Beth Bruno's Blog, page 3

Why You Should See "Queen of Katwe"

Disney's Queen of Katwe opened in theaters on Friday and is a huge departure from the studio's typical films. Based on a true story, it is nothing short of stunning. I took my 10-year old daughter and her first request upon leaving was, "Can we own this one?" Here are 5 reasons this is worth watching:

1. Phiona, the protagonist, is an uneducated girl from the slums of Kampala, Uganda who discovers a talent and a passion embedded within. She is relatable enough to American girls (she argues with her mom) and yet different enough to stretch their familiarity. She is Ugandan! How rarely are we given a heroine from another country whose accent is even difficult to understand at times!

2. This is a story about Uganda: it's economic disparity, it's poverty, it's struggles and it's joy. There are no white people! It is filmed in country. And it does not shy away from the brutal reality of Phiona's life. In a way that is entirely age appropriate, viewers face the fear that Phiona's only future may involve being taken by a man.

3. It is pro-marriage. Phiona's chess coach is a loving, caring mentor as well as husband and father. His wife financially supports their household so he can work with the slum kids. Their relationship is a healthy example of marriage both for the chess club as well as the viewing audience.

4. There are strong female leads without debasing the male characters. Phiona's mother is a richly complex character. In her we see the fight to survive and provide for her children mixed with realism and cynicism. As we watch Phiona develop and change, we see similar growth mirrored in her mother. Theirs is a beautiful, loving relationship.

5. It is simply inspiring! You will find yourself cheering for a chess game and simultaneously crying and laughing with all the kids. They are delightful. (And for those of you with an intolerance to pain, it has a happy ending!)

Get thee to the movies!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4l3-_yub5A

When Memories Remain Undigested

I know the panic which rises, gripping and pulsating, when a certain number flickers on the phone. I am a well-seasoned avoider as my heart races and I wait for voicemail, confident I am in trouble. I stall. Do laundry. Later, I listen.

The same anxiety wakes me on days I meet with her. Well before the sun rises, my stomach begins its tumult, flooded with adrenaline, fueled by an incoherent fear. Because no matter the voicemail, no matter the meeting’s topic, I am never in trouble. Ever. She thinks the world of me, yet evokes such a visceral response I grow ill.

I endure this crazy for years while wondering its source; Until I begin preparing for a trip back to a time and place when another woman triggered similar panic. Suddenly, finally, I realize how alike they are. The firm, set way in which they share opinions. The sweet salty manner of disagreeing with me. The method of inviting participation while maintaining control. And with the former woman, the one whom I would vividly recall on my trip down memory lane, I was always in trouble.

My recent panic has nothing to do with the present day person, but everything to do with the one from before.

I wonder how many of us struggle with these current triggers unaware of their source? The marital fights over seemingly benign things: he gets uncharacteristically angry when the fridge is empty because deep down are unprocessed emotions from his childhood home, with its little food and arguments over money and diminished father. Her blood rises on the playground and with every emotional recounting of the day from her five-year-old, not remembering, but feeling, all the playgrounds and lunchrooms in all the new schools she entered as a child.

I'm over at The Mudroom Blog today, sharing a space with fellow women as we process memories and triggers this month. Please head over to finish reading.

Exploring Shame and Grace for Men who Buy Sex

I am honored to be a new regular contributor for Red Tent Living, a space for reframing femininity alongside some pretty amazing women. I'll be offering thoughts and perspective on sex trafficking, such as this article. I do hope you'll finish reading over at the site.
*****

Nine mug shots appeared in our local paper’s headline story this week. Nine men ranging in age and ethnicity, economic status and background. Despite their differences, they share both the cause and effect of their public exposure: shame.

Shame descended upon them the moment the paper hit the press. Employers and wives and neighbors judged and banished.

Shame had already met them in the station, at their booking, when the flash snapped, immortalizing their actions. Fingerprints and charges enlisted them as law breakers.

Shame was present at their side earlier, when they scrolled the ads, chose flesh and sacrificed money and time to possess it. Loneliness and selfishness and whatever else commercializes sex consumed them.

But shame’s origin in their lives was long long before. Shame’s birthplace is rarely in a newspaper.

Continue reading here.

What I'm most afraid of writing

 

A few weeks ago I retracted an entire article I had written about race. While it was authentic, raw, it felt naive and simplistic. I decided the world didn't need those words right now. And I needed more experience. I do not regret my decision. As writers, there are words best kept to ourselves.
But let's be honest, any and all words have the potential to be misread.

