Over the last few weeks, I have been going for longer and longer walks. Four times a week, I’m crossing the five mile mark, which is long for me friends. It’s partly because I am training for a long walk (Yes, I have bravely put something on the calendar that I may have to cancel.)

But the other reason I keep going on long walks is to keep from losing my mind.

I am making a practice of listening to beautiful things when I walk: 

stories with wonderful characters, 

music that makes my heart soar, 

meditations on old, wise words, 

or just the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees or crunching underneath my feet. 

I am milking awe right now. When I find something beautiful, I pause and offer gratitude for it.

For dazzling colors.

For the smell of pine.

For a blue sky after weeks of gray.

For the sun on my face.

For bright red plumes on a brown songbird.

For the way a squirrel rips open a walnut shell.

I gather up leaves, bring them home and press them under stacks of books.

I set them on my prayer altar next to little bits of stone from mountain walking.

With every step, I remember that this earth is full of beauty, yes, even here in the fields and plains where you can’t see a mountain or a sea. I am still in a place of exquisite beauty.

I wonder at it as I watch a tiny snake wiggle its way across the trail.

I am in awe of how a deer can pass so close without my ever hearing his footsteps. 

I am forcing myself out on these near daily pilgrimages in search of nature’s wonder, because every night I am newly tempted to forget how beautiful the world is. 

When I see what is happening, when I see the sickness and death and violence, I am tempted to think that the world has lost its beauty. Or that it never really had any.

But no. It is still beautiful. And not just because the trees are changing colors, or because there are still a few forests and fields unspoiled by human hands.

It is also beautiful because there are people in it who are working to leave the world in better shape than when they found it. These holy caretakers are easy to miss, because they don’t seek to hold our gaze like the destroyers do. 

But they are here. They are feeding people. They are sending books to kids in prison. They are working to free the prisoners. They are setting up tables full of diapers, formula and all kinds of gifts for those who need them. They are caring tirelessly for people who are sick or cut off from their families. They are telling the stories of those in poverty and then giving them a hand. They are creating communities who are taking care of each other. 

There are people all over the world who are living with their hearts forward. ALL LOVE. They work mostly unseen, just as Jesus taught.

There is a prison abolitionist I follow, who keeps saying that instead of focusing on the outcome of this week, we should have our eyes on our plans for the good we want to create next.

This is a version of something I have heard many wise people say in the last several weeks and months. 

If I only focus on what is easy to see, on what is happening, it is much harder to not live in fear, or despair. Or anger.

But if I think about what could be, and what I could create…if even for a few minutes a day, I take my eyes off of “the screen” and write about what I would most love to see birthed in this world, then I am ruled not by fear, but by love. And beauty.

Asking this question every day has been a powerful exercise for me:

What do I want to be a part of creating?

I know for sure that for me it involves walking.

And being outside.

What about you?

What do you want to be a part of creating?

When you look inside your heart, what is it that you would love to bring to the world that would make it better than when you found it?

One of my favorite verses is from Philippians 4 where we are told what to think about. When I say that I keep walking in order to not “lose my mind,” this is what I mean. When I am walking, it is easier for me to practice the discipline from these words:

whatever is true, 

whatever is noble, 

whatever is right, 

whatever is pure, 

whatever is lovely, 

whatever is admirable–

if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–

think about such things.

Think about such things. 

That’s my plan for this week. 

Even though I am not on the Camino de Santiago right now, as I was last year around this time, I am still on pilgrimage. 

Always searching for beauty, even in ashes. 

PS. I was interviewed last month by my dear friend and client, Jane Reeves, for her podcast Ferocious Compassion. It was a breath of fresh air to get to chat with her about many of the things I find beautiful, especially about walking.

The post Seeking the Sacred appeared first on Alison Chino.

Near the beginning of the summer, I wrote this post about imagining something new. 

I wrote it publicly, but actually I think that it was for me. 

Those words have been the oars that have moved me slowly and quietly over the waves of the past months. 

I am traveling in a small, unassuming boat in a little corner of the world that few have ever heard of, much less visited. But I am paying attention to what’s happening in the world, the giant waves of destruction and chaos that rise up and threaten to consume us all. 

But instead of focusing only on what is happening, I am making a practice of imagining what is possible. 

This practice of imagining something else is one I have learned from those who have much more experience with facing reality than I do.

I don’t think it’s a version of sticking my head in the sand. I want to remain fully awake.

It’s a practice that (for me) is prayer-soaked. I’m asking for visions of a world that only the Holy Spirit can give to me. And then I am asking for that world to come to be. (On earth as it is in heaven.)

