by Erin Robinson Hall | Sep 4, 2015 | Reflections |
I can recognize my son’s face in any crowd. In a photo of twenty children, where the tops of heads are all I see, I know which curly-haired head is my little goofball. When I pick him up from preschool, my eyes take a hot second to peek in and recognize his sneakers and know that’s my boy. My eyes broke my heart this week. I saw my boy when I saw the beach of Bodrum. I spent last night broken about these families. Broken. Hearted. I know this refugee crisis has a million faces and has been going on for much longer than this fifteen minutes of attention the media has given it. You can know all that, and remain unaffected. And then you can see your boy. And it leaves you undone. That’s what it takes, I suppose. This author is 100 percent right in saying, “they would have just been four more faces in the tide of humanity that has crossed the frontiers of Europe and the West this year.” They are no longer four more faces. They are mine and yours. The tide of humanity just rolled right up to my door in Macon, Georgia. If I recognize this boy, I also recognize this father. I cannot think of much that my husband and I would do differently than this family if we were in such a desperate place. I would tell my story through sobs, too. This Dad, Abdullah Kurdi, says, “The first [son] died and I left him so I could help the other, then the second died, so I left him...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Aug 28, 2015 | Prayers |
I had everything set for this week, the planner was decked out. I was ready to make things happen and get things done. Lord, maybe I am not the maker of things? Monday launched, and we soared through the lists, zipped fast through the errands, put all the things on all the shelves where they belong. We went to sleep, all folded and laid out for the next day. Lord, thank you for days that feel complete. The next day was beautiful. And the next. But the week did not get things done, these things I had planned. The minutes scattered away, completely ignoring the corrals I had set for them. Lord, somewhere we lost steam. The tasks matter, at least to me. And to the running of our tiny world. The tasks are not everything, but they are something. I never liked leaving blanks on a test, when I could get extra points for showing my work. Lord, I confess that I grade myself a C+ for a question that is not even on the final. The wise ones say, don’t worry about it. The kind ones say, you did the things that matter. The shiny ones say, pin this and make it happen. Lord, I hear your voice say you know me. You smile and whisper: worry and doing and shining are the things that make you just you. That is me. That is me with lists in hand and three new ideas. That is me stopping, listening, playing “I spy” and being interrupted by my loves. That is the me who is becoming. Tired but excited,...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Jul 10, 2015 | Reflections |
A few months ago, I was given the gift of fourteen new friends. They shared their stories and we took the stage together. Listen to Your Mother is a show of stories about motherhood. Honest, confessional, hilarious, heartbreaking moments, collected into one show. I keep going back to these stories. When I hear of a friend who is in the middle of a MOMENT, I keep going back to these stories and wanting to take my friends along, too. I tell them about these stories. I want them to hear Kayla Aimee make us laugh about #motherhood or hear Kristyn’s honest laments and questions. I want them to hear the strength in Raivon’s healing, the confessions in Renee’s experience and the truth Nikki tells us about how motherhood is an adventure. Each and every one of these voices offers us something so beautiful. So, now you can hear their stories. And mine. When we took the stage back in April, I said this: “From the first table read with these ladies, I knew there was something special happening when we listened, heard and made space for these stories. It took me until this morning to realize why it struck a chord in my soul. This story sharing and giving words to experience has resonated so deeply with me. And I realized. We have a word for this in the Christian tradition: This is called witness. Witness is a spiritual practice, one in which you tell what you have experienced and how it has shaped your life. You tell what you have seen. One person gives voice to what has...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Jun 23, 2015 | Reflections |
I had no idea what to say. Somewhere between realizing I had to lead Sunday school and looking over what I had planned to teach, I was gripped by the fact that I had no words. What exactly do you say on the day when bells would ring across the nation to mark nine lives lost? What words can you offer to speak lament, peace, sorrow and hope, all while you share donuts and bacon? I knew there was no way to not speak about these things. I knew pastors in many, many places were tasked with just that. My beloved, my pastor, was wrestling early that morning about how to make the words match the moment. Silence, bells ringing, pulpits draped, hands held. Somehow on Sunday, we got there. The plans I had for Sunday school shifted from one story to another. I began by telling the group, “Our movie series will be part of what we do today, but it would be less than faithful to gather around tables for Bible study and not make space for people who lost their lives doing the same thing just days ago. So, this lesson will probably be the green light at the intersection, but I imagine we will end up on another road.” We did. The words I coudn’t find didn’t matter. I offered the story that had gripped me all week: my memories of serving at Big Bethel AME Church in Atlanta. I told about the Wednesday night Bible studies with those faithful folks, their gracious welcome and radical hospitality, they way they welcomed me, the hymns we...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Jun 5, 2015 | Wonder |
The “mom” in me was already excited about this day. A playdate in the park, friends, picnic lunch, fun for the littles that did not require my own Pinterest research, and enough outside play to promise a nap. What’s not to love? The “people person” in me was excited about adult conversation, even if it was interrupted by the occasional “hands to yourself” and “use your nice words” every few minutes. Mostly, the “wondering” in me could not wait to see the owls. I had heard about these owls all week, since they were sculpted by a local artist. There was a massive tree in the middle of the park that needed to be removed. Instead, its trunk became art. A one hundred year old cedar tree that had decayed and been cut to the stump was transformed into an amazing piece of art. Chris Lantz is an artist who uses a chainsaw – a CHAINSAW – to carve and scupt things into beautiful works of art. I’m just going to leave that there for a minute, for you, my preacher-teacher-thinker-artist friends . . . Old tree. Dying. Rather than being removed, it was transformed by an artist with an eye for what could be. Yep. Go right on ahead with your imagery, dreamer friends. It’s all there. Rich history, renewal, artistry, rebirth, wisdom, hope. All of that. And it is the coolest piece of art my child has ever played on. After we marched through the park, our fearless leader Carol had mystified the children with a challenge: “Let’s see if we can find something that used to...
