath the one she wants. It’s her version of compromise, my version of embarrassment. “It’s my body, and I can wear what I want,” she declared. I didn’t push it. I don’t really care that much what she wears– as long as I can get those matching socks on her in the rush of getting the three out the door by 7:30.

Which tomorrow will be 7:20, since today one of the precious teachers let me know that we had already exceeded our tardy limit for the entire year. 

And my in-laws are coming on Sunday and will be staying for the week in my daughter’s room– which has never been fully moved into, even though we’ve now been in the house for about a month now. I hyperventilate a little each time I walk through the door, honestly. Boxes and clothes and shoes and posters and cups and discarded press-on nails.

I looked around tonight and it’s fairly obvious–there’s nothing here I’d want to instagram:

Not my Christmas decorations– the cat has clawed all the lower ornaments off the fake tree, leaving us with an oddly-crowded upper half of greenery. We still can’t get the stupid light timer to work on the outside decorations, so the icicle lights come on 5:45 and then go off automatically about 17 minutes later.

Not my kids– what with the two-dresses and the tardies and the spelling tests tomorrow that we forgot to study for again.

Not my gift-giving–Starbucks cards are all I can manage for the teachers, and the neighbors might only get from us the joy of our Christmas lights for 17 minutes nightly.

And definitely not my house– there are literally piles. everywhere.

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But  Glenn Packiam said something this last week at church that struck me. He said, “The manger wasn’t instagrammable, you know.”

He was reminding us of the unexpected, quiet joys of the season and the importance of watching for them. He was talking about how the holiest of nights didn’t happen in the Norman Rockwell picture, how when Joy to the World burst in, the scene might not have trended on twitter.

And, so, yes–this Christmas I’m not going to have my act together. My kid will be in all the class pictures with two dresses, and the likelihood of completing our kitchen project and then cleaning up after it, before our family arrives is slim. I probably won’t cook anything worthy of pinterest, and my wrapping job will consist of sticking things in Christmas bags. We might celebrate Christmas morning in some mess. Or a lot of mess.

But maybe that’s really okay. Perhaps, it’s not the setting but my attention to the things which matter that counts. Maybe if I cultivate the wonder of Mary and the awe of the shepherds, maybe I’ll see Joy in the flesh this year.

Even in this house, amid these imperfections.

Some gifts don’t need a filter to be just right, after all. 


Interested in last year’s Christmas post where we threw the tree out into the yard and left it? Read here



Beware the One-Dimensional Life

by Laura on November 30, 2013

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Beware of the One-Dimensional Life.

The seasons when your hours and conversations and energies become hostage to one dictator– however kind, noble or “right” he may be.

The gravity of a one-dimensional life is a strong one. It plays balanced for a while, but eventually pulls every conversation into a vortex about itself.  Hopelessly one-sided, it allows little room for other passions, different opinions, alternative pursuits.

And perhaps the most insidious side-effect? The One-Dimension begins to define you. Somehow, you’re not a gloriously complex human being with value because of the God-breath in your lungs, instead you become the cause, the one-dimension which morphs all else, Gollum consumed with his ring of power.

And me? I can speak on this imbalance with authority because my Fall has been woefully one-dimensional. I’ve taken up the cause of freedom and it’s nearly eaten me alive. I’ve sacrificed on the altar so much, too much. My kids, my marriage, my friendships, my health, my spiritual walk. And heaven-forbid, a hobby of any kind, good for my soul.

The swirling winds of girls in brothels and the money needed to rescue them has become a tornado that has sucked me from the Kansas of a balanced life and dropped me rudely into an Oz– a world with great beauty and greater danger, a place where every ounce of presence is consumed with defeating the Wicked Witch of the West.  I’ve spent four months, well realistically an entire year, in foreign territory fighting for social justice, while helping build a nonprofit to bring it, and I’ll be honest, I feel like it’s taken every shred of my ability, energy and margin. And while it may feel noble, I’ve learned that even the most noble of things can wreck your life and steal the things that are even more important– like the hearts of your kids, the care of your own soul, the romance of a husband, your very identity.

But this last month especially, I’ve found myself weary of Oz and longing for home. Clicking my red, sparkly heels, squeezing shut my eyes, and desperately wishing for the Auntie Em of a more balanced life. 

Mercifully, the Fall season of traveling is nearly over for us– the hours both Matt and I have logged in airports over the last four month winding down. We’re inching into a rhythm with the people we work with at The Exodus Road, and I’m finding that frozen meals aren’t the worst evil in motherhood. I’ve begun to put my phone down more often, check email less. I’ve read in the mornings, instead of worked. I’ve started having people over to dinner again. I’ve taken my kids rock climbing and pottery painting. I’ve called the sitter for a date tomorrow night. I‘ve begun to usher in other dimensions again. 

And, gratefully, so gratefully, after a week of vacation here as a family at home and with some intention, I’ve found myself transported back to that little house in Kansas– the place of healthier balance.

And Kansas may be black and white, it may even contain its own wicked neighbors on bikes, but it is where I belong– the only place I can live for the long-haul. 


Struggle with living a one-dimensional life? Is a cause of a belief dangerously becoming your identity? Which one? 



The Mafia and Falling Asleep Anyway

October 9, 2013
aspens community

Perhaps I’m an adrenaline junkie. 15 months ago, my husband texted me, “I’m working a case involving the mafia.” And I can remember the holy ground that was my bedroom when I read that sentence on my computer screen; it was one of those late nights, after kids were in bed,  just me and Him. […]

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In Which My Book Is Dirt-Cheap, and I Thank You

October 1, 2013

They always said writing a book was like birthing a baby, and I was all eye-rolling-know-it-all: “It can’t be that bad. I mean, really. I’ve never seen anyone sweaty and screaming over a manuscript.” I remember with our first (real, actual, human, non-figurative) baby, I had much the same attitude. “I’m going all-natural. No big […]

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How An Atheist Is Teaching Me To Live Like Jesus

June 25, 2013
Russians Walking Street

When we first put toes into the water of the counter-trafficking community in SE Asia, we expected the pool to be a crowed one. We’d read the stories from the internet, we’d seen the documentaries and we assumed that other people had this fight covered– especially as it related to the process of helping find […]

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“Maybe We Should Just Give Up.” Or, Not.

June 17, 2013

I feel all-apologies on this space of late. Let’s be honest, ever since we moved back to the United States my personal blogging platform has taken a hit. And while I do think it will pick back up eventually, for now, I am finding a new stride in pouring my words and social media nearly-ninja-skillz  […]

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Redefining Stupid

May 19, 2013

This past week he told stories from his last trip overseas–around a table and over sandwiches– that still-fresh ink crawling out from under his shirt sleeve. I’d heard the story several times before, but there was something about this telling that felt different, scarier to me. Maybe it was the natural responses from our friends. […]

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The Trouble With Dreams

March 16, 2013

Matt and I were driving the other day and we stumbled on a For Sale sign to some of the most gorgeous property we’ve seen in a while. It was close to town but bordered by National Forest, had a lodge overlooking rolling hills, a pond, and the top of Pikes Peak. It even had […]

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