Here are a few examples:

When I call an airline to cancel another trip I had planned, or I write to tell my friends I won’t be able to see them, I imagine us one day in the future, walking together in the sun. I see a path running through green pastures and along bubbling creeks, and we are laughing together as we walk. We are remembering the days of quarantine as a distant memory and delighting at the small joy of drinking wine from a community cup.

When I see rows of people in riot gear, armed for violence and ready for war, I imagine them stripping it all off. One by one they are tossing guns, bullets and vests into a fire. I imagine helmets being pulled off to reveal faces. When I see their eyes, I see how tired they are of fighting. I see that anger and fear are keeping their souls imprisoned. Then I imagine the police having a different experience of being with the people they serve as Resmaa Menakem describes in his book: living in the actual neighborhoods they serve, coaching football in their precincts, having kids over for meals, organizing food for families they know are in need, browsing garage sales and watching parades in their neighborhoods. 

When I read that two of the twenty highest clusters of COVID cases are in Arkansas prisons, I imagine the walls of the prison falling down. I see them actually crumbling apart like Jericho, to allow the captives to go free. Outside the fallen walls are doctors and nurses and families ready to care for each person whose body is broken in sickness, and whose heart is aching from being forgotten all these months while prisons have been closed to visitors. 

When I see my kids doing school online and their weary teachers trying so hard to make this new process work, I imagine that we discover something new about education in the midst of this strange time. I see communities spending money on turning education at home into an unexpected gift to children and parents, allocating resources that allow parents to be at home with their children during this season. I imagine children thriving outside the walls of schools that have grown to resemble prisons. I see parents, grandparents and teachers who are creating something new.

Recently I listened to an interview with Eddie S. Glaude Jr. where he said that it is we who are the midwives of something new: But every time a new America is about to be born, white supremacy is the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby’s neck, and we allow white supremacy to choke the life out of it. 

Maybe the most important part of my practice this summer has been to sit in mediation and pray for the cutting of this umbilical cord. To ask for the release of white supremacy from my very DNA. 

This week I finished working through the practices from My Grandmother’s Hands with a group of women. We’ve been doing them twice a week on lunch hour Zoom calls. The practices, written by trauma therapist Resmaa Menakem, are intended to help us heal the generational racial trauma that is stored deep within our bodies.

Some of the practices are a bit different, even strange. They are new to us or don’t come naturally. But week after week, I have asked these women to just trust the process even when we don’t understand it. 

Thomas Merton said that God can only take us to “sanctity” by paths that we do not understand. 

I think that’s because when we walk paths we don’t understand, we have to release control. We have to let go of all the familiar roads. We don’t know the way, so we can’t be in charge. 

And then mysteriously, the unknowing is the actual path. 

Our uncertainty is the gift that God uses to take us to “sanctity.”

And that’s encouraging. 

Because there is so much that I don’t know. 

I don’t know how we are going to survive losing so many loved ones to a new virus. 

I don’t know how we are going to create a future that is free from white supremacy when we have worshipped it for so long and built every existing system upon its tenets.

I don’t know how we are going to heal our world from fires and hurricanes and poverty.

I don’t know how to look ahead to next month, much less next year. 

So I keep returning to this practice of imagining what is possible. 

When I become overwhelmed by how dark the world seems, I sit back down on my little meditation cushion, and ask the Holy Spirit to help me to see it with new eyes. 

Maybe that seems naive or crazy or silly. 

Maybe that’s because it’s a path that you don’t understand. 

I invite you to come along with me down it anyway.

Only God knows what we will find. 

The post What is possible? appeared first on Alison Chino.

The numbers of those who are sick continue to grow.

As do the number of protestors.

Some days all I can see is that the sick are forgotten and the protestors are gassed.

It seems insignificant to say this amidst so much turmoil, but I cancelled another trip this week.

And I finished packing up our house for another move.

These short sentences do not even scratch the surface of the sadness of this summer.

But they also do not reflect the hope.

Or the light.

When the darkness in the world feels newly oppressive, and it reaches further than I previously realized,

I take a deep breath, I lament.

And then I let my eyes light onto joy.

I have found myself wondering what we will remember when we look back on the summer of 2020.

So for my own heart, I want to make a small record of the things I don’t want to forget.

The light, the hope and the joy.

Here’s what I have so far:

Picture book puffy clouds in a bright blue sky.

Riding with the windows down to Arkansas and back again >>> Sun-burned arm and wind-blown hair.

