So much of the language we have around activism is militaristic, but if our struggle is going to last, it must center the relational ties that have sustained our communities from the very beginning.

Memories. Voices. Accusations. Family traumas tailed my life, casting shadows of pain and shame. I felt it when my mom raged. I felt it in her gaze of melancholy.

I once asked my mom, “Why is it that so many of the models in Malaysian advertisements are white or Eurasian?” “It’s the colonial mindset,” she replied.

I always feel like I am translating the latest leadership advice to make it useful. I rarely identify with the opportunities or challenges that these leaders discuss at length.

I’m a freshman church planter. But New Abbey, our small congregation, is not your typical church plant. Every Sunday, we follow a liturgy: We read texts from a lectionary, corporately confess our sins, hear words of assurance, recite the Apostles’ Creed, partake in communion (which has a formalized order), and pass the peace.

I will never forget the day I was crying in a little room next to the English chapel, holding my newborn baby as my husband was preaching on the stage.

MY BROTHER DIDN'T REALIZE Mom had died until her funeral. The relatives still say that it was better for him not to experience that final moment when she died of Stage IV pancreatic cancer. Who knows if they were right.

IT HAPPENED at the end of recess, after the bell had rung and all the other junior high kids had gone inside. My beefy, mop-topped classmate hurled basketballs at my chest while his friend held my arms back so that I couldn't protect my body. "Chink!" Neil yelled angrily.

I AM A 29-YEAR-OLD KOREAN FEMALE ALONG SEEKING A PASTORAL POSITION, PREFERABLY AT A SEMI-CHARISMATIC CHURCH WITH A FOCUS ON SOCIAL INJUSTICE AND DISCIPLESHIP. I should mention — I don't have an M.Div degree.

WE HAD BEEN MESSAGING back and forth for a week before Daniel repurposes a popular and cheesy song lyric to ask if I would be interested in grabbing coffee.

Our Father who stays in Heaven; Hallowed be thy forgotten name; Thy kingdom coming; Yet thy will distorted on earth as it reaches for Heaven.

SHORTLY AFTER the 2012 presidential elections, I discussed via email the role of evangelical faith in American politics with a few older people from my church. Those of us involved in the email thread were not out to advertise our own political agendas, nor did we see eye to eye with one another.

IT WAS RAE and Benson’s last premarital counseling session, a week before their wedding.

A FEW MONTHS after my divorce, I was able to enjoy the musical “Wicked” in Los Angeles. During the climax of the story, Elphaba and Glinda reflect on their complicated relationship by singing “For Good”, a farewell duet in which they earnestly

“Not all Asians came to America in search of milk and honey. My family came here because we had to.” Too often when we consider immigration patterns to America, the narrative painted is a search for better economic opportunities, the pursuit of an American Dream laden with success and the promises of a better life