In our business world that often pits women against each other, a woman’s past is a locked vault, and letting other women in feels like surrender.  However, we have achieved one thing that many have said is impossible. There is an indisputable alliance of devotion and respect among the employees at My Cup of Tea.  

 Our internal workforce, and the cohesive bond that maintains it, has been reverently pieced together like a rich mosaic of fragile tiles. Résumés of work experience are not required because living in Orange Mound is the only condition necessary for a woman to apply for work at My Cup of Tea.  Invariably, each fresh applicant arrives for consideration “emotionally buttoned up” and disinclined to share her past, her present, her pain, and much less her privacy. She keeps that information classified.

There is a generational mandate familiar to each. It is a legacy of silence passed from mother to daughter: guard your private life. Privacy neglected opens wounds for infection!  Pride is the bandage that belies the need for attention. “Nothing to see here,” she lies. “I’m fine."

Connection takes courage. At The House in Orange Mound, the superficial film of pride must be gingerly wiped away, just as dust is cleared from a neglected masterpiece. Transparency is tentative, and prayer is awkward at first.  But in time, we carefully uncover the intricate beauty of each woman through friendship, prayer, and service.  Cracks in our mosaic are common daily, but the patina never dulls. Answers to prayers for help are in our daily conversations.  We experience the joys of small victories in the inevitable challenges that are amplified in poverty.  Vulnerability is a virtue here.

Housing needs, transportation, costly utilities, childcare, debt, and healthcare are always on our prayer list.  But a new need has become a significant bother. Two of the veteran ladies are approaching retirement.

                Since a busy holiday shopping season is upon us, I have asked the Lord to send us three women to whom we can offer work, hope, and stability. I requested young ones who can scale our stairs and stock our shelves. My prayer included women eager to build our brand and our mission. I appealed quite vehemently to bring them quickly so we can teach them about tea and our purpose, and assign them work duties as December won’t wait.

 My prayer was on “rinse and repeat.”  Several weeks ago, the Lord gave me further instructions. Details commenced in a homily on Luke 5:1-11, offered by Dr. Carlos Campo, CEO of the Museum of the Bible.  I identified with Peter, who was exhausted and defeated after a whole night of fishing and empty nets. His market depended on a fresh catch. “They have changed their feeding patterns and moved to the shallows,” Peter perhaps thought.

Dr. Campo emphasized the Lord’s words: “Throw your net into deeper waters.”

Peter’s reply to Jesus’s suggestion to fish in deeper waters would be like mine.  He said, “I fished all night.”

 I would say, “I’ve looked for days; perhaps it’s the down cycle of the economy, or they have moved to Binghampton”.

 “Put your nets into deeper waters”.

Peter obeyed and went into deep waters.

I obeyed and commissioned a gossamer web of prayer, which unfurled into uncharted and shadowed spaces in Orange Mound. In floated three new women. 

Though healthy, eager, and young, all three are unmistakably “fish out of water.” The Lord fully answered my prayer and brought them to our shore at the corner of Semmes and Carnes.

                 All are interns now, and were recently onboarded, uniformed, and welcomed into our circle of trust. One has felony charges, a history of drug addiction, and has lived on the streets for most of the past fifteen years.  She is brilliant and enthusiastic. The other has been accused of armed robbery in nine separate events and is on probation for six years and reports to her parole officer weekly.  She is humble, grateful, and eager to please. The third is artistic, a college graduate, and adheres to a non-Christian faith tradition. 

These young ladies are the latest “catch.” We cast into deeper waters to discover exactly whom Jesus had drawn to expand our mosaic. They will enrich it with jewel-like tones while we offer a safe, welcoming, secure sanctuary for fellowship, work, and faith. They will become part of the mosaic of broken tiles the Master has designed from eternity past at 3028 Carnes. All we do in The House transcends the sum of its parts, including a solid salary and a spot of esteemed tea.

As we near the Thanksgiving holiday, it is customary for writers and editors of publications and blogs like this one to draft missives about gratitude, blessings, family, and the like. No doubt, we have much to be grateful for at My Cup of Tea, as an organization and individually. However, despite the focus inherent in the name of the holiday, there is more to Thanksgiving than meets the eye.

President Abraham Lincoln designated Thanksgiving as a national holiday in 1863 at the height of the Civil War. The recognition of the holiday on a national basis was the culmination of a seventeen-year effort by writer Sarah Josepha Hale, who wrote multiple presidents about the day only celebrated between October and January in New England states.

Lincoln was known for writing most of his speeches and proclamations, but for one reason or another, Secretary of State William Seward drafted the language of the Thanksgiving Day proclamation. Seward acknowledged the “blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies.” He gave praise to the “ever watchful providence of Almighty God.”

Seward then turned to the war and the victories in battle, the peace maintained with other nations, and the expansion of the territory of the United States. He thanked God for the economy and that in spite (or because of) the war, citizens of varying vocations had work to do.

Lincoln/Seward then said:

“No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.”

The proclamation could have ended there with a call to celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November every year. However, whether at Lincoln’s urging or Seward’s own conscience, the proclamation continues with:

“…commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners, or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged…”

Of course, the reference, which is made clear in subsequent lines, is to the Civil War and the vast loss of life that was occurring. Yet, the petition to God for the marginalized is just as relevant today.