Sunrises while driving. The one that was pink and sprawling, covering every direction I looked. And the one was gray and yellow and blue, breaking through a hazy fog that covered the road for the better part of an early morning drive.

Fields and highway shoulders full of yellow flowers.

Seeing the (long overdue) removal of a Confederate monument in Little Rock

Protesting on Juneteenth with my brother in my hometown

Seeing the George Floyd Memorial in Little Rock

Getting a weekend of hiking in with Taido while Simon was away.

Giant ferns covering the trails.

Hiking up to sweeping views of the Mississippi River.

And back down through every possible shade of green.

Eating many, MANY rice bowls with hummus, vegetables and beet kraut or kimchi. Our most regular + simple quarantine meal.

Returning to the Oh-Be-Joyful Recreation Area in Colorado.

Being flooded with memories and making new ones.

Hiking in Aspen groves with dear friends.

Spotting Columbines (the Colorado State flower) in the woods, usually hiding, but always a delight to find.

Visiting a longtime favorite bookstore.

Camp 4 Coffee.

Teocali Burritos.

Playing games around the campfire.

Climbing to the top of Mt. Crested Butte and then riding the lift down.

Celebrating with pizza or burritos and drinks after long days of hiking.

Soaking sore feet in the cold river water.

How much better food tastes when you’ve been outside all day.

Remembering that I love to sleep outside, with rushing water nearby.

The star-filled night sky.

Watching Simon climb mountains all day and read by the fire at night.

Taido waking us up in the dark to climb.

Hot coffee in a familiar blue enamel cup.

Watching the moon and the sunrise while driving to a trailhead.

Long last day of climbing.

The slow, methodic meditation of one step after the other.

Counting out 100 steps. Then 75. Then 50.

Remembering to just breathe.

Slowly reaching the shoulder.

And then getting to the top of Mt. Shavano.

Being above 14,000 feet, on top of the world.

Feeling shaky and scared looking down.

Remembering other climbs in younger days (on younger knees).

Packing up camp and heading home with sore legs, tired feet and new Colorado memories.

Listening to Simon talk about climbing mountains while driving long stretches of highway.

Receiving the beautiful book Braiding Sweetgrass in the mail from a friend and fellow hiker/nature lover, and soaking it up as a perfect follow up to my weeks in the woods.

So. Many. Gifts.

This week, I started walking together with a group of ladies through the body practices from My Grandmother’s Hands via Zoom.

Next week we move to a new duplex across town, and then the next week Simon returns to online schooling.

So even though the heat is hanging on, I will release summer for now, and look ahead to what comes next.

Whatever comes, I will not forget that each day (and each season) holds a kind of secret gift, but kind of like a Colorado Columbine, it seems I have to be looking for them.

The post Summer (Oh Be) Joyful appeared first on Alison Chino.

Hello sweet friends.

I’m locked down in quarantine just like most everyone else.

But last week I was in Arkansas and I spent a couple of days hiking with my dad, and while I was in one of my favorite places, I sat down and recorded this meditation for you.

It’s a meditation from Richard Rohr called “A Conversation with the Crucified Christ,” featured in his latest book, The Universal Christ.

I read this book twice last fall, and I wrote out this mediation in my journal and have been using it often. I read it in front of this tiny little crucifix that I purchased in Assisi last year. It’s a replica of the cross before which Saint Francis spent hours praying.

I cannot overstate how helpful these words have been to me over the last several months, so I wanted to share them with you.

So….

Find a quiet corner of your house.

Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Maybe even close your eyes.

Then imagine that Jesus is speaking to you from the Cross and then that you are speaking back to him.

If you enjoy this meditation or you find it helpful, you would probably love receiving Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditations or his books. Right now I’m on my second read-through of Eager to Love.

Whatever you’re doing or wherever you are right now, I wish you peace and love.

The post A Gift For You: My Current Favorite Meditation appeared first on Alison Chino.

often into an unknown or foreign place,

where a person goes in search of new or expanded meaning

about the self, others, nature, or a higher good,

through the experience.

-Wikipedia

I’ve been reading and thinking lately about the idea of pilgrimage.

I love to go for a walk,

but I also love to be walking towards something.

To be on the way.

When I put a big walk on the calendar,

all the steps that I take to get ready for it are actually part of it.

My weekend hikes are part of my pilgrimage.

Even my reading and researching is part of the journey.

And I love this anticipation stage almost as much as I love the actual walk.

My “search for new or expanding meaning” has already begun,

which hopefully means I am walking through the world with an intentional openness.

I am keeping my heart open.

For whatever comes.

