Religious Bullies, or, April in Wackoland

My little guy has been watching Mickey Mouse for the past two years. Who can blame him? Mickey is cute and non-threatening. The plots are pointless and the colors are garishly bright. It's got just the right amount of preschool-stuff to appease his attention span.

Somewhere between the fifth and thirty-fifth episodes we've watched together, something started

to

bother

me.

Pete the Cat is a bully.

And Mickey totally enables him.

With a chuckle and a gosh-gee and a let's-find-a-mousketool, Mickey Mouse cowers to Pete's ridiculous demands every. single. time. Recently, Carter’s attentions have turned to another Disney character, Jake, who actually stands up to his bullies every single time. Thank God for progress in the world of cartoons.

I had an encounter with a bully last week. 

A religious bully.

I was perusing the aisles of Whole Foods, soaking up every ounce of silence while the kids played at Grandma's house. As I pushed my cart towards the baking aisle, a man headed the opposite direction passed by me and would have been totally anonymous but for the fact that he muttered loud enough to be heard:

Read the Bible.  

No eye contact. No pausing. No breaking stride.

Excuse me? I whirled my cart around.

Did you just tell me to read the Bible? 

His whole demeanor softened, changed. He smiled but shrunk into his shoulders a bit as if he'd never been caught before in his game of drive-by-evangelism.

Yes, I did. He walked toward me.

Well, I'm a Christian, I do read the Bible. In fact, my husband is a pastor here in town. And I just want to tell you that your method isn't working. If you truly felt compelled to talk with me, you should have stopped and made the time for conversation, you know, find something you have in common with me and then share what you have to say…

You didn't even make eye contact with me.

He stammered, Well, you know, sometimes you don't have time for that. I figured it couldn't hurt.  

I totally disagree. I said. It does hurt. The way you just did that comes across as judgmental and condemning. It will only push people further away. Jesus gave people a sense of dignity when he interacted with them.

Well, he continued to deflect, I just do what the Holy Spirit tells me to. You know, maybe you were supposed to hear that you should read your Bible. 

I do read my Bible. I did this morning. And the Bible says we are to worship God with our minds, so I want you to consider the fact that your method isn't working. Pray about it, if you have to.

And with that, I was off to find my coconut oil. 

I had a whole 'nother hour to myself, a vacuum of mind-space immediately saturated with wittier, more sarcastic versions of the conversation. I was freaking awesome in my If-Only-I'd-Said-This-Instead conversation. You should have seen me.

But even then, I knew I responded the way I did, restrained, and sprinkled with Christianese to buy myself the street cred, because I thought there may have been a time,

a long time ago

when Bob the Religious Bully really cared about people reading the Bible. The Holy Spirit may have legitimately prompted him to talk with people he didn't know and he may have been entirely moved and motivated by a love for others and a love for God.

Maybe, I considered, he's just gotten pigeon-holed into some hyper-spiritual Christian community that's so out of touch with what's normal that he needed a girl shopping Whole Foods to help him towards a reality check.

Maybe.

It made me wonder about the others to which Bob the Religious Bully has dropped a condescending line or two.

It made me wonder how many of you have been religious-bullied, in one form or another.

And it made me wonder about the times I’ve thrown my spiritual weight around, carelessly knocking people over with my immature and untempered zeal.

I think the reason I gave Bob the time of day is that I was reminded of a younger and more immature version of myself in the [failed] attempt to do something good. Ya’ll, I did some weird stuff in the name of Jesus back in the day.

And while I'm not stuck condemning myself, wisdom teaches me to lean into the regret long enough to learn from it. And I am sorry.

I’d like it if I could apologize on the behalf of all the other religious bullies out there. I’d like it if this post could help heal those of you who have been wounded.

And I’d like it if one less Bob could drop one less line while walking through the grocery store.

May Jesus change our hearts, bullies and bullied alike. The aisle that separates us isn’t as wide as we think it is.

And ten minutes after my conversation with Bob, a John-Wayne-ish older guy walked by me, leaned in and said with a drawl, "You look like Liz Lemon." Not kidding. I promptly headed for the check out. 

And then a wasp bit me as I was getting in my car.

What about you? Have you been religious-bullied? 

How did you work through it in your relationship with God?

lost in translation

There's a six year old Muslim boy, living somewhere in a village in Ethiopia, who

thinks I have a pet monkey

living in my house. 

