Review: Love Where You Live by Shauna Pilgreen

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When the Revel Reads program offered this book among its options, I leapt at the chance to read it, largely because I liked the subtitle of the book. “How to Live Sent in the Place You Call Home.” I thought it sounded very charming and it appealed to me as a woman who believes we are all sent with a purpose to different places, whether it be a little visit to a nursing home or a long-term stay in a state where we’ve never lived before. We as a family have entered a season of putting down roots and I was interested in what this book could offer someone like me.

When I received the book and began reading the Introduction, I found the author’s perspective to be refreshing and circumspect. I had become acquainted somewhat with the urban missionary movement in the contemporary American Christian church and some of it really bristled me. Some of it sounds incredibly naive, and other examples have sounded downright entitled. Some call it “new monasticism” and others refer to it as upside-down kingdom living. I wanted to know where this book fit on the spectrum of stories/guides to being missional in one’s own community.

After reading the Introduction, the two chief questions I had in reading the rest of the book were:
Question #1: The author is white but does she recognize her privilege in moving into a community?
Question #2:- As a transplant to a community where she and her husband are trying to church plant, do they work with organizations already on the ground to learn more about their community?

I was sorry the answer to Question #1 was…not really? I am frustrated when I read about one more white woman in the church who doesn’t realize the amazing backpack of privilege she carries. The author talks about the three places she and her family moved to in and around San Francisco. It appears she blithely moved into each home without having concern as to whether or not she would be well-received. In fact, the author speaks about not receiving anything—no welcome or acknowledgment. This actually both struck me as naive and privilege-blind. I’ve lived in the city for 10+ years and I never expect to be acknowledged. It’s part of survival in a densely populated area. You just cannot expend your energy to each and every person passing into your lane. She does not mention worrying about any looks askance or overwhelmingly suspicious surveillance of her family moving in — something plenty of people of color have to worry about each day of their lives as they move through the world. The author talks about adopting their daughter from India during their early years in San Francisco. I’m sure becoming a multi-ethnic family overnight came with its lovely points and challenges, and I would have wanted to hear more about that. Instead, here is a passage from the book that bemused me:

”In my city, I’ve got a lifetime of people to love. The immigrants. The refugees. The under-resourced. The minorities…and I joyfully say, ‘You are welcome here.’”

I could barely read the rest of the book after this passage. It sounded at turns Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, and also incredibly pompous. Really? As a transplant to a city, you still feel entitled to tell others that they’re welcome in a city? There’s nothing wrong with being a welcoming person, but maybe those folks already know they belong. Maybe they don’t need a white woman to validate their being there. Being blind to one’s own privilege is a huge turn-off and I just never found the level of awareness I had hoped to find in this book.

The answer to Question #2 was maybe. As church planters, it appeared that this family and the other planting staff did reach out to others in the trenches who were doing their best to start churches. But I didn’t see much in the way of allying with organizations already on the ground who could provide resources and an invaluable intel into the community. The author prescribes whittling away the shoe leather in walking the blocks that surround her home and meeting the people and praying for the places in which her ministerial circle comprises. I think this is great, but it’s also one of the criticisms of new monasticism: that oftentimes these idealistic ministers seem to get burned out by doing it all from scratch, when they could have sought existing, embedded resources to help them find their path.

There were many redeeming parts about the book, including the early chapters on doubt and discomfort. I loved this: “A fear of missing out is not from God.” The author and her husband offer excellent, tactical strategies for planning a purpose-driven move. The book is also filled with a tremendous diversity of perspectives from luminaries such as C. S. Lewis, Marc Batterson, Maria Goff, and Pete Scazzero whose words enriched the pages.

Overall, there were far too many surefooted explanations for how ministry should be done in a place outside of one’s own comfort zone. The blindness to privilege was a major detractor for me as a reader. However, I think this book would still be a helpful companion for those who are discerning a move for ministry because of the cards the author is willing to show in sharing her spiritual walk through discomfort and toward the unknown.

I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for an honest review.

Forest Fire Caused by Inordinate Number of Americans Sparking Joy

I really feel the above was a missed opportunity by The Onion in lampooning the KonMari-ing of America.

The Magical Tidying Up phenomenon is a hoot, though, isn’t it? First, it was the calming watercolor covered book, a tiny little tome that was responsible for millions of women hugging their sequined sorority tops, thanking them for all the good times they had dancing on bar tops, before letting the sequins set sail for Goodwill. Then, we have the Netflix special bringing this petite Japanese sprite of a woman as a sort of Buddhist interventionist into the homes of Americans, showing them how to accordion fold their T-shirts in a way that is so arousing, apparently, that my husband just walked by me and said, “Not gonna lie. Something really satisfying about the Marie Kondo fold.”