Here are the words of an email I sent out to the ladies who are coming walking with me in September:

You have already begun your ancient pilgrimage.

By committing to come on this walk,

You have started your journey.

In fact, every step you take to prepare to walk the Camino is actually part of your Way.

I hope that excites you as much as it does me.

The first step on any epic journey is the one you take out your front door.

In Norway, they call it the “doorstep mile.”

And every time you walk out your front door to go for a walk, 

You are taking the hardest step there is.

The beginning.

Once you’ve begun a journey,

everything else is just an obstacle to be faced along the way.

But since you’re already on The Way, you have everything you need with you in order to face whatever comes.

Whatever is waiting for you around the next bend in the path is just something to walk through.

And the beautiful part is that you are not walking alone. We are all walking together. 

We are already walking together, but in six months, we will be walking side by side!

I can’t wait!

Cheers to doorstep miles, to new beginnings, and to remaining open on the way!

PS. If you want to come on pilgrimage with me one day, shoot me an email on the contact form at the bottom of this page. I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop about future journeys!

The post On pilgrimage. appeared first on Alison Chino.

Snapshots of Walking in Winter in Illinois + Musings From My Wanderings

Several years ago I wrote the following Richard Rohr quote on an index card and hung it up in the kitchen of the apartment we were renting.

In order to live your soul into the world, you must continually loosen your beliefs about who you are.

I’ve moved this little card to three more places since writing it.

I keep hanging it up,

and its truth keeps revealing itself to me.

Here’s an example:

Something I’ve believed about myself for a long time is this:

I’m not a winter person.

Other versions of this belief include:

I like summer.

I like warm weather.

I like being hot.

As soon as I learned we were moving to Illinois,

I began to try to loosen this belief.

Just a little bit.

Instead of dreading winter,

could I find a way to embrace it?

Could I let it in?

We had our first snowfall here early in the season.

The autumn colors were bright and beautiful,

and then all of a sudden,

they were covered in snow.

It was a strange muddle of the seasons.

And it was kind of beautiful.

Then winter arrived in earnest when I returned from Spain.

I have kept this coat that could double as a sleeping bag handy.

Plus snow boots.

I don’t get out in the winter weather every day.

But when I do,

I am surprised by how much I like walking in it.

Of course it’s more fun with friends.

My sister-in-law is not afraid of winter, but she and I definitely share a love of warm weather.

In January, the snow turned to ice.

When it gets super cold around here, the top layer of the snow freezes into this shell of ice.

So Taido bought some grips that are like snow chains for your boots.

We have had more fun with these than I thought was possible.

They make me feel like a superhero.

And I can walk on all these icy roads without falling.

It’s crazy.

It’s almost like I am a winter person.

(kind of)

I do love feeling equipped to get outside no matter what the weather is.

Here’s another belief I’ve had about myself for a long time.

I’m not an animal person.

But then I fell in love with the Davidson family dog, Harley.

I walk her around Glen Ellyn whenever I’m in town,

which is a lot.

And I’ve even brought her to Rock Island to keep me company.

So now I’m walking around outside in winter,

and I love this dog,

and I think maybe I am living my soul into the world.

Who knows?

Here’s another quote I wrote down this week while reading Michael A. Singer’s The Untethered Soul:

The spiritual journey is one of constant transformation. In order to grow, you must give up the struggle to remain the same, and learn to embrace change at all times.

While walking with Simon on winter trails (and trailing behind him), I think about how much change he has lived through in his short life. I wonder if we are helping our kids to embrace change or if they will struggle harder to cling to the safety of “same” because we’ve dragged them through so much change.

…learn to embrace change at all times.

I don’t think I necessarily set out to learn this truth, but I’ve had the wild and wonderful privilege of discovering it.

And I know there is more change to come.

And I’m sure I will catch myself again in the struggle to remain the same.

But for now, every day that I take a willing step (both literal and spiritual) into whatever comes feels like a mercy.

The snow clearing crew at Augustana College is amazing.

Often I can walk there while the rest of Rock Island is still covered in snow and ice.

In fact,

if it hasn’t snowed in a while,

the trails at Augustana are totally cleared.

But my street still looks like a sheet of ice.

So I wear my little ice grips until I get to the school.

And then take them off on this trail if it’s clear.

Here’s a photo just for my kids (and everyone who has ever read The Willoughbys by Lois Lowry) of me with my crampons on my head.

So absurd.

Even more absurd,

even though I own these ice grips,

I fell a few weeks ago on our steps, walking to the car (sans ice grips of course).

And so my superhero status quickly tanked.

