Bandersnatch Book Release, guest post by Erika Morrison

The first time I met Erika Morrison was around a table.  The second time we shared life again was around the table.  I find it fitting to meet people, or in this case a friend, while sharing life around the table.  It makes me think of all the stories of Jesus where people became known, and he was known, because he shared life around the table with them.  Erika is one of those people who reflect God's glory, and what is meant by sharing life.  Her dark brown eyes peer into yours, which reach into your soul.  She is a rare soul, and one who speaks candidly and openly about her faith lived in the heartbeat of ragamuffins.  

I'm honored to share my online table with her today, as she is setting a little bit more of her heartbeat into this world though her new book, Bandersnatch.  Get to know Erika in her writing below and then go and buy her book!


“In July of 2000, when my husband and I got married, I was the ripe old age of nineteen and he was a seasoned twenty-four. Six months later I found out there was a baby in my belly, not on purpose. Then shortly after, another baby got in my belly not on purpose; then even less shortly after another baby got in my belly not on purpose.


Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: somebody needs to check the date on her birth control! But I promise you that nothing short of a medieval chastity belt with a rusted-shut lock could keep this Fertile Myrtle from getting pregnant. I don’t even trust the vasectomy my . . . never mind, I digress.


When our last boy was born in the left leg of my husband’s pajama pants (I should probably mention I was wearing them) while we rode the elevator up to the labor and delivery floor of Yale-New Haven Hospital, I had just birthed my third baby in three years. I’ll go ahead and do the math for you. I was twenty- three years young with a three-year-old wrapped around my thighs, a sixteen-month-old in one arm, a newborn in the other, and a godforsaken look of “Help!” writ across my face.


It was about this time that, as mentioned in the previous chapter, our marriage dove headlong into mess, we lost our income for too long to hang onto our home, and we experienced religious restlessness and a whole heap of other life challenges. Those early years redefined my