Memphis has the second-highest poverty rate and the highest child poverty rate in the nation. While there have been seven straight quarters of decline, crime in our community, especially violent crime, is still a heavy burden on the poor and racial minorities. In 2024, the 38114 zip code, which covers most of Orange Mound, was tied for the most homicides.

We have reported to you before that the ladies of My Cup of Tea are not unscathed by this epidemic. Some have lost children and grandchildren to violence and drugs, and everyone knows someone who has died from gunfire.

We have shared about the pervasiveness of domestic violence, the crisis of affordable housing, and the many in our community who are unhoused or struggling with mental illness.

These are not only the problems of Memphis, but of every city in America.

To be clear, the point of Lincoln including prayers for those affected by the war in the proclamation was not about guilt or ruining a good time—neither is our recounting the struggles so many face in our community. Instead, Lincoln was calling for compassion and obedience to the Scripture when it calls on us to care for the poor, the widow, and the orphan.

As you sit down with family or friends this Thanksgiving, most certainly offer up prayers and supplications for all that God has done in your life. Celebrate good news, remember good times with those who are not there, and create new memories. Whether with your loved ones or alone during this holiday weekend, we encourage you to take a few minutes to pray for the poor, the widow, the orphan, and the suffering. As Lincoln said:

“…fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation…”

We are grateful for each one of you and wish you and those you love the happiest of Thanksgivings.

            This week, God, by His providence, brought me into a place most people have purposed to avoid.  I sat among a family whose loved one had been killed by her boyfriend, the father of their three children.  It happened in June of 2023.

Though strangers, we became united in our resolve to see justice.   We met, wept, and prayed on the sixth floor in Courtroom Five at the Walter L. Bailey Criminal Justice Center, better known as the Shelby County Jail at 201 Poplar.

I am reminded by Oswald Chambers in his devotional, My Utmost for His Highest,

“All your circumstances are in the hands of God, and therefore, you don’t ever have to think they are unnatural or unique.  God brings you to places, among people, and into certain conditions to accomplish a definite purpose”.

My purpose? I was a participant in the trial this week because My Cup of Tea’s cameras captured ninety-five percent of the deadly deed. The murder scene was in clear view next door.  I was at The House when the guns reported 6 shots. I met the investigators and nine of the Memphis Police Department officers that day. We served all of them tea as the crime tape was strewn on our neighbors’ front yard among the crowd of curious.

Until this week, I knew nothing of the victim, the perpetrator, their connection to each other or the depth of character of her devoted family.  I had never met the two district attorneys, nor the presiding judge for the trial.  They absorbed my time and my thoughts for five long days and sleepless nights. Now, they are embedded in my emotionally charged view of domestic violence. 

The victim had been entangled with her boyfriend for ten years. An unhealthy attachment had formed through the cycle of abuse. Most likely, complex psychological, practical, and social layers cemented her isolation away from support systems, family, and friends who could help.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline reports that an average of 24 people per minute are assaulted physically or sexually or stalked by an intimate partner. That’s 12 million people per year, 4 out of 5 are women. Memphis and Shelby County account for nearly 17,000 of those cases. One in 4 women and 1 in 7 men have been the victim of severe physical violence by an intimate partner. In the 20 cities with the highest incidences of aggravated domestic violence, 29% to 53% of cases go unreported. It is nearly certain that each of us knows someone.

The boyfriend was convicted Friday, and he will spend the rest of his life in jail without parole.  We beg the question, “Why didn’t she just leave?” Tragically, that question places the burden on the victim. A better question is why the abuser chooses to be violent, and what are the barriers that make leaving him so difficult?  I work among women who have the answers to the first question.

 Among the women currently employed at My Cup of Tea, nine are survivors of domestic violence.  The disruptive details of the murder case have profoundly deepened my understanding of how courageous those nine women truly are. I am celebrating their strength and resilience and am even more committed to supporting their progress in healing and empowerment.  Each has stepped away from the endemic dead end of relationships that destroy. Specifically:

·         Acute poverty is often the outcome of women who have lived to change their partnership with violent abusers.

·         Dependence on government assistance becomes necessary and deflating.

·          Fear of losing custody of children because of mental health and depression shrinks her stamina.

·         The stigma and stress of single parenting devalue her reputation among two-parent families.

·          She must ignore the immense cultural pressures to keep the family together.

There are many more.

My preoccupation with offering dignity to our employees has overlooked the dignity they have already achieved by choosing to leave behind the corrosive past and bravely venture into the unknown. It has taken immense courage to turn away from and boldly pray for new possibilities. Each step toward the uncharted providentially brought them to the embrace of My Cup of Tea in Orange Mound. Each is a testament in truth of resilience and hope.

What I once thought we might offer in dignified work and community is far less valued than the safety and protection we command in their behalf.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, help is available. You are not alone. 

•  National Domestic Violence Hotline (US & Canada): 1-800-799-7233  www.thehotline.org
• National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV): www.ncadv.org
• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673 www.rainn.org

In Memphis/Shelby County:

• ·   Crime Victims and Rape Crisis Center        901-222-3950

We are constantly rewarded but rarely challenged by the devoted volunteers who frequent The House.  There is a steady stream of experts and experienced friends, of many trades, who come for lunch and connect pieces of the very challenging one-thousand-piece puzzle of loving neighbors as we love ourselves.