Now I’m less “walking around on the ice” and more “staying at home nursing a bruised tailbone.”

Another  change.

So my walks have been either very short or nonexistent over the last couple of weeks.

But we had another big snow a few nights ago,

and it was the kind that makes all the trees look frosted.

So I got up and walked to school with Taido just to be the first footsteps on this wooded trail.

And to wonder in amazement at how much snow can gather on a tiny little branch.

I took so many photos that my fingers started to feel frozen in the single digit temps.

But there’s nothing quite like the first morning after a big snow.

Especially on a quiet trail.

Before the rest of the world is out and about.

And if I get snow inside my boots from going too deep into the tall drifts (that definitely happened),

Or when the wind makes my nose freeze and my eyes water,

I walk on home and find a little snuggle buddy.

Or a hot drink and a book.

Cheers to winter walking, winter reading and winter snuggling!

(And to softening the grip on remaining the same.)

If you enjoy reading about my wanderings, consider subscribing to get future updates.

The post Snapshots of Walking in Winter appeared first on Alison Chino.

Back in June, as part of my Yoga Teacher Training, I taught a yoga class that is hosted by area churches called Be Still and Know.

Be Still and Know is a restorative yoga class that is both gentle movement and spiritual practice. It’s a beautiful collection of the things I love most about yoga!

It was so fun for me to walk through the experience of putting this yoga class together, so I thought I would share the themes and my (very rough draft) sequence drawing that I used.

The stars in the script are the break in the content where I added movement.

Script for Be Still and Know Class:

Psalm 46:10 is the verse where we find the words “Be Still and Know.”

The command to be still in this verse comes from the Hebrew verb that translates:

to be weak

to let go

to release

To be still is to let go.

When we are still, we release control.

We release striving.

We can be present to this moment.

***

Recently I read a story from Sue Monk Kidd’s book When the Heart Waits that has been helpful to me as I have sought stillness in my own life.

While she is visiting an abbey on a retreat, she tells this story:

One day after morning prayers, I walked to the edge of the pond and sat on the grass. I listened to the wind sigh over the water and tried to be still, to simply be there and wait in the moment. But almost instantly my inner chaos rose up. The need to keep moving, to act, to solve everything overpowered me. I got to my feet.

As I returned to the guest quarters, I noticed a monk, ski cap pulled over his ears, sitting perfectly still beneath a tree. There was such reverence in his silhouette, such tranquil sturdiness, that I paused to watch. He was the picture of waiting. 

Later I sought him out, “I saw you today sitting beneath the tree — just sitting so still. How is it that you can wait so patiently in the moment? I just can’t seem to get used to the idea of doing nothing.”

He broke into a wonderful grin. “Well, there’s the problem right there, young lady. You’ve bought into the cultural myth that when you’re waiting you’re doing nothing.”

Then he took his hands and placed them on my shoulders, peered straight into my eyes and said, “I hope you’ll hear what I’m about to tell you. I hope you’ll hear it all the way down to your toes. When you’re waiting, you’re not doing nothing. You’re doing the most important something there is. You’re allowing your soul to grow up. If you can’t be still and wait, you can’t become what God created you to be.”

When you’re waiting, you’re not doing nothing.

You’re doing the most important something there is.

***

Stillness, along with solitude and silence, is a place of becoming. Of transformation.

Our stillness, the undisturbed glass lake of our soul, is a place we can always come back to, like child’s pose.

After the wind blows and waves rise on our lake, we can return again to stillness. The waves can subside. The wind can get quiet. We can be still again.

Our bodies get still first, but then slowly we can also be still in our minds.

Let go.

Let go of what we need to do.

Let go of what we didn’t get done today.

Can we be still?

When you’re being still,

you’re not doing nothing.

You’re doing the most important something there is.

***

On the days we wake up overwhelmed with all the things we have to do, when our minds are rushed with thoughts of everything that must be done, can we be still?

In these moments, to be still is both

a way to trust

and

a way to quietly, bravely rebel.

When there is so much to do and we refuse to rush,

but instead we stop

and be still,

we are courageously choosing not to conform to the ways of the world.

***

When the rush of the to do list is coming for us like a tidal wave,

but instead of trying to outrun it,

we stop

and be still.

We are trusting.

Trusting that God will take care of us.

He will not let the wave come crashing down on us.

Or if He allows the waters to rise around us, He will also provide what we need.

We can say:

Oh Lord, I know you will not let me drown.

And so I will be still.

These are the silent assents we make when we choose stillness.

Quiet brave declarations that we will choose stillness over hurry.

