Women in Ministry

Who Would We Be If We Were A People Of Grace?

For Red Tent Living this month...

If we agree on one thing, perhaps it is that we’re all human?

Since nothing else approaches unifying these days. Perhaps there is that?

A fearful mama writes a post that goes viral. Protecting 3 small children in Ikea, she fears a stalker and tells her Facebook community she is a target of human trafficking. The machine explodes, one side spreads her sincere warning while the other side blasts her misinformed reactionary response.

Mistakenly, she assumed her community was safe.

The same media blamed for not addressing the issue is now blamed for sensationalizing it, fueling stereotypes, spreading inaccuracies. If we didn’t have thoseshows we wouldn’t have these mamas: hysterical and wrong.

The #Ikeamom is not unlike #alllivesmatter and #weareallimmigrants. Well-meaning folks, learning about injustice, trying to synthesize newfound knowledge with lived-experience. Trying to be compassionate. Trying to engage. Trying to support. Doing what they know to do with the understanding they have.

But the machine is ruthless. And there is no space for wrestling truth, stumbling around justice, and just stepping on toes.

What if we all decided it was okay to step on our toes?

Keep reading over at Red Tent Living.

Discovering a Nation of Heroines in the Netherlands

We went to the Netherlands to bike. Amsterdamweb

We also went to see Corrie ten Boom's Hiding Place and Anne Frank's Annex. We went to experience their stories and immerse ourselves in their world, strong females whose voices still live. In a land that produced such women, I suspected there were more. I sensed we would discover them on the journey. Yet for all the heroines, I also knew the Netherlands had thousands of exploited sisters. Women from Eastern Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East sex trafficked in the infamous Red Light District. I wanted to experience their stories too. If I'm going to invite my daughter into the company of women as a finale to this rites of passage year, she needs to know the breadth of the sisterhood: pain and need coexist with strength and hope.

In Utrecht, we searched in vain for a statue of Trijn van Leemput, pick axe in hand, symbolizing her rally of other women to demolish a castle-turned-Spanish garrison at the onset of the 80 years war. Historians have picked at the veracity of this tale, but I guess that a people who valorize women can have all the legend they want.

In Gouda, we stayed with Jet and discovered a woman motivated by God's love to care for people in her home: foster kids, long-term residents, weary travelers like us, and entire families during transitions. She lived in a 19th century town home, so narrow the stairwell resembled a ladder. It had one small toilet closet and a newish shower room on the 3rd floor. She had recently been to Cambodia to learn more about IJM's work and we connected over human trafficking.

In Oudewater, we weighed ourselves on the official scales used to acquit Dutch women accused of witchcraft during a time in which thousands of women were put to death. It was thought that witches needed to be light enough to fly and if one could prove her weight was "normal" on Oudewater's official scales, her innocence was sealed. We were appalled at the crazy false accusations and hysteria around women who deviated in the slightest way from the majority.

The scales used to weigh women accused of witchcraft

Haarlem gave us Corrie ten Boom, a woman compelled by her faith to protect as many Jews during the German occupation of the Netherlands as she could. A woman who sacrificed her own security and ultimately, lost her father and sister in concentration camps. We learned about Hannie Shaft, 25-year-old Dutch Resistance fighter known as 'the girl with the red hair'. She was killed by the Germans just 3 weeks before liberation for her ceaseless fight to sabotage their efforts. And long before WWII, there was Kenau Simonsdochter Hasselaer, the fearless Dutch heroine who inspired Haarlem to rebuild the city's defense wall. Her statue stood proud in the train station courtyard, sword beneath her feet.

Corrie ten Boom's bedroom hiding place.  Six people hid and escaped while Corrie and her family were arrested.


Kenau: The Woman who Inspired a City

By the time we were back in Amsterdam, I was pretty convinced we were walking among giants. My daughter had easily named women who exhibited the categories we discussed all year: Jet loved, Kenau led, Hannie fought, Corrie sacrificed, Anne Frank created. And what about the women who have lived in the Begijnhof since 1150, the devout women (not nuns) who chose to serve the Lord in prayer and service within a circle of Amsterdam townhouses? Or all the brave women highlighted in the Dutch Resistance Museum for their courage during the occupation of Germany (in Holland) and Japan (in the Dutch East Indies/ now Indonesia)? What of the women we had met along our bike journey who went out of their way to escort us to the next path, stop others for assistance, and offer us shelter?