Recently, a favorite friend came for lunch. She visits with enthusiasm rarely experienced within our walls. I have worried more than once that she might not read the room well or perceive the vibe when she arrives.  One day recently, unencumbered and armor-clad, she deftly and ingeniously opened King David’s Psalm 100 while we continued eating. Patiently, she waited until the paper plates were cleared and in Mary Poppins fashion, handed out worksheets and pencils to all.  My expectations for the rest of the hour collapsed while hers prevailed.

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” the psalm begins, and she continued, ignoring the fatigued body language of a few.  She diagramed the salient points of the psalm and made it clear that she would fill the remaining hour.  The energy began to change.

 Our friends in Orange Mound have rarely, if ever, been in a setting such as the one unfolding in our lunchroom.  We obediently filled in the answers on the atypical worksheets she provided. Everyone participated. A seasoned teacher with a positive grasp of the possibilities of her class summons latent skills and sharpens them. No one in the room balked.

 My skepticism shamed me, and my doubts drained away as the hour filled with uncommon hope. Despite that, I countered with certainty, that she was past naïve when she required homework to be completed in two weeks. 

     “Write a psalm and complete it in the tone of King David’s manner.” She continued ignoring the gasps. “Begin with praise, address God personally, extol God’s attributes, thank Him in specific ways for several things, and end again with praise.” She nodded with a smile, “Are there any questions? I’ll be back in two weeks, and we will share each of your original psalms.”  The only thing lacking was two clicks of her heels as she left.

                It’s clunky to dwell on socio-cultural differences. However, the myriad of different life circumstances and varied resources are palpable at 3028 Carnes.  Homework heretofore, though hardly ever suggested, has been lost, stolen, forgotten or eaten by the dog.

This week, she returned as promised. My heart melted with surprise to see that every lady but one had her homework finished and ready.

I have copies of all the psalms that were proudly shared in the room.  The spectrum of their experiences is not my own. I am daily fumbling as I navigate our different social and cultural norms. Though the mosaic of backgrounds and perspectives prevails, we have the same Father. 

Now, it is evident that they have turned their frequently shared sadness of the absence of their earthly fathers into a deeper and abiding trust in our Heavenly One.

One wrote:

“When I think about You, God, all I can say is I am not worthy.”

Another:

“Thank you, Lord, for waking me up, protecting my family while I was away, and answering my prayers for getting me out of that jail cell.” (She was in jail for twenty months at 201 Poplar.)

Still another wrote:

“Thank you, God, for my kids, my job, my mind, my health, my things; but most of all, thank you for being my dad.”

One who has come to us after years on the streets: “Thank you for giving me peace, sobriety from my addiction, and providing me the return to my family.”

There were many more, but one is so well said, and I end with her love of God’s attributes:

“How blessed I am that Your name resides in my mouth. Father, I don’t wish to wonder where I would be without You. Father, You redeemed me from my poor decisions and ungodly choices. I thank you for rescuing me when I was below bottom. You forgave my sins and forgot them as well. Gracious, God, keep me in Your will.”

May that sink in to us all as our cup overflows, we spill the tea, and spread the news of what He is doing at My Cup of Tea in Orange Mound.

Each of our Orange Mound ladies carries a profound story marked by trauma and abuse. These remarkable women have endured unimaginable hardships—too many, they would whisper, to fully remember or desire to articulate.

For them, the act of forgiving is not just a choice; it is an urgent necessity. A Black single mother navigating the harsh realities of poverty must summon extraordinary strength to move forward and reclaim her life. In a world where her voice often goes unheard and her struggles remain unacknowledged, we strive to be advocates, determined to lift them up, validate their experience, and offer resources. Together, we link arms to pursue their redemption and recovery. We have discovered that resilience is remarkably acquired by a wise woman when she is faced with a multitude of injustices.

One of our most resilient employees continues to rise above her past, holding onto her faith that the future will be brighter. At just 12 years old, she was raped by her uncle, and instead of finding support, her mother blamed her, scorned her, and even tried to force a miscarriage.

My friend was assigned all of the cooking and cleaning chores and the daily care of her siblings, yet she maintained her education.  She discovered a talent but was never encouraged to develop a trade. She married, suffered abuse, was abandoned, and divorced. She suffered physically and psychologically, without medical guidance, and bore the scars and wounds of a battered woman. She prevailed.

To borrow the words from a song that is on repeat in my mind: “No matter the wounds, no matter the bruises, no matter the scars, no matter the causes, let me introduce you to amazing grace, for the Cross has made, yes, the Cross has made her flawless."  She refuses to succumb. She rises, resets, and resumes the course.

Her narrative of valor has continued for decades. She honors, nurses, and weeps for her mother, who has dementia. She has nursed, served, prayed with, and buried two brothers without help from any of her other siblings. She starves her own need to complain about her family and fills her afternoons feeding the needy and strangers she passes on her way home.            

 Whenever I am mistakenly lauded for my efforts over the past 14 years to love and encourage the more than 100 women who have worked at My Cup of Tea, I feel not humbled, but embarrassed. These women have shown me the qualities essential for a life filled with faith and peace.  They embody courage, resilience, and a deep capacity for forgiveness towards those who have let them down.  I am the one who has learned the invaluable life skill of unconditional love from them, not the reverse. 