When you’re waiting, you’re not doing nothing.

You’re doing the most important something there is.

May you have the courage to be still this week. 

The post Be Still appeared first on Alison Chino.

Me: “Who wants a mince pie?”

Ben: “I do!”

Simon: “No, thank you.”

Mary Polly: “Nope.”

Me: “You might want to try them this year. This could be our last Christmas to have mince pies.”

The replies come back all at once:

“Don’t say that!”

“No!”

“Shhh!”

It is the question we are asked most often right now.

“What’s next?”

We believe that Taido will finish his writing by the summer, and hopefully soon afterwards, be awarded with the degree for which we came to Scotland.

But beyond that, our future remains largely uncertain.

For the most part, by God’s grace, I have made peace with that uncertainty.

Daily, I come back to my knees about the unknowns and daily, God reminds me that He has our future in His hands.

But something about Christmas is making the end come sharper into focus.

Maybe it’s because we mark time by the holidays. We remember the Christmases past. We think of who was with us and where we were the last time we smelled gingerbread or dissolved the yeast into warm water to make dough.

The memories can make us feel what we lack, instead of what we have.

I am so keenly aware of what is missing that I project even my future lacks onto this year’s experience. (No mince pies next year.)

As Christmas arrives, I cannot ignore that the end of our season in Aberdeen is coming. The calendar on my wall is out of pages to flip. I don’t want to buy a new one because I don’t want to see those unknown months. Those “where-will-we-be-then” months. And I don’t want to write “goodbye” on a little square as if all I will feel about that moment will fit into a calendar space.

People around us know that the end is near. We are part of a community of transient souls who come to this gray city for a few years, occupy rental homes with borrowed dishes and then move on, leaving behind stock-piled American chocolate chips and peanut butter and passing along the few accumulated belongings. Gently used sheets, towels and baking pans are forever being handed from one expat family to the next.

I find myself having to articulate the unknown future more and more as people ask me what is next for our family.

And somehow, saying it out loud makes it feel a bit more scary.

I try to sound excited.

“Who knows where the Lord will lead us?”

Or faithful.

“God has led us here. He will lead us on.”

Or confident.

“We know God has a plan for us, and He will show it to us in His perfect time.”

All of those statements are true. And I mean them when I say them. Really.

But there is also a nagging fear. The noises from the part of my heart that sees lack instead of gift.

In the dark, I question.

I wonder.

Will we be ok?

Will it break me to say goodbye?

Will our children hate us for another transition that strips them of their friends?

Will I ever be warm again? 

Last week was one of those doubting weeks.

And one morning, I found these words staring up at me:

The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

Deuteronomy 31:8

And then, this, from Jesus Today, by Sarah Young who uses Scripture to write as though Jesus is speaking straight to you:

I myself go before you and will be with you. So do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. I, your loving Savior, am also infinite God! I am omnipresent: present everywhere at once. This makes it possible for Me to go ahead of you – opening up the way – without ever leaving your side.

…encourage yourself with My promise to go before you and be with you – let My perfect love renew your hope.

And so for the days since, I have been doing just that, encouraging myself with God’s promise to go before us and to be with us. Both at once.

The future is as hazy as the Scottish winter sky, fading from black to gray, and then from gray to black again much too soon.

But some days there is a parting of the clouds at just the right time of day and the sky is lit up like fireworks. Shades of pink and orange painting the world outside my kitchen window for just long enough and just often enough to remind me that there is color beyond my grays and blacks.

It is breaking through.

And that’s how God’s reminders are to me. Breaking into my black heart to paint it vibrant with the knowledge that He is always going before me and also, always with me.

The path forward is unknown to me.

But it is not unknown to God. He is already on it.

And He is with me as I walk.

Friend, if I could give you a Christmas gift it would be this same knowledge. This same breaking through of Jesus in the middle of all that is painful and scary and unknown to say: I am going before you and I am with you.

Because His presence is enough. I need it more than I need anything under my tree or anything written on my calendar.

Also, when I am faltering, I need truth spoken to me fast. I have put together what I think of as my emergency playlist on Spotify. It is The Words I Need To Hear. I’m sharing it with you just in case you need to hear them too.

Wishing you so much love and light on your path this Christmas!

XO

Alison

The post Before You and With You appeared first on Alison Chino.

Migrants crowd as they wait to cross the Croatian border. Photograph: Marko Djurica/Reuters

Imagine if one day I was sitting in my house back in Arkansas and I saw on television that thousands and thousands of refugees were fleeing their country from a war somewhere in South America? And they were flooding into Mexico, hoping to get to the USA. But the border between Mexico and Texas was closed? And the leadership of my government was saying, Keep them out.