But the curious thing to him was not the monkey living with us, but the birds. 

How do you tame your birds? 

He wrote. 

Where we live, the monkeys can be tame at times, but the birds destroy our crops. 

                  We pass the nights outside, in the fields, to keep the birds away.

My son is three and a half years younger than Hawi, our sponsored child through World Vision.

Soon, he will understand these stories of a little boy who has no shoes and lives in a hut and helps his mother draw water from a well. Soon, he'll be able to find Ethiopia on a map of Africa and will understand why our letters take halves of years to receive responses. He'll trace the postal stamp with the capital's name, Addis Ababa, and will delight over the syllables and hard consonants of a language unknown.  

For now, the joys of sponsorship belong to my husband and me, but I can't help but dream of how Hawi's story will stretch the imagination and worldview of my son.

For an American boy, born into a world of air-conditioning and Mickey Mouse, laptops and cell phones, ice cream and pancakes, books and beach and boat rides with grandparents, the story of a boy living

far, far away, in a village in Ethiopia

should lend itself to lessons on generosity and thankfulness; 

should lead to questions about differences and disparity.

After all, when you're friends with a boy

who sleeps in fields to chase away the birds

your worldview can't remain the same.

middle names and not-at-ground-zero-mosques

My middle name is Marbury.

One that my mother, grandmother and other various ancestors hold. The most infamous "Marbury" we lay ancestral claim to is Anne Marbury Hutchison.

Anne lived back in the day of the Puritans. And didn't exactly agree with the established church. And spoke about it, in public, and without heed to the ecclesiastical warnings of what might happen to her if she didn't pipe down.

So, Anne was sentenced to prison over a harsh winter, while über-pregnant, and eventually was excommunicated. (Her husband helped purchase an island near Rhode Island, relocated the family, and years later returned home from a trip to find Anne and several children scalped by local natives.)

You should read her story.

Here's where I'm getting...

If my beloved heroine and namesake had lived in modern day lower Manhatten, Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich and 68% of Americans would think her expressions of faith were wrong (and insensitive and whatever other words we're spewing around).

While many might not see the correlation-- Anne Hutchison leading her own version of Bible study and offending the Puritans and the moderate Muslims planning to build a Community Center and offending the Republicans-- it's there. The same reasons that sent Anne and her family packing to a god-forsaken island are the same reasons there are grossly ignorant tweets being made by political has-beens and wannabees.

We are America.

Not just the white, Christian, country-music-loving population among us, but the blacks and latinos and Asians and Catholics and Muslims and atheists.

We have a moral high ground to hold to--one we stake our worldwide reputation on. A high ground that's been used, time and time again, to justify our foreign policy, to allow us to make demands on other nations that we ourselves won't succumb to.

That moral high ground is our defense of Freedom. Freedom to worship whatever. Freedom to say (almost) anything. Freedom to meet about saving the trees or saving the unborn babies. Freedom to live productive lives, unhindered by a religious government that tells us what to do on Fridays. Or Sundays.

This is why we think we're better than Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Taliban, Fidel Castro, Hu Jintao and all other present and past despots who regulate religion and its expression.

And we should think we're better than them; better than their narrow-minded, restrictive policies.  

As long as we stay better than them. 


The minute we tell a peaceful, America-loving, group of citizens that they cannot express their persuasions the way they please, we lose that high ground. We lose a piece of our DNA, a part of our sacred foundation. We lose the very thing that has attracted millions of oppressed sojourners, in search of a better and freer life.

We lose our American-ness.

I will always lobby for freedom of worship and a secular state because history speaks, too clearly, to what happens when one group of citizens is allowed to dictate the religious behaviors of the rest. It's a slippery slope, this religous intolerance. I fear for the future of my children, my white, hopefully-Christian, probably-country-music-loving children, if our nation begins to acqueise these sorts of demands.

Only 90 years ago, another terrorist organization was at the height of its power and influence. Its members met in secret, monitored the social and religious behaviors of its community, and executed acts of terror on undeserving, innocent citizens.

Far too quickly have we forgotten that the Ku Klux Klan members claimed to be Christians. That Christian churches exist in the very towns where these terrorists lived and worshipped. That these KKK members would worship at Little Town Southern Baptist Church on Sunday morning and then meet to discuss their next lynching on Monday night.