On the heels of the pandemic, we were searching for a way to be more involved with the Orange Mound neighborhood, and at the same time, attract more people to our work and products. The idea that bloomed was to feature the art of a professional Black artist on the front of a limited-edition tea box.

The project would allow us to collaborate with a neighborhood organization, the Orange Mound Arts Council (OMAC). If successful, we would draw attention not only to the chosen artist, but also to the rich cultural history of Orange Mound. And, we would raise the public profile of My Cup of Tea and our products, which allow us to employ women from the community.

Five years later, the “art box,” as we like to call it, is one of our most popular items, an anticipated holiday gift, and a positive source of media coverage for the artist and us. As we prepare to unveil this year’s art, we are reminded that the gift of art, the stimulation of our senses, and the way it makes us feel come from a creative and compassionate God.

In fact, in the very first verse of the Bible, we are told, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Gen. 1:1) One only needs to look to the clear sky in the dark of night or across the horizon at a Memphis sunset to stand in awe of the beauty.

Then, in Exodus 35, we learn of the “craftsmanship” and “artistic designs” to be used with gold, silver, bronze, stone cutting, and wood carving for the tabernacle.

And in I Kings and II Chronicles, we read the accounts of the building of Solomon’s palace and the Temple. We find Solomon requisitioning cherubim, palm trees, and open flowers to be carved of olive wood and overlaid with gold. Inside the temple, there are the sea, lattices, pomegranates, wreaths, oxen, and more cast in bronze.

Not only is God the giver of the tangible art – what we can see, hear, and touch – He is also the one who gives the gift of creativity and artistry.

Also in Exodus 35, we learn that before constructing the tabernacle, God chose and equipped the people who would fashion it.

“…and he has filled him with the Spirit of God, with skill, with intelligence, with knowledge, and with all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs, to work in gold and silver and bronze, in cutting stones for setting, and in carving wood, for work in every skilled craft.”

And James I:17 tells us that “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”

Of course, we know that when it comes to artistic ability, some of us are more gifted than others. We have been blessed over the past four years with the innate and inspiring abilities of Andre Miller, Danny Broadway, Darlene Newman, and Mosal Morszart who envisioned the story of Memphis, Orange Mound, and My Cup of Tea in their own unique ways and transferred them to our tiny tea box canvas. This year, we will experience the giftedness of artist Cheryiah Sunshine.

Cheryiah is the second woman to be chosen for the art box, and she is the youngest artist at only 25 years old. Cheryiah was selected from among the largest number of submissions in the five years of the contest. Unlike the previous winners who work with similar materials, Cheryiah creates with materials as diverse as acrylic paints, block printing ink, mixed media paper, duct tape, Washi tape, and even coffee. We are elated to share her work with you and feature it on our art box.

Finally, this 5^th year of the art box includes our first sponsor, Regions Bank. The generous donation covers the cost of the contest, the artist award, the limited-edition tea, and the printing of the box. In other words, one hundred percent of every box sold will go to the wages of the My Cup of Tea ladies. We are so thankful for their support.

If you can, please join us for the unveiling on Wednesday, October 22, at 10 am at My Cup of Tea. If you cannot attend, please consider purchasing this box of tea with Cheryiah’s art. It will be on sale at the unveiling and online later that day.

         Four months ago, I sprinkled a few handfuls of a hybrid sunflower seed in our freshly constructed most Northern garden box at The House. We had received nourishing, rich dirt from Memphis City Beautiful, and we added compost from my decomposed pile of used tea leaves. The garden box was ingeniously irrigated by our long-time contractor friend, Dwayne Jones’ crew, and the sun exposure was the suggested maximum on the tiny seed packet. The conditions were perfect for sunflowers to flourish, and we would not need to water or weed.

         The miracle of burying a seed that generates a small plant, unfurls a flower, and brings forth many seeds is repeated throughout the world every spring. The Parable of the Sower cautions that not all the seeds will mature, depending on the conditions. Apparently, our setting for a few of the seeds was superb.

         While we delighted in our familiar annual plantings of tomatoes, peppers, corn, and lima beans, we marveled over the fast-emerging nubs of the sunflowers that outpaced everything and began to shade the eggplants in box #2.  Within the short month of June, we saw more than we had imagined possible. We had a forest of very thick-leaved, twelve-inch-diameter sunflower trees with flowers the size of large pizzas. They had grown too tall for us to clip and bring in for decoration, and if we had a ladder to do so, there wasn’t a vase that could support a flower unless we repurposed a Home Depot bucket.  

         Did I mention above that the seeds were called Skyscrapers?

         They grew just short of the power lines on Semmes, and the utility workmen preparing for the fiber-optic cables to come stared menacingly at them and us.

         Last week in preparation for planting in the fall, Sandy, a regular volunteer for years, and I brought our personal chainsaws and began our untapped lumberjack roles of cutting down the forest in Box # 1.  We prevailed and then attacked the 15-pound root balls under each one with the same dedication.

         The 20 actual sunflowers clipped from the felled trees weighed between 3 and 6 pounds each.  My pleasure has evolved into harvesting the seeds from the cut and dried flowers and planning how we will plant sunflowers in all the vacant lots in Orange Mound.  I am not overstating that I have plucked at least two thousand Skyscraper seeds from only five of the flowers.

