Review: I am Hutterite

Born from Anabaptist sentiments in the early 1500s, the Hutterites were followers of Jakob Hutter. Similar to Mennonites and Amish, Hutterites differed in their belief that they should share all their goods communally--and they still do. During the early 20th century, Hutterites, who had fled east to Russia over the years, began immigrating to the U.S. and Canada, where more than 400 Hutterite communities exist today. Hutterites have no particular aversion to modern tools and equipment, but they are still, in terms of dress, custom, language, and their self-sustaining communal lifestyle, very much a peek into the past.

I Am Hutterite, by Mary Ann Kirby, is the story of one 20th century family that came to believe they could no longer stay in the community. If you assume the author's goal is to expose and condemn the isolated and sometimes narrow minded ways of the Hutterites, you will be surprised. Instead, Mary Ann Kirby clearly loves and appreciates the best aspects of Hutterite society while simultaneously understanding she cannot go back.

When her family left the community, Kirby struggled, as anyone would, to transition from a fully communal lifestyle to one where she and her immediate family were on their own. She paints an almost idyllic picture of the Hutterite community from a child's perspective. It's a place of plenty and safety. It's a place where she has a plethora of "aunts" and "uncles" to care for her. It's a place where she can run and play in carefree innocence with friends. It's also a place where everyone contributes in some way to the common good. Even a boy who is mentally handicapped has a job that makes a real and meaningful contribution to the community.

Kirby also writes, though, as an adult who has come to understand and appreciate the reasons for her parent's choice to leave--even though the consequences rendered painful results for many years. They went from a place where they had no money at all, yet they wanted for nothing, to a place where they wanted for everything and needed money. They immediately lost every support system and human network they had ever known. They left a place where they fit in and moved to a place where they were completely odd. The contrast could not have been more stark or shocking.

While Kirby and her family suffered from the choices of others and sometimes of their own, Kirby found a way to glean the best from her past and lay the ghosts to rest. I Am Hutterite is a fascinating read that is ultimately about faith, human nature, cultural differences, and a willingness to allow grace to bring your heart safely through them all.

What Difference Do It Make?

What difference do it make? - Stories of Hope and Healing by Ron Hall

If you have not read Same Kind of Different as Me, the predecessor to this book, you can still enjoy this follow-up that continues the story of the unlikely friendship between millionaire art dealer Ron Hall and sharecropper-turned-homeless man, Denver Moore. This book details how their continuing journey and friendship have taken them to some very surprising places indeed--including a luncheon with at the White House! While that vignette itself leaves the reader feeling as stunned as they must have been, even more remarkable is the impact that Denver and Ron's story has made on readers across the nation.

This book is as much about the readers as the writers. It seems there was a similar reaction among those, nationwide, who read of Ron and his wife, Deborah, and their journey to "the other side of the tracks," where they volunteered to work with a homeless ministry in Houston. Ron and Deborah thought they were coming to help others, but they learned, as so many of us do, that the grace and presence of God is found in the strangest and most unlikely places, and that there are lessons to be learned from the most unlikely teachers.

Clearly, Denver Moore has been a teacher to Ron Hall. At the same time, Hall becomes our teacher through his willingness to expose his initial disgust, disdain, and pre-judgments for those he came to "assist." His honesty provides just enough of a nudge to make the reader question,"Would I be any different?" For most of us, the answer is--probably not.

Hall goes further, though, to reveal how much more work he had to do, even once he had dropped his prejudices and learned to love the homeless without condition. Over time he realized that he freely offered them something that he had withheld from his own father for many, many years. In a surprising twist, Ron learns that loving homeless strangers can sometimes be easier than loving members of our own family, but his continued lessons in love are poignant, sometimes hilarious, and unforgettable.

Hall's startling honesty and Moore's simple humility and wisdom permeate the pages of this book. Along the way, we hear the stories of other readers whose lives were changed and moved to action after reading the first book: a young girl who opens a lemonade stand to raise money for the homeless; a marriage restored; an entire church challenged to "go out," and much more.

Books are a dime a dozen these days, but the wisdom in this book and its predecessor make these two worth their weight in gold. There are lessons for a lifetime here; perhaps the most important from Denver, who reminds us, "You never know whose eyes God is watching you through."

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My First White Friend

Friendships that transcend color and culture barriers have always fascinated me, so when I first heard the title of Patsy Raybon's book, My First White Friend, I knew it was a reading list priority. Normally, I would go into the book itself here, but my personal interest in the book will explain much of my reaction to it.

My parents, Alabama born and bred, were careful to raise my sister and me with the belief that we were no better and no worse than anyone else. They taught us to respect people of all colors and to appreciate differences.

When I was 18, I worked with an international mission organization in Amsterdam. I was smitten with cross-cultural life. I thrived on the discovery of living and eating like the locals, enjoying their traditions, customs, and quirky sayings. In turn, I learned to appreciate the quirks and eccentricities of my own culture and language in the process.