And yet, we don't protest, we don't tweet about the "insensitivity" of those Christians with their buildings so close to the hallowed ground of martyrs. We are able to make the distinction between moderate, sane Christians and Christian terrorists.

Another distinction needs to be made. Soon.

If not, at best, we look and sound like idiots. At worst, we lose our Freedom.

---

(Let's check our facts: The "Ground Zero Mosque" is neither at Ground Zero, nor is it a mosque. The building site is 2 blocks away from Ground Zero. Ground Zero can't be seen from the site. It's a proposed community center, complete with a basketball court, fitness center, theatre, Islamic prayer room, and a memorial to the World Trade Center victims. Sounds pretty threatening to me.)

mwen rele april

Last week, I spent some time with my parents and brothers in West Palm Beach while Neal was in Haiti.

It was a quiet few days, filled with walks and too much coffee, bedtimes hours past their due, help for Spanish exams, and new recipes I've been meaning to try since my cooking class.

Dad was excited to share with Carter and me a local trail he'd discovered that winds its way through a newly constructed wetland preserve. We said we'd go early, there were no cypress trees to shade the boardwalk, but even the 9:30 a.m. sun was enough to baptize Carter in his own sweat.

We saw birds. Lots of them. We'd periodically stop at the wooden posts along the way to try to identify the birds. And we were able to name a few-- the obvious ones like the anhinga and the sandhill crane, but it wasn't enough for me. After our walk, we drove to Barnes and Noble and I bought one of those bird books for amateurs.

Carter and I returned to the wetland preserve the next day, this time armed with my little green book. Carter found it to be a fun game, this finding "matches" and tempted my anger by almost throwing the book into the swamp three four times.

I thought about it. This desire to know something or someone's name.

It's not enough for me to tell you I saw a greyish bird with a freakishly long neck, and a small black bird with a red tuft on each of its wings. I had to know their respective names.

It's funny, this name game has been going on since the dawn of creation. Adam's first job (or so) given to him by the Creator was to name the animals. My husband and I are currently vetting a list of names for our baby on its way. A name assigns identity, value and individuality. It distinguishes the one from its species, from its people group and even from its family.


A name is God's way of inviting us to share in His delight of creation. 

While Neal was in Haiti, he brought me in for a visit via Skype. We started in his room and then went to the common areas of the orphanage where I practiced my bumbling Haitian Creole with Charlene and a few others. Neal introduced me to some of the orphans, and although their faces were blurred from the poor internet connection, I remembered their forms.

On the 7+ hour ride home from Ft. Lauderdale to Tampa, Neal filled me in on some of their stories. He told me of the 15 year old boy he talked with on the roof whose father sent him across the street to get something right before the earthquake. The building collapsed on and killed his parents moments later. Neal told me of an eleven year old girl, one I remember from my Skype chat who was holding a baby. I thought she was the older sister. She was the mother of that baby, a former slave who was gang raped on an errand and then kicked from her home when her owners discovered the pregnancy.

Knowing the name, and the face and the story, has the power of invitation as well. 

We're invited to move beyond a (justified) feeling of hopelessness in the face of overwhelming need and numbers--there are 490,000 orphans and 300,000 child slaves in Haiti right now-- to a place of relationship and empowerment.

Knowing the name is not just an invitation to delight in the uniqueness of a wild bird, a friend's new baby, or an orphan, but to enter their worlds and affect it for change.

It's the first thing we ask each other, one of the first words a child learns and the starting point of all friendships. It's your name. It's his name. It's the power of creation and the invitation to relationship all in one.

because who really needs that stuff in the dollar bin at Target, anyway?

“And what does the $33 a month cover?”

I was on the phone with the Missions pastor at Westside Church in Kansas City, trying to learn how his church meets the needs of impoverished children around the world.

“It covers food, medical care, shelter and access to education. It’s nothing that would compare with the standard of living children have in Tampa or Kansas City.

It’s nothing fancy.

Just the basics.

Because, where these children are coming from, the situations they’re in right now—

good is great.”

That phrase has stuck with me. It’s ricocheted off the corners of my mind these past few days.

What if good were great?

What if my 5 year old Rainbows were enough—they sure seem to have an eternal soul—what if I stretched them another summer, committed to replacing them later?

What if last season’s (and the seasons or two before that) Loft dresses were just fine and I could keep at bay the urge to maneuver the current fashion demands?