         I grew up singing about Johnny Appleseed, and I only need to change one word to make it fit. It begins:

“Oh! The Lord’s been good to me/and so I thank the Lord/for giving me the things I need/ the sun and the rain and the sunflower seed/Oh! The Lord’s been good to me.”

A friend challenged me to write a story, and I thought the valiant seed deserved a poem. Read below.

Sunflowers rise, bright, saucy, and bold.

Promises of Summer, as their potential unfolds.

From one empowered kernel, the Skyscraper stands, 

Fifteen feet high, reaching upward like hands. 

Summer ore, seeds gathered, rest through fall and frost, 

In spring’s warm embrace, they awaken, not lost. 

With sun and with water, the cycle renews, 

From one tiny seedling, a forest ensues. 

Tall as trees, golden petals debut to display

Beauty and joy in their vibrant parade. 

Though grass will wither, and flowers will fade, 

God’s Word endures, a foundation well laid. 

Life and truth in each season's measured return,

In the heart of a seed, endless lessons we learn.

Let us marvel at Creation’s miraculous design,

In His Garden of Faith, the Holy Spirit aligns.

“I would like to meet with you at the House today,” the text read.

I was slightly perplexed by the message because it seemed last-minute, and I knew of no impending crisis requiring my presence in Orange Mound. I replied that my day was full, but that I could meet soon.

Several minutes passed, and another text bubbled up on my phone screen.

“You’re bringing lunch to the House today, right?”

I instantly felt nauseous. Despite months of bringing lunch to the House on the fourth Thursday of every month and a conversation with my wife just a couple of days before about what I would prepare for the ladies, I forgot. It was almost 11:30 at that point.

Providentially, Carey had prepared an eggplant parmesan with our garden produce and graciously offered to bring it for lunch. I was relieved, ashamed, embarrassed, and immensely grateful for the grace I was shown.

It was no great tragedy, really. The Earth would continue to spin, the Sun would rise, and everyone at the House would have something to eat. Yet, I was grateful that not a single person at My Cup of Tea would judge my worth or ability on the basis of this mistake – or a lifetime of mistakes, for that matter.

There is no questioning the fact that I have made many more consequential mistakes in my life – mistakes that cost money, that damaged my reputation, and that harmed others physically or emotionally. I would like to believe that I have far more “good works” on my stats sheet than “mess ups”, but such a claim is dubious at best. And even if it were true, mistakes in our culture wield far more influence than successes.

The tiniest faux pas elicits a visceral response from many of us. The Starbucks barista who clocked in before 5 a.m. adds only two pumps of vanilla to our latte, instead of three, and most are not kind about letting her know. And with star ratings coveted by businesses, we are quick to rate the establishment one star, often with little or no explanation. If that barista or her coworker fails again, then that location and potentially the entire enterprise earns a tarnished reputation in our minds, and in the minds of those who will listen to us, for years to come. We are not only a “what have you done for me lately” society, but we are a “what have you done for me correctly” society.

Collectively, if we are so quick to pin on the scarlet “A” for a sleepy barista or a stressed out Dad who’s late for work and cuts us off in traffic, then how low is our tolerance for a woman who gave birth to a child in jail because she was arrested for credit card fraud? Is there any understanding in us for one who has been in drug rehab but still struggling to get clean? Can we accept a woman who engaged in prostitution to make ends meet, or another who stays with an abusive partner despite the risk to her children?

One of the most critical components of the My Cup of Tea House is that all are welcome to shop, learn, study, and, if you are an Orange Mound woman, apply for a job. However, the moment you step onto the property, you have entered a judgment-free zone. Value is not assigned based on how few mistakes you have made or how serious someone determines those mistakes were.

For mistakes that come to light while at the House, there is accountability, but not condemnation. In one instance, one of the ladies admitted to stealing diapers from a previous employer when she learned of an active warrant for her arrest. A sister took her under her wing, drove her to 201 Poplar, came back the next day to drive her home, and the woman faced a judge who mercifully granted probation. While waiting for the adjudication, she worked at The House and was joyfully welcomed back when the case was closed.

Many of us are quick to quote Luke 6:37, “judge not, and you will not be judged…” when someone calls out our mistakes. We forget the rest of the verse that goes on to say, “…condemn not, and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.”

Jesus did not excuse or ignore the mistakes of the outcasts of society with whom he associated, or of the religious and political elite, for that matter. In one of the most dramatic scenes of Scripture, a woman caught in adultery is brought before Jesus by those religious elites. The law required that one caught in adultery be stoned to death. Yet, Jesus wrote something in the dirt and said, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her,” – John 8:7.

The story doesn’t end there with Jesus saying, “Go about your business.” Instead, he says, “Neither do I condemn you: go, and from now on sin no more,” – John 8:11.

Jesus did not determine the woman’s worth based on her sins. He assured her that she was not condemned and urged her not to make the same mistakes.

I am reminded of the teacup chandeliers that hang throughout the House. They are fashioned with broken, cracked, and stained teacups that are emblematic of all who work and serve there. They may be damaged, but they are beautiful and have purpose. And if any one of us were handed one of those cracked or stained cups full of our finest tea, it is my prayer that our senses would dwell, not on the outside of the cup, but on what is in it.