The fun of cross-cultural and interracial friendships is in the exchange. Once you get past all the little nuances, though, you realize that we're all just people. The rest is secondary. Fun. Intriguing, Fascinating. Sometimes frustrating. But always secondary.

But when it comes to African American culture, I learned over the years just how hard it is to reach across the fence and find someone willing to reach back. I learned, in fact, that this fence isn't so much about language or culture. Rather, this is a well-fortified wall of mistrust, hurt, and anger over any number of insults that African Americans have suffered. I also sense that there is, within the African American community, some sort of active teaching that goes something like this: "Be polite. Be kind. But don't trust."

My black friends (the few brave enough to reach back across the fence--all gold to me) taught me, through their stories, what racism looks like on a very personal level, and that's what Raybon's book does as well. I have heard stories like hers before from friends, colleagues and even students. It always shocks me. I know racist behavior happens, but because I am eager to transcend barriers, I'm still surprised that some are not. It's a shame. They miss so much.

Eddie Huff was the first black friend who reached across that fence to me. Actually, he jokes that I was his first teenage daughter. I lived with Eddie and his wife Vickie, a petite white woman, while serving with the mission I mentioned earlier. Vickie was a little nervous when I first moved in. Here I was, this young white girl from Tennessee that the mission had placed in their home. (Ironically, my roommate, yet to arrive, was a white woman from South Africa!) Eddie wasn't home when I arrived, suitcases in hand. Vickie helped me move in.

Suddenly, she stopped and said, "There's something I need to tell you about my husband." (All kinds of scenarios raced through my head. He's a paraplegic. He's deaf. He's a paranoid schizophrenic!) After a beat or two, Vickie smiled sweetly and said, "He's black."

I laughed outloud. "Is that all? Geez, you scared me to death." I was thrilled! Growing up in the South in the 70s was a long, long way from Bull Conner's Alabama, but there still wasn't a whole lot of interracial friendships in my schools. So this was my first chance to have a real black friend. Even better, I was part of their family. They had two small children--Talitha, who was 4 and Eli, who was about 3. I became the big sister, and I listened and learned.

I learned that though Eddie's mother was a white German, he was black as could be, and the hardships he faced had nothing to do with his white mother and everything to do with his color. He experienced many of the same snubs and insults that so many others have experienced. Yet, maybe because he had lived part of his life in Germany, maybe because his mother was white, maybe because he actually spoke another language for the first few years of his life--maybe all of that together made him willing and able to reach across that fence to befriend anyone willing to reach back. I'm grateful for that.

Racial relationships have come a long way, but each time an African American is ill treated, it reinforces that mantra: Be polite. Be kind. Don't trust. And sometimes the walls go higher.

Raybon's book provides deeper insight into what it feels like to walk around in black skin. I once had a dear Guatemalan friend tell me that she had experienced racist behavior from some of my colleagues.

"Really? I don't see it," I was genuinely surprised.

"Why would you?" she reminded me, "You're white."

Indeed. I had missed that very obvious fact. The world looks and responds to me differently simply because I am white. Oh sure, I've had my own share of insults for other reasons, but Raybon's book provides just a taste of what it means to live within dark skin and be targeted for no other reason, and this is a valuable perspective for white readers.

But Raybon's book is ultimately about forgiveness--which transcends all colors. Someone once said that unforgiveness is the poison we drink, hoping our enemy will die. Despite the ways she was treated, Raybon realized that if she did not forgive, she could never be whole. She began to see that her life was false and reactionary. A life all about proving herself to be worthy--no, even better--than those on the other side of the fence. After all, hadn't her anger produced "good" things like career success, achievement, and recognition?

Remarkably, she finally named her behavior for what it was: bitter spite. And she courageously concluded that it provided a poor platform for an identity. She challenges us all with her willingness to do the hard work of rebuilding her identity on something far more profound--the grace of God. As a Christian, Raybon realized that the "love thy neighbor" bit included white people. Still, the reader feels the struggle and weight of the truth that Raybon slowly discovered: The journey of forgiveness is costly and lasts a lifetime.

One irony and sadness to me in this book was that the "white friend" in the title is barely a blip on the radar. I thought I would be reading a story about a wonderful journey of discovery and love between this writer and her white friend. Instead, the book is about Raybon's growing awareness of her need to forgive and let go so that such a friendship could even be possible. I admit it: I was really disappointed, but in fairness to Raybon's very personal journey, I left the book knowing that as she embraced mercy, God would give her new friends of all shapes, colors and backgrounds. (Her latest book, I Told the Mountain to Move, does indeed reveal beautiful and moving glimpses of how colorful her world has become.)

I'm not sure who Raybon had in mind for her reading audience: People of color? White people? I'm not sure it matters. There are nuggets of wisdom here for anyone, and her considerable writing skills--powerful, rhythmic, lyrical, filled with a rich voice--make the reading a pleasure. We all have our biases, whether against another race, or another culture, or even another socio-economic group. The lessons of forgiveness cannot be taught enough, and Raybon's willingness to reveal her honest struggles to forgive provide encouragement to us all that we can do the same.