The Begijnhof: A Chosen Path of Quiet Service for Women

On our last day, we made our way to Dignita, Not For Sale's cafe and culinary training program site. I wanted to learn more about the state of the Red Light District and hear from on the ground experts. Secretly, I wanted my daughter to see the out working of a life lived with passion. My passion may never become hers, but I desperately want her to discover one as meaningful. In fact, I have a working theory that the antidote to a teen's obsession with boys, bodies, and besties is catching a vision for a bigger story.

[bctt tweet="I have a working theory that the antidote to a teen's obsession with boys, bodies, and besties is catching a vision for a bigger story."]

Dignita is committed to re-creating stories for the trafficked men and women they offer culinary certificates to. We didn't need to walk the district to learn about the women photographed like monkeys in a window; to hear that the majority are threatened to come under the rule of a trafficker. We were told the district is dying (because more tourists are voyeurists than paying customers), but that it is moving underground, online. Why pay 200Euros/ hour for rent when the sale of sex can be arranged online? My daughter was concerned about the laws (having heard all about human trafficking already). Why was this legal? Why were there not better laws to protect these women? Who is going to change this?

I saw her blood begin to boil. The first signs of a heart breaking is anger. Holy anger leads to passion.

[bctt tweet="The first signs of a heart breaking is anger."]

This is catching a vision for living a bigger story.

Experiencing the women of the Netherlands, the strong and brave and exploited alike, provided a framework upon which to hang meaning. These are lessons you can't just teach from a book or gain from a movie. Sometimes you have to walk in their shoes, see the places from which bravery sprung forth, imagine the moments in which choices were made.

[bctt tweet="Sometimes you have to walk in their shoes, see the places from which bravery sprung forth, imagine the moments in which choices were made."]

We've come from a beautiful global sisterhood. To this I invited my daughter: this, this is the company of women you join as you become a woman.

Why I Practice Stealth Hospitality

My daughter likes to tell everyone we meet about one of my most embarrassing moments. It involved food. We had been living overseas for a year or two and I was till working on verb tenses. Even though I dreamed of a life like Frances Mayes in Tuscany, frequenting neighborhood food stalls and chatting it up with my local friends, I had already resorted to anonymity in the large super store. You never had to speak in the large super store.

But Thanksgiving was approaching and rumor had it the butcher would find the Americans a turkey if you asked him to. This required speaking. No problem. I could easily order a turkey and arrange the day to pick it up. But I waited too long. He doubted he could have it by Wednesday. And, in a moment of expat desperation I pleaded, "I must be a turkey by Wednesday!"

It was imperative. More than 20 people were coming to our home, foreigners and nationals alike, to celebrate an American Thanksgiving. I had even found another produce seller who could get sweet potatoes from the coast. Someone else had recently brought hams from a trip abroad and we.were.set.


It became a tradition. Large groups gathered around the table my husband crawled under as a boy. The table which squeaks and with the chairs whose leather weaving is tearing and bolts are popping off. So many stories have occupied these chairs and eaten on these plates. In the midst of cross-cultural stress and otherness, I relished creating an environment that welcomed the weary. I nourished souls through hospitality.


A few years ago it seemed right to open our home to a young person in need of a family to stay with for a while. It felt like an extension of hospitality and it stretched us all. Our son gave up his room for 2 months. Our food budget swelled. We suffered through our own ignorance of trauma and failed miserably to understand what he needed. It ended poorly. We tried again with a younger girl a few months later. This time our daughter gave up her space. We hid knives and pills and faced depression head on. We welcomed the other.

But it took its toll. It's too much to live in painful stories all day and come home to more of the same, my therapist husband said.

I began to recognize his exhaustion. While I was hoping to plan the next gathering, pinning recipes and arranging invites, he became the weary. He nourished 20 souls a week and had no more to give. I desperately wanted 20 around my table but not with a reluctant co-host.

The plates went unused, accumulating dust on the bottom few.

practicing stealth

I have wondered what to do about this predicament we're in, my husband and I. The refugee crisis makes me wonder how we would respond if we were nearer. Some of the very friends who joined us overseas, now gather Syrians at the train station and take them home for a night of sleep in a bed and a wash in a shower. I think of the traveling holy family this advent season and wonder if there would be room in our inn?

I have been sad about it all.

And then I realized, those 20 hurting souls that sit across from my husband each week, whose stories I only know via the exhaustion on his face, are my guests. I serve them each week by keeping my table open. While the plates gather dust, my husband gathers strength. By welcoming him to a quiet and empty evening, I am hospitable to all the unknown names and faces he serves.

I realize, I am practicing stealth hospitality.

So to them, I raise a toast! May you know the abundance of God's grace and find rest for your weary soul. May you love your life and live restored through the hospitality of the Bruno family.