I have often quoted Dr. Michael Rhodes, author of Practicing the King’s Economy. He has enlightened many and trained more to take a cutting-edge ministry to urban neighborhoods.

 “If you want to create the kingdom potluck at the margins, you must relentlessly pursue the sort of community that makes it possible for the marginalized to bring a dish to the table.”

and

“Sharing meals together forced us to figure out how to be the body of Christ reconciled across racial, ethnic, and class lines.”           

Rhodes punctuated my mission statement in Orange Mound shortly after I began there in 2012. My call remains deeply rooted in the powerful message of Isaiah 58:6-12. I have worked among dedicated women with whom I worship, love, and serve, who have bravely shared their burdens for our city. This scripture inspires us to rise and embrace our divine purpose, igniting a passion within us to bring about transformation and healing in Orange Mound.  We are called to break the chains of injustice, to share our resources with those in need, and to shine our light brightly in the darkness.

So, we decided to do it with food.

Lunch became and has remained the anticipated “sweet spot” for all who work at the House daily. A volunteer, usually from East Memphis, drives into the inner city and dishes out a fresh, free feast for our famished friends.  The plates are filled to overflowing.

Within the ten years we have served lunches, I have adjusted my expectations and found that Dr. Rhodes may not have been familiar with the single moms we employ in Orange Mound. 

Some in our family at My Cup of Tea find it difficult to express acknowledgement of the daily fare which is given abundantly.  I question if food scarcity fosters a sense of shame for needing to accept the gift, rather than appreciation.

Most of our employees are unfamiliar with a potluck at church gatherings. On days without a designated provider of lunch, I've asked everyone to contribute to potluck lunches, fostering a spirit of giving, as it's more rewarding to give than to receive.

It seems most of the ladies interpret “potluck” as “let’s see how many items I can snag from the Kroger sale table!” We’ve had everything from half-off, half-frozen catfish to a sizable stack of canned beans.

I have recognized financial constraints can eclipse the ingredients for a simple meal to offer friends. Access to reliable stoves and ovens, and no access to time and energy to prepare, can throttle the best intentions. Cooking skills are lacking for some, and sharing sugary cereals, day-old fries, or stale pizza that works at home is embarrassing.
 
Prayerful and undaunted, I offered a new version of sharing the “vittles” this week.  Everyone harvested bushels of vegetables from our House garden on Monday. For the ladies who have mastered culinary arts, I suggested fried green tomatoes, tomato pie, and green beans cooked Southern. They accepted the challenge and combed the fresh produce on the counter.
 
For those still learning their way around the kitchen, I offered to lend a hand, and we cooked together.  Side by side, we made peach cobbler, apple pie, and sautéed lima beans with bacon. Hopefully, the experiment will be repeated at home. Two prepared cucumber salad, and another brought cucumber surprise. Printed recipes were available, and some picked them up.

According to Rhodes, “In God’s economy, everybody gets to bring a dish to the party”. This tells us two things:

First, the goal is to become an interdependent family gathered at God’s table.
Second, the potluck reminds us that some in the family struggle to bring their best dish because of their economic brokenness or inexperience. That means that if we want the potluck, we’re going to have to bend the way we work, earn, spend, invest, save, and give towards welcoming the marginalized.
 
I bent the rules, and we picked the pole beans. My hope was that every woman would participate, every plate would be filled, every tummy satisfied, and every heart encouraged. The fellowship at the table is made rich when all partake in the labor of preparation.

I have  renamed our endeavor “Mound Manna.”

It worked, and one said today that she is already looking forward to our next one.

Throughout my life as a Christian, I have often observed where God is at work and looked for ways to join Him.  Our missionally focused church has offered many opportunities and matched my enthusiasm to join other world travelers to be among God’s heroes established in the mission fields across the continents. Evidence of His activity and grace rest in my memories and subconsciously reinforce my faith.  Perhaps the consummate dependence on Him from the home front to foreign cultures, climates, and countries has led to the overuse of the term “miracle”. Many of us toss the term “miracle” into the flow of everyday life, when rather than a miracle, a surprise of grace sweetens the predicament and causes us to be in grateful awe.

           In the Bible, a miracle is a supernatural event performed by God that is beyond the power of nature or human beings. It's an extraordinary event that demonstrates God's power, sovereignty, and divine intervention in human affairs. Miracles are distinct from blessings in that miracles are specific, extraordinary interventions that demonstrate God’s power, while blessings are the good things God provides. And miracles are beyond natural law. They are events that cannot be explained by natural laws or scientific principles. Examples of miracles include the parting of the Red Sea, healing the sick, raising the dead, and Jesus’ miracles during his ministry.

            I have seen countless examples of God at work, but I have not seen a miracle in Orange Mound. A miracle must have no other explanation but the intervention of God.

We dwell in daily drama at The House in Orange Mound.  The dilemmas of “hood life” refresh our prayer life throughout each day. Chronic illnesses plague all of our employees and their families. Dependable transportation is unaffordable. These predicaments are common to all, pervasive, and resolved often with prayer.  The illness dissipates, the car starts, and the treadless tires get replaced. But though I can’t explain them without God, they are not considered miracles.

 Reflecting on the Lord’s surprising grace is the dailiness of life in the Mound. It instructs and enlightens us to His presence and preference for the poor.  Grace is the specialty of undeserved gifts God often proffers bountifully without being consulted.

