Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

“If he meets with us, he’ll vote yes.” S said this with such confidence I almost believed her. She was talking about the “freedom to marry” bill that would legalize marriage for same sex couples in Minnesota if it passed—and about our state representative, a conservative Democrat whom we’d met at the county convention when we were delegates. S had raised her hand and asked the candidates what they were going to do about animal cruelty. This legislator spoke eloquently about his wife’s role on the board of the local Humane Society, and how he had passed a law in the small town where he had served as mayor limiting the number of pets any single family could have. To say that my animal-loving daughter fell in love with him after he gave that answer may be a bit of a stretch—but when he won the election, she approached his wife and said, “I have a campaign slogan for you and your husband. We could make dog clothing that says, “Pet owners vote for M!” His wife awkwardly shook S’s hand...

S and I have had quite the adventure. In the last month, we've encountered two people, both with small children, leaving or considering leaving abusive relationships who needed places to stay during the discernment phase (neither of whom we could help, besides offering a space to listen). We've temporarily housed a friend who was grief-stricken after the loss of her sister. We've temporarily cared for two little girls from our church who are in a most difficult situation on two weekends. And, we've figured out a way to ensure that a trans friend whose health fell apart partly due to his hormone dosages was able to make rent rather than losing his home (thanks to the help of many generous friends with more financial resources than we have). Clearly, God is trying to tell us something. These incidents--and others like them, like the time we had a new mother and her infant living on our couch, or the time a friend struggling with an eating disorder showed up night after ...

When we visited Detroit when I was a kid, my mother was totally in her element, practically glowing with laughter, and my father was less angry and frustrated, both of them full of talk of the complicated politics of the 70s and early 80s mixed with memories from the old days. The grown-ups gathered around a long table beneath a thick cloud of smoke and spoke in rapidfire Greek or slow English with long vowels and harsh, sputtering consonants. There would be an endless parade of mousaka and baklava, kourambiethes, retsina, and strong Greek coffee. We would be allowed to stay up late and dance with the teenagers and adults to music blaring from a spinning record player or small stereo, depending on the year. The next morning, my sister and I, the youngest of the Manolis’ in those days, would play on the sidewalk beneath a giant maple whose seeds looked like Ikaros’ wings. We knew the story of Ikaros well. Our family was from Ikaria, the island named for the winged boy who collapsed in...

Over the summer, T, S and I went on a family retreat to a Catholic convent in a city about two hours away. Since my mid-20s, I've taken a personal retreat nearly every year, but this experience was different, both because we were all together, and also because we went to a Benedictine convent, with an emphasis on hospitality. In other words, as opposed to the convent where I've often retreated in the Twin Cities, or the Methodist retreat apartment I've sometimes used in the middle of the woods, we weren't left alone. We were invited each day to attend the services, and we had a host who took us to lunch and supper, where we made small talk with the nuns. I loved the services of the hours. I have always tried to remember to pray at the hours as they are celebrated in the Orthodox Church--7 a.m., noon, 3 p.m., 7 p.m., midnight--but I don't always manage to remember, nor is it always possible for me to pause. But I have for years said the Orthodox morning prayers eve...

I grew up in a tradition that valued sacred spaces. There are small chapels scattered all over Greece; there are proper rituals in the Greek Orthodox tradition for entering a church, and leaving. I have always been drawn to sacred spaces--since my mid-20s, I've taken retreats at least once a year and chosen places where I could sit or walk in spaces that were set aside as sacred. And, I've always tried to create sacred spaces in my home--but as the house gets more and more crowded and life more and more hectic, it's difficult to keep these spaces set apart (not to mention clean and uncluttered). I have an image of the last supper over our kitchen table--but it is often piled high with random belongings, and we rarely eat on it, opting instead for the larger table in the main room of the house (also sometimes piled with junk, but easier to clear). I have an icon of each of our patron saints, and Mary and Jesus, in our sitting room, but I have to admit I don't always reme...

In January 2010, my daughter and I left my father’s apartment for the last time in his 1994 Buick Century. We had packed boxes of his belongings into the trunk and the back seat, as well as a gold box that contained photos of each of the flower arrangements that had been delivered to the funeral home, as well as copies of the program at his funeral, his obituary, and his death certificate. By the time we arrived, we had been away from Minnesota for several weeks on a study abroad trip to the island where my father was born. He died on our way back to the states. Although I can recount many details of the days following our arrival in Ohio, I don’t remember returning home. I remember only that my supervisor called me the next day to check in and see when I was coming back to work, and I told her I would be back in on Monday. Monday came, and our lives went on as usual; I reviewed the notes the substitute had prepared for me and went on teaching my class; I rescheduled all the servi...