But then on the television, I could see footage of a camp growing along the border. Faces of sweet children and their mamas flashing across my screen. Stories of daughters whose fathers were killed by an army fueled by hatred.

Imagine what if?

Would I sit there and stare at the screen and wish that I could do something? Would I agonize that these folks who were just a few hours away from me were sleeping on the ground while I crawled into my warm bed?

I might give some money online. I might say a prayer. But would I wake up the next day and remember again that just across the border, there were people desperate to escape an endless cycle of violence?

What if I were sitting in my living room with three of my friends and wishing I could do something? What if we started talking about what we could do?

Would we maybe just decide to get in the car with whatever we could think of and take off to see how we could help? Would we maybe throw our instruments in back of the car? Because whatever else happened, one of us would remember that music always brings joy.

What I’ve just described is exactly how four guys from the Czech Republic found themselves singing to refugees and working at the closed border between Serbia and Croatia.

Recently I met a couple of guys from World Vision named Henry and Johan. They are based in London at World Vision UK, but are often out of the office collecting stories and information in the places where World Vision is working. I joined some other bloggers last month in London to listen to Henry and Johan tell stories about visiting the border between Serbia and Croatia.

While they were talking, they described these four guys from the Czech Republic who showed up while they were there.

After seeing the images on TV, they decided to just go.

They showed up with their instruments. They played music. They played ball. They danced with kids.

They pitched in wherever they could see a need.

They showed up and helped.

They made people smile.

They brought hope + joy.

Join in this story of HOPE!

Watch the video that World Vision UK made while they were there.

Read what Johan wrote about the needs of refugees as winter arrives.

Give towards the winter needs for refugees.

PS. I am super grateful to World Vision UK for the opportunity to be a part of #FarFromHome in London last month and to YHA St Paul’s for giving me a cozy bed for the night while I was down!

The post Chasing Daylight in December: Stories of Hope appeared first on Alison Chino.

Happy Thanksgiving Friends!

(That’s me waving to you from across the pond!)

Since I am not cooking a turkey or even baking making Grandmother’s rolls today, I thought I would take a few minutes to share a collection of the thoughts of my heart from the past week or so.

Because I am just a little sad that Black Friday has become such big business that we have managed to export it to the UK, I am framing my musings today with a title that is just my tiny little drop-in-the-bucket protest of my favorite holiday of all time (Thanksgiving) being co-opted into the start of consumer holiday frenzy.

Five Things I Wish We Would Do On Black Friday Instead Of Shopping. 

1. Continue Giving Thanks.

If you’ve made a giant meal today, you don’t have to cook tomorrow, so you have more time for practicing thanksgiving.

O give thanks to the Lord for He is good; For His lovingkindness is everlasting.

1 Chronicles 16:34

Once upon a time I began a practice of gratefulness.

A simple ritual of writing down things for which I am thankful.

And friends, it is not an exaggeration to say that it changed my life.

Five years ago, I wrote these words about this practice:

One of the ways I know God is real is that when I ask at the end of a weary day that He would show me what to thank Him for,

He reveals to my heart the gifts I don’t have the eyes to see.

Need a little help. You can make this thanksgiving tree with your family! We’re doing this at our house today and throughout the weekend.

2. Prepare For Christmas.

There are so many other ways to get ready for Christmas than to shop. It seems like it becomes harder every year to make time for the practices that bring our hearts the most peace, hope and joy during this season.

Maybe ask the people around you how they are planning to let the light in to their Christmas season. I have a sheet of paper I’ve been using to brainstorm ideas for the holidays for the last several weeks. Anytime I think, “Oh I wish we would do that this year!” I write down whatever “that” is (ice skating, making cookies for neighbors, reading a family Christmas devotional every day, etc). This weekend I’m going to take that list and put the items on the calendar that I feel like we can fit in this year.

And if you must shop to prepare for Christmas, maybe think about how to shop mindfully? I think it would be lovely to set a challenge of only buying items that bring hope and love to others. Items from a Heifer or World Vision catalog. Or only buying fair trade. It may seem like such a small thing to hand someone a handmade trinket for Christmas instead of a new electronic, but it’s no small thing to the hands that made it.

3. Do Justice.

I have spent a lot of time this season reading about refugees and I’ve discovered something that I am having trouble understanding.

Just before WWII, when both the UK and the US were experiencing food and housing shortages, these two great nations together took in almost 200,000 Jewish refugees.