From recent weeks, here are a fraction of the surprises and blessings of His handiwork for which we did not pray.

·         He brought a family member, who has made regrettable choices, to our house for lunch, and she sang of her desire to repent and trust the Lord for her addictions.

·         He opened the enrollment with one slot remaining at a superior high school, and a granddaughter was able to slide into her best fit possible in the fall to continue her education.

·         He has brought 4 ladies to apply for ownership of the 5 houses under construction on our block.

·         He has caused all our seedling plantings to thrive in our new gardens.

·         He has kept our temperamental air conditioner working through these stifling, humid, and hot days.

·         He has enlightened a kind doctor with the proper diagnosis for one of the ladies who had been given the wrong medicine for her asthma and was failing in health.

·         He has provided work and sustenance for the ladies who have needed extra hours of work this summer.

·         He has brought fresh marketing strategies for our coming gift promotions.

·         He has opened new portals of food pantries for a lady who lost her SNAP benefits.

·         He has inspired others on our block to repair and refresh houses.

·         He has raised the credit score 50 points for one of our employees.

·         He has protected us from harm.

·         He has brought us favor among donors and foundations.

·         He has led us in the discovery of His love and mercy in studying His Word.

·         He has renewed our faith.

·         He has released a family member from jail for good behavior.

·         He has brought attention to our product line through the media.

·         He has sustained our cash flow.

·         He has brought us new customers.

·         He has protected our property.

Most of us are unaware of the common grace that abounds in one week in the Mound and even in our own lives. While God is blessing us, He is keeping our neighbors under our grace cloud as well. His mercies are fresh every morning, and His indiscriminate kindness to believers and unbelievers is without measure, and sadly, often without notice.

But even when the blessings of His grace are not immediate or tangible, like many in this list, His grace is still unmatched and unending. As the classic hymn reminds us,

Sin and despair, like the sea-waves cold,
Threaten the soul with infinite loss;
Grace that is greater– yes, grace untold–
Points to the Refuge, the mighty Cross. 

Grace, grace, God's grace,
Grace that will pardon and cleanse within;
Grace, grace, God's grace,
Grace that is greater than all our sin!

Social media posts about childhood trauma are the “Red Badge of Courage” for Gen Z and Gen Alpha. Are you even really a part of those generations if you can’t articulate some trauma, how it stunted your progress, and how you have bravely overcome it?  Scores of videos on Tik Tok and Instagram recount the “abuse” experienced by teens and young adults as children. I put abuse in quotations, not to make light of it, but to underscore that the definition has broadened.

Too many of the stories are horrific, and the perpetrators are deserving of prison sentences. The survivors need love, support, counseling, and empathy to overcome the psychological, emotional, and sometimes physical wounds they have endured. However, for someone born a Baby Boomer, Gen Xer, or even a Millennial, some of the stories sound like character-building struggles we all must endure, rather than life-altering trauma.

To the credit of the younger generations, we talk about trauma these days, rather than ignoring it or sweeping it under the rug. Spend any significant time with a member of Gen Z, and it won’t be long until you’re hearing about a pop star, movie icon, or athlete whose trauma affected their lives and careers. This trauma-focused banter has normalized the topic and led to healing for countless people, but it is also important to keep our trauma in perspective.

There are some tragedies that we can all agree would be traumatic for anyone – the loss of a child, being robbed at gunpoint, etc. Aside from these grave instances, people tend to process the same difficult situations differently. What is traumatic for one may be only an unfortunate circumstance for another. However, chronic instances of struggle or difficulty can also be traumatizing, and this is what we see and have seen with many of the women in Orange Mound we served.

We have told you before about the exposure to violence, physical and sexual abuse, and the struggle with addiction, many of the My Cup of Tea ladies have endured. These are for sure trauma-inducing events. What is equally impacting, or perhaps more potent, are the ongoing, chaotic adversities that plague the lives of some of the ladies–one psyche-rattling incident after another for life.

One recent morning, Cheryl, one of our supervisors, received a phone call. On the other end of the line was a tiny voice saying, “My mom needs help. She can’t breathe!” The child was one of the daughters of an employee. Cheryl told the daughter to call 911, grabbed another one of the ladies, and headed out to help.

When they arrived, the paramedics were already there working on the mother. Somehow, in the midst of the crisis, the mother had contacted her nephew to come and pick up her daughters. The nephew was with another man and needed the mother’s vehicle to transport the girls to the mother’s friend’s house. This raised immediate red flags for Cheryl, but after some intense questioning, it was determined it was safe for the girls to leave with the nephew.

The ambulance transported the mother to Baptist Hospital East, several miles East of her Orange Mound home. After a battery of tests and without a clear diagnosis, they released her, but she had no transportation or keys to her house. Debbie, our Operations Manager, drove to retrieve her. Then they traveled to the North part of the city, an area called Frayser, to collect the daughters. However, the house keys were not there. The keys were in the Northeast part of the city, still miles away from her neighborhood.

Eventually, the daughters, the vehicle, and the house keys were secured.

All’s well that ends well, right?

Not exactly.