What if those knick-knacks and shiny Target gimmicks and certain updates for the house could wait?

What I already have is good…can I start to consider it as great?

Here’s what I know.

If my coffee get s brewed at home, and a few more meals are cooked attempted at home; if I spend less time lusting over shiny JCrew shoes  and more time watching over our finances, I might just free up some $$ we didn’t have before.

Money that could be sent to those little ones overseas who have

so. very. little.

If my current good can become great in my own eyes I might just be able to change some lives.

There are children, millions and millions of children, near and far, who will never (even be able to consider) a lifestyle that by our standards is called good. If we can recognize the pull that consumerism has on our souls, and begin to abstain, little by little, we might just break away long enough to catch a vision for The Least of These. We might just break away long enough to free up that $33 a month needed to transform

just one life

from barely-getting-by

to good.

And these children, when given the opportunity, would tell you that their good truly is great.

the sex cafe

this post if from Anne Jackson's blog, www.flowerdust.net You can follow her journey in Maldova, where she's working to expose sex trafficking. 

Thursday morning, our first meeting was with a young woman about my age who, for safety reasons, I’ll identify as L. 

We met her outside in the middle of the city, where she hopped in our van. I immediately liked her. She was intelligent and witty, and when we asked her where we should go for our meeting, she directed us toward a cafe in a nice part of town and said she had a surprise for us.

We took seats at a table under the patio as the sun was beginning to warm the new spring air.

We ordered a round of espresso (tea for me) and began to make introductions. Tom went first. Then Brad. Then me. Then Simon, as he set up his camera so we could film L’s story and hear about what her organization does.

Our waitress, a young, pretty girl who surprisingly spoke enough English that I could actually communicate I wanted green tea instead of black, brought us our drinks. L. took a sip of her cappuccino and asked us if we were ready for our surprise.

After a day like we had Wednesday, we were ready for anything.

“The reason I brought you to this cafe is because there is a story here. When I first moved back to Moldova, I came here with a friend. It seems like a totally normal restaurant.”

I looked around. 

It had nice tables and chairs and the shops across the street were for designer clothes. I didn’t feel like I was in a developing country. I could have been on a street in Paris for all I knew.

“As I spent time here, I learned that this cafe is the main hub for girls that are trafficked out of Moldova.”

Our team sat back stunned. Even S., who is our driver and has worked in the social sector of Moldova for years was shocked.

L. continued to tell us a similar story to what we have heard regarding young girls and the need for jobs. 

90% of Moldova immigrates out of the country for work because the unemployment rate here is so high. Girls out of the ninth grade (the required level of completion) when coming from abusive, alcoholic, or unattended homes, as well as orphans, will look for jobs. Foreigners actually own this cafe (amongst others) and will hire the girls as waitresses or cooks or to clean. They learn just enough of several languages over the course of a few months to a year and are promised promotions or transfers in restaurants in other European countries.

And they get trafficked.

I immediately wanted to take our waitress and throw her into our van, knowing what almost certain fate awaited her.

It’s not like this industry is completely a secret, either. Men, especially foreign men, visit these cafes for a reason. If L. and I wouldn’t have been there with the men from our team, more than likely they would have been offered a girl.

I lifted the mug of tea to my lips and wondered how many girls had filled that mug before. How many had served tea in it. How many had bussed it off the table and washed it.

I wondered where they were now.

L. proceeded to go through a newspaper and read to us ads that are ads that are intended to lure girls in. 

Ads for renting rooms or apartments often get young Moldovan girls and foreign university students kidnapped when they go to see if the apartment is what they’re looking for. Jobs for nannies who can travel. Jobs for waitresses.

 She even told us her own story – how, when she moved to Chisinau, she was looking for an apartment. 

Out of the hundreds of listings on the pages, only a handful or so were legit. She almost went to look at one but had a strange feeling about it after speaking with the owner, so she had a male friend call to check on it.

It was one used for trafficking.

 

She could have been a victim herself.

As we sat around finishing our drinks, we took note of an ever-increasing stream of foreign men beginning to sit at surrounding tables. They came from inside the cafe and sat and stared at us.

We acted like we didn’t notice, boldly keeping our very large camera out, and kept filming L. and her story.

Before we left, I saw two young, very pretty girls walking outside the cafe. 