Today, when both of these countries are radically wealthy, they have committed to taking only 10,000 refugees each, and even that number is consistently facing reduction by legislation.

The crazy bit is that I think if any of us could go back in time and take more Jewish refugees (Anne Frank’s family was denied access to the US), we absolutely would. We would say, YES! Let them come. 200,000 was not enough. 

I can’t work out in my heart what the difference is between then and now.

During WWII, the messages posted all around our nations were about saving and stretching what we have to make it work.

Since 9/11, we have been bombarded with the falsehood that the most patriotic action we can take for our country is to spend more money.

It’s as if I am holding the two times in my two hands and wondering how we got from:

Save all you can and share with the refugee.

to

Spend even what you don’t have, but we have no room for the refugee.

Here’s a paragraph from the most recent briefing I received from World Vision UK about Syrian refugees:

2 million children have become refugees and 5.6 million children in Syria need life-saving assistance. As the crisis drags on, the situation is getting more desperate for families. Families are running out of savings and struggle to provide food, shelter or warm clothing. Many refugees now live on food rations worth only £9 a month, with the cost of living in Syria response countries similar to many Western countries. Many families can no longer afford to send their children to school. Outside refugee camps, only 6% of Syrian school age children in Lebanon, 44% in Jordan and 14% in Turkey attend school. Youth unemployment in Lebanon has reached 78%. Families are marrying off their girls early to help them survive, as well as risking dangerous migration opportunities to survive. Without further action, we risk losing a generation to unemployment, poverty, lack of education and hopelessness.

As the rhetoric in America increases about blocking entrance to refugees, I suppose I wish that at the very least, if we’re going to make it impossible to leave the country (that we ourselves are bombing), could we at least take all that money we were going to spend on a new XBOX, TV, iPhone and give it to improve the dire circumstances in countries like Lebanon, where there are now 1.5 million refugees.

4. Love Mercy.

Last week I read a book that rocked my world.

As is often the case when I read a book that takes me to a place I did not know existed and proceeds to break my heart, I can’t stop talking about it and and I want everyone I know to read it.

Bryan Stevenson is a lawyer who has spent his life seeking justice for those most desperate: “the poor, the wrongly condemned, and women and children trapped in the farthest reaches of our criminal justice system.”

Just Mercy is a collection of stories from his years of doing this incredibly gut-wrenching work.

This may not be an incentive to read, but sometimes I would have to set the book down after I finished one of the stories just to take a deep breath through my tears.

Trina Garnett’s story was one of those. Her story was also told in a news article almost three years ago. And she took part in this powerful video from Muncy State Prison. She’s the one in the wheelchair who speaks at the end of the video. She’s been in prison for over forty years, after being sentenced to life without parole at the age of fourteen for starting a fire that resulted in the deaths of two children.

I walked away from reading Just Mercy with a sense that I need a greater understanding of what Stevenson describes as the four institutions that have shaped the lives of people of color in America:

The first three are: Slavery, A Reign of Terror, and Jim Crow.

The fourth is Mass Incarceration.

I’ll leave you with a quote about prison growth in America that I found wildly disturbing:

In the 1990s, America was opening prisons at a pace never before seen in human history. Between 1990 and 2005, a new prison opened in the United States every ten days. Prison growth and the resulting ‘prison-industrial complex’ -the business interests that capitalize on prison construction- made imprisonment so profitable that millions of dollars were spent lobbying state legislators to keep expanding the use of incarceration to respond to just about any problem. Incarceration became the answer to everything–health care problems like drug addiction, poverty that had led someone to write a bad check, child behavior disorders, managing the mentally disabled poor, even immigration issues generated responses from legislators that involved sending people to prison. Never before had so much lobbying money been spent to expand America’s prison population, block sentencing reforms, create new crime categories, and sustain the fear and anger that fuel mass incarceration than during the last twenty-five years in the United States.

5. Walk Humbly.

Of course, I can’t let the opportunity pass to include going for a walk on any list of activities.

But I’ve shared some heavy things.

When my heart is heavy, the best place for me to take it is outside.

To lift my eyes to the heavens and ask the Lord when He is going to come back?

To cry out to God for the brokenness in our world, but then to stand at the shore and wonder at how there is still so much beauty in it.

To Chase the Daylight even when the darkness is closing in.

Wishing you love, mercy, grace and peace today wherever you are! I’m thankful for everyone who reads my ramblings from my little corner of the internet.

XO

Alison

The post In The Pipeline: Black Friday Edition appeared first on Alison Chino.