For the moment, things are calm-ish, but this is simply a single occurrence in the cycle. It likely won’t be long before chaos ensues again. Violence or death will be imminent. There will be minimal, if there is any, support from family or friends. Financial resources will not be available to mitigate the circumstance. Fear and uncertainty will be like a concrete slab laying on the backs of those involved, paralyzing forward movement. And these events will continue to hammer the spirit of the ladies and their children, sowing new trauma and exacerbating the old.

We are not experts at addressing trauma, but we now have a better sense of what it looks like. Here are some steps we have taken that help.

It starts with the environment at The House. Debbie can often be heard saying, “My God is a god of order.” And The House is always in order, without ambiguity, and a place of peace.

We’ve written about our Kintsugi sessions that used the ancient Japanese art form to help the ladies process trauma. The tangible results of that effort are displayed in the kitchen at The House.

More recently, Dr. Fred Gilliam, a licensed professional counselor, has joined us for lunch on Wednesdays to hear from the ladies about their challenges and to equip them with the emotional and spiritual tools to cope.

Some of the ladies have taken advantage of therapy offered by Christian Psychological Center through the Memphis Resilience Project.

And, of course, we pray – a lot.

By today’s definition, most of us have experienced some type of trauma in our lives, and perhaps it has some long-lasting negative effects. What is also true is that most of us have never and will never live the repeated trauma faced by Orange Mound women. That fact can cause us to minimize the struggles they face or fail to recognize them at all.

While most of us scratch our heads at how Gen Zs and Gen Alphas view the world, we can be grateful that they have seen the trauma we couldn’t see and refuse to shut up about it until we start addressing it.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. II Corinthians 1:3-5

Our gardens are out doing themselves this Summer.  The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye, and the green bean stalks are rivaling Jack’s.

All of the ladies had been enthusiastic to begin the adventure of seeds-to-harvest once the garden beds were prepared.  We had embryonic seedlings residents of the greenhouse, and though we are still learning the complexities of organic gardening, we are quite confident of the Lord’s “green thumb” permanently in place in our yards and punctuating our greenhouse at the corner of Semmes and Carnes. All the ladies were prepped and exceeding all expectations for planting day, but one.

She is one of our newer employees who confessed she prefers the ice cream desserts, pies, and cakes our volunteers bring, and not so much the fresh vegetables offered daily. 

 We had noticed.

 She hasn’t been inclined to eat anything that is un-breaded or never frozen. I had considered her indifference and underexposure to gardening was the result of windowless apartment living and lack of time and curiosity about how things grow and seeds multiply. Back in February, I gave her a sprouted sweet potato with the simple instruction to keep it wet, hoping I might turn her thoughts toward self-health.

When the early spring day for planting our cultivated seeds arrived, her assignment was to plant bean seeds and seedlings in our new garden boxes filled with fresh, rich dirt and compost.  We have an irrigation system at last, and a steadily growing compost pile.  The summer of ‘25 has promised to be one of plenty, raising our bar to an impressive new height.

Once all used gloves were pulled from tired hands and the spades back on the shelf with everything secured, there were wire cages for beans and tomatoes remaining. We had plenty of bean seeds to share as well.  She had practiced in our garden so naturally, I encouraged her to take some seeds and bury them in dirt. She was insecure about her ability to master a patio patch and dubious that she could profit from something she didn’t fully comprehend. I also gave her a potato bag to house the potato vine, which she had been watching curl around her kitchen cabinets.

                In two clicks a new day dawned!  With incredulous breaking news, she initiated daily reports of the progress of the bean tendrils curling on the support on her patio.  They were flowering, to her shock, and pointed upward, and the potato vine was pointed downward in the potato bag.

Last Wednesday, she sent three pictures on our employee group text of her first bean clinging to the vine.  She claimed it as her baby and promptly named it “BEAN-oncé (like Beyoncé.) 

Birth of a bean and the birth of a potential vegetarian!  That may be a stretch - is ketchup a vegetable? She has considered freezing BEAN-oncè or leaving her on the vine to grow but is hopefully convinced with our prodding that she can dice her up for supper.  BEAN-oncé, we have hopes, is part of a family moving in.

We have been cultivating our gardens for 13 years, and all of us have reaped abundantly and been beneficiaries of the harvests. Only one other employee showed similar affection when she picked her first cucumber.   She cradled it in a paper towel and carried it to her family’s Fourth of July celebration.

The seed metaphors, replete in Scripture, are referenced often in our devotionals. Sowing the seed is so simple. One merely drops one seed in the dirt. If the soil is rich and welcoming, the Lord balances rain and sunshine to rouse from sleep a new creation. The rest is miraculous.  

So it is with the birth of faith, which is far more extraordinary and eternal than the beautiful lush green leaves and vines which are primping on our corner.  They will wither and fade at summer’s end. The future continues and the fruit multiplies for a believer in Christ. The Bible teaches that heaven rejoices when someone repents and turns to God. In Luke 15:7-10,  Jesus highlights that there is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents and this joy extends to all of heaven, including angels, as they witness the salvation of a lost soul.

                It has been pure pleasure to witness joy overcome doubt in the eyes and the heart of our BEAN-oncé-growing employee. Her trepidation about gardening has transformed into conviction, and we are elated for her. If we so enthusiastically celebrate the birth of a patio gardener and her simple bean grown from a tiny seed, imagine the joy in heaven at the birth of a new believer.