I just took a tough email conversation to the phone because I feared we were both totally misreading each other. We were and it was a different set of words when we could hear tone, sorrow, and humor. Sometimes our words are too one-dimensional. They need texture that a screen or page cannot offer.

I have been putting many words to paper this last year and have started sharing with certain people. To be frank, I'm a little sick of my own verbage as I find myself quoting entire thoughts, sentences, and paragraphs in normal conversation. Out of my mouth, they do not just hang in mid-air. They are received and reacted to and gain substance in the process. Suddenly, misreading or disagreeing become live experience. We are dialoguing and it is adding texture to my writing.

It is also freaking me out.

The more women I talk to about their parenting, their relationship with their kid, or their own story, the more I fear writing words that are naive and simplistic. Does the world need these words? My list of what to cover, who to address, and caveats worth mentioning grows by the day. Who will I offend? Who will assume I can't relate? Who will feel this message is not for her?

Who do I think I am?

Aw, Emily Freeman. I return to her book, A Million Little Ways, frequently. Her words remind me:

When you finally show up, you will hear this question whisper dark words into your soul. When you are on the verge of discovery, on the edge of risk, when you're ready to take the next step toward influence- this question will come out of nowhere, asking who do you think you are?

Pay attention to what you're doing when you hear it. I bet you one million dollars you aren't watching TV. We have an enemy who wouldn't bother to threaten you if you weren't dangerous. So the question who do you think you are? only comes on the cusp of risk.

When have I heard those "foul six words" creep into my soul? When I'm with women. Talking about our journeys, wrestling with parenting. Wondering about obstacles to intentionality. Considering alternative ideas. All conversations aimed at fully offering themselves and calling their children to do the same. I've heard those words when I've been on the edge of risk.

My greatest fear should not be writing words that might offend. My greatest fear should be not writing words.

What about you? When do you hear those words most? Be encouraged today that you are worth threatening. You are dangerous!

 

When Broken Bones Resurrect a Heart

Summer began full of glory.
I planted colorful annuals. Strung the bistro lights. Dusted off the swim towels.

Our first guest brought chilled wine and we enjoyed grilled chicken on the deck.

Work slowed. Our newly turned 16-year old drove himself to his job. The 10-year old walked to the pool alone. The new teen was babysitting.

It was the first week and all seemed divine.

Cue record scratching (the new teen argues the sound should be that of a pristine stained glass window crashing to the marble floor of a European cathedral). She should get to decide. After all, it’s her story.

On the last day of the first week, she played wildly with her babysitting charges, jumped high on the trampoline, splashed in the hose strung from above, and landed in all the wrong ways. Ten hours later, after x-rays, cat scans, morphine, surgery, and anesthesia, she left the ER with several screws, plates, and a cast the size of a ski boot.

Summer abruptly ended.

I left the hospital numb, but the emotions were not far behind. On day one, I snuck away to cry. Big fat tears streaming down my face for all the losses: her favorite camp, her first job, the 5 days my husband and I planned for ourselves. I also ate: big handfuls of chips and lots of bites of all the sweets family had brought.

On day two, I cleaned. Like a mad woman, I decided to empty our closet of old clothes and file cabinets of graduate papers from 8 years ago.

On day three, I realized I was feeling everything with far more intensity than my daughter. I wondered, perhaps the gravity of it all hasn’t set in. Maybe the deluge of grief will come soon. Yet she seemed happy, chipper.

We drove to the medical supply store to rent a wheelchair and I asked her, what’s going on? Why do you seem so at peace? Why do I seem sadder than you? Teach me.

And she did. My 13-year old injured child had found goodness in the hurt: she felt loved by all the calls, texts, gifts, and visits. Because of her pain, she felt embraced.

My new teen had a long approach to life: there will be more summers, more camp weeks and more opportunities. Life has not ended, though her previously planned summer had.

And this child who self-admittedly lacked gratitude, lay in bed thanking God. Thanking him that it was not her head. Thanking him that it was not the kids she babysat. Thanking him that she would heal and be well again. She had found the gift in the wound. In 3 days.

And so on day 3, I resurrected.

I decided to come out of the grave of grief and join my daughter in the land of the gospel, where hope reigns and the messy beautiful lives.

If my daughter could choose to see goodness despite her discomfort, dependence on help, and overwhelming loss, then who was I to remain melancholy and mopey? If her eyes were set on gratitude, how could I not join her?

Did it dismiss the pain? Did it remove the grief? Of course not. But it aligned our eyes to the one who offers comfort: to see the gift, and gaze upon the giver.

My daughter broke her leg and then she showed me the gospel.