They were almost too young to be that pretty. One was maybe fourteen – the other one sixteen or seventeen. I was surprised when they walked into the cafe, and later took a seat behind us in the corner of the patio.

They didn’t receive a menu, but a husky middle aged man with salt-and-pepper hair sat down with them. 

He discreetly handed the older girl a large sum of money. She looked up to him laughing with flirtatious but noticeably empty eyes.

We paid our check and left, as the presence of the traffickers got to be a little too intense. 

L. and I stood on the sidewalk while Brad went in for a moment and we witnessed another young, pretty woman approaching the cafe. The husky man got up suddenly and began yelling at her. She managed to keep her distance on the other side of the patio railing but they were screaming loudly at each other in Romanian. I asked L. what they were fighting about.

“Something didn’t happen right…something didn’t happen right at all,” is what she said. She nodded over my shoulder.“Those men behind you. They’re not Moldovan. They’re here for something.” 

I slowly turned around and pretended to look at the cafe door. Two very well dressed middle-eastern men were behind me and seemed to be negotiating with one of the cafe traffickers.

It was surreal.  

We were standing in the middle of trafficking deals going down all around us and at the same time, families sat at the patio eating brunch. Maybe some of them knew, maybe not.

But the darkness that was now exposed to us was almost blinding.

Here we were.

In broad daylight.

In a nice part of the city.

…buying coffee at the same time girls and sex were being sold.

We walked to our van talking about how we couldn’t believe what just happened.  

The five of us said goodbye to L. and she went to wherever it was she was going. What an incredibly brave woman to know exactly what would happen where we would be and to show us exactly what we needed to see.

We waited a few moments and drove around the block, passing the cafe again.  

The eight or ten men that had been keeping an eye on us were all gone in the five minutes it took us to circle back. The patio, except for a few maternal-esque women and the family, was empty.

I always assumed that sex trafficking went on in the brothels and the strip clubs. 

 In Moldova, there are none. When we’d ask around where this trafficking took place, it seemed like nobody knew.

But when we did find it, it would be like watching a girl get sold outside at a Panera in your nicest suburb.

As I continued thinking throughout the day, I realized that it doesn’t matter what my perception is on how or where or what sex trafficking looks like.

I can pretend to be shocked (and honestly still am) that it happened in such an open location.

But the bottom line is this:

We all know it happens.

It happens.

It.

Happens.

It may have been dangerous for us to be there. It probably would be if we went back. But this is a subject we must continue to stare in the face and say – dangerous or not – this can not happen.

This cannot happen on our watch.

Because if we know about it, if it’s happening on our watch, we’re responsible to do something about it.

Today we’ll be learning about what we can do to help stop it. 

We’ll meet a girl who was trafficked from this exact cafe two years ago and is now in the care of L. and her organization.

I can’t help but wonder if, when she worked in this cafe, she served somebody tea from the same cup I drank from yesterday.

la mujer en el apron verde

Tienes identificacion, por favor?

Idalys handed me a card, and it wasn’t a license or a passport. I tried to disguise my excitement as I handled her proof of permission to legally reside in the U.S.  I thought it was a euphemism, or some kind of legend that had evolved over the ages. But last Saturday I came to realize that green cards really are green.

Idalys was from Tijuana, Mexico, the card told me. I quickly punched in her numbers into the computer, confirmed that she was indeed registered for her free Thanksgiving meal, and sent her to the lady in the green apron.

Except that I don’t know the word for apron in Spanish.

Idalys was one of thousands of homeless or lower-income families in the Tampa Bay area that would receive food from Metropolitan Ministries this holiday season. And I was one of hundreds of volunteers who would help the well-oiled machine of goodwill to do its thing.

Marcel told me he hadn’t eaten in two days.

Jeanette, with her platinum blonde hair and well-groomed nails, asked me how old I thought she was. I skirted around the question with flattering clichés.

61. Don’t I look good for 61?

I got to hear all about Jeanette’s weight-loss journey, philosophies on diet and exercise, and how to take a good license photo.

Louis, a tall, athletic-looking father, approached my station with his children and wife in tow. He handed me his registration form and his ID. I punched in Louis’ number and asked him whether they wanted chicken or turkey. I punched in Laquanda’s number and tried to make eye contact with her. With eyes diverted, she may have eked out a smile from the left corner of her mouth.  Still not sure about that.  I punched in the numbers of the two boys, asked their grades and we talked about 3^rd grade.