I love it when small little forces are the big bosses of us. Like babies and puppies and Richard Simmons (did they ever find him?). I also like Kondo’s method which is actually the opposite of bossy. It places the real agency on the owner and accumulator of the stuff, and rather than shaming him/her into submission, it simply asks them to self-examine whether or not something brings him/her more, instantaneous joy.

Having lived in so many places that would be considered small in the First World over the years, I can attest that this self-examination is the only sustainable way to tide accumulation. Will bringing this distressed wooden birdcage/pilates body rig /hydroponic tomato irrigator into my home offer a more joyful experience? It usually does not. Minimalism isn’t always the most joyful existence, but in my home, it’s the surest way to tame the chaos and assure the peaceful vibe.

But why, I wonder, does minimalism have to be this Very Evolved State of Being that We Must Announce? Like, the other day I was rifling through the racks at Marshall’s for a white oxford shirt. There were none in my size, and, trust, I cased the juniors, petites, women’s, men’s and little girls/boys. Nary an oxford shirt to be had. But among the finer merchandise and wares was a large rustic sign, the kind one would put in her living room, announcing in brushlettering, LESS HOUSE MORE HOME.

And I was sort of like, dude. Please promise me I never have the pleasure of being in a space where someone paid $19.99 to broadcast the fact that they were aware of the square footage of their abode, and what mattered more was that everyone knew they liked it that way?

Because this little piggy would be vomiting all the way home.

I suppose it is all anchored in our hyperconsumerism, because if we haven’t commodified something, does it really exist in America? We are, after all, buying into the KonMari method. If she were not selling something, the info. would be available freely. I assume Marie Kondo action figures are available somewhere—one piles, one folds, one embraces, one carries a lighter for sparking joy—collect all 4! The bobbleheads and FunkoPops will be available by Christmas for your stocking stuffers, BE YE NOT VEXED.

It’s not lost on me, of course, that there is an excess of judgment in this post, that my mental closets are filled with reserves of cynicism that are not joy sparkers for anyone, myself included. I am not a bandwaggoner and am loathe to ever be called a johnny come lately. I am as fascinated by pop culture as I am reviled by it. But there are plenty of pockets in my kimono for more admiration and openmindedness, and I am not yet at full joy capacity, so I should probably go hug some more sequins.

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The Overflowing Port-a-Potties at National Parks are stressing me out

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I was only three paragraphs into an article about the senatorial stalemate over the government shutdown and I was already stressed. My latent fear that we are all very near the edge of a cliff surges every time I read about the Oval Office Occupant. So cavalier, so crass; the news is never good. The mere mention of how the port-a-potties in Nat’l Parks are overflowing due to the lack of government staffing was too much. The metaphor of our crap piling high in forced neglect. This latest surge of fearfulness felt more like magma than simply a fizzy anxiety bubbling to the surface.

I suppose this is because I failed to choose a word for the year. This is likely my penance for not pressing my ear to the Universe more closely, asking her to whisper me my January mantra. Everyone else is so evolved! So zen and able to cope. I’m already a fail potato and it’s only January 6.

The more I thought about how one man’s job was affecting me, how I was allowing it to leverage power over my mental peace, the more resentful I became. I was letting the man with the orange pallor—whom I’ve never met—take something that wasn’t his. Therein I found my resolution, perhaps not one for the full year but at least until the frenzied feeling is no longer palpable. Because frenzied feelings that compel us to enact change are productive. But this one was incapacitating and that is not good for anyone.

Ergo, I resolve to tear a page out of my therapist husband’s playbook. This man, knocking on 40’s door, has the abs of a functionally fit college man. We hate him. We adore him. But we realize his physique is not by accident or genetic overblessing. I once asked him how he stays motivated to get up every day at o’dark thirty to complete a workout at a gym for which he doesn’t pay and for which no hired trainer is present. He said that because of the nature of his job, where he listens and contains the stories of adolescents dealing with trauma and grief and addiction, that, in order to be the best in showing up for them, he has to first show up for himself. And he does so at the gym.

So in this year, my 38th on this planet, I am showing up for myself in the following ways, so that I can further show the frenzied feelings compelled by Presidential Dysfunction that they have no power over me:
- Journaling briefly each day
- Doing the SheReadsTruth study on the Book of Luke as often as possible
- Plotting out my workout schedule each week so that I know when I am going to classes, when I am letting my walk with the dog suffice for the workout du jour

I am fully aware that this is such a White Overprivileged Lady thing to write, like, really? You are combatting injustice by putting on your yoga pants? But I’d like to believe that by showing up for myself and having a plan about where my energy will be spent, I will better be able to stand down the inequities that surface as well as more shrewdly allocate my time and resources toward resistance, because I’m already in command of them.

I’d love to hear how you are allocating your time and energy with intention and how it may make you a better activist in doing so.

Yours in not being a fail potato,
xoxo
Kendra