You’ve got FCAT coming up. You reading, right?

Yes, ma’am, Javonne politely replied.

And then that was it. Just four numbers. Louis, Laquanda, Javonne, Demetrius.  But what about the stroller? And the little girl on Laquanda’s hip?

Louis, are those your children also?

Yes, ma’am.

Louis explained to me that he couldn’t find their socials when he was registering his family for the Thanksgiving meal. So, without social security cards, they don’t count. I excused myself for a minute (masking one’s shock became a much-needed skill) to check with the volunteer supervisor. Was this truly the case?

I had a hard time when I returned to my station, wanting to apologize to Louis, but not wanting to paint this generous ministry as Uncle Scrooge. I thought back to my days teaching in the ghetto. My training with Ruby Payne told me how hard it was for those in the culture of poverty to adhere to middle-class codes of paper.

Louis graciously smiled and assured me he understood when I confirmed that we “couldn’t do anything” without his daughters’ socials. And then I sent Louis with his two official and two unofficial children on their way to the lady in the green apron.

Tabitha’s curly bobbed head barely made it over the work space of my station. When I looked up from the computer to greet her, I noticed a few tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. I set down her registration sheet and ID, and walked around the station to be near her. Nothing like comforting someone when there’s a splintery piece of plywood between the two of you.

I just get emotional about these things, Tabitha told me.

Well, do you need to talk to someone? Should I get someone for you?

No, I’m fine, she protested.

Tabitha blubbered something about a lady she just met in line that had battled cancer and was in remission. Something about her new friend’s courage. And to be honest, I was a little puzzled. I couldn’t figure exactly why Tabitha was emotional. I began punching in her numbers, having determined that she was Okay. Right about when I was supposed to usher her towards the green apron, Lady in Remission passed my station. Her frail frame was draped with a floral print dress.  Another flower laden scarf was piled atop her head. She seemed to move in slow motion, but any discomfort was disguised by a flowy-like gracefulness.  She embraced Tabitha as if they were childhood friends and thanked her for her help.

And off went the two. Both in need. And yet not too consumed with self to be unmoved by the other.

I just get emotional about these things.

Green on my Mind

Maybe it was the record-setting, highest to-date electric bill we received for the month of July.

Maybe it was the recent visit to the holy mecca of Greener Than Thou, my home state of California.

Whatever the inspiration, I've got green on my mind.

Don't give me too much credit, here. I'm nowhere close to granola-crunching, vegan-cooking, compost-smelling, bra-burning environmentalism.

Yes, I own those canvas bags. And hardly remember to bring them when I shop. (I think Publix has its own Green-Guilt Campaign-- you know what I mean. You're almost out the door, silently swearing you'll remember the bags "next time," when they get you with, "plastic ok, maam?" and then they wait for your answer.)

Anyway, while solar panals and that new Toyota Prius are out of our budget, I'm committing to take some baby steps. And, hopefully, these baby steps will lend themselves to even more.

While we've been replacing burned out lightbulbs with CFLs, I went ahead and replaced all the (8) lightbulbs in our bathrooom with CFLs, since we use it daily. I attempted to redo the weatherstripping on our front door while Neal was out of town (surprise! it's what you've always wanted!). I bought all the wrong crap and now have to emit carbon gases the whole way back to Lowes. So, my efforts are 1 for 1.

I'm also sorting through the black hole of chemicals called Under-the-Sink. I figure I can condense our cleaning supplies down to half the current space and use the remaining half for a recycling bin!! The whole trek to the garage, albeit short, has prevented many an aluminum can from its proper destination. I can't even describe how happy I am about this Under-the-Sink bin. My aunt, who haunts Martha Stewart's dreams, has the ultimate kitchen. She kept true to her San Diegan identity and used recycled broken windshields for her counter tops instead of earth-gutting granite, and has not one, but two hideaway pull-out recycling bins. I suffer a little envy...

While, again, we can't afford this kind of beautiful and extensive shout-out to God's green earth, I can throw (I mean, recycle) away some unused bottles to make room for a more accessible recycle bin.

I figure that the most likely way I'll succeed with long-term ecofriendly habits will be by taking little steps-- accepting that I can't do every green thing, while creatively looking for things I can.

One carbon step back, two smaller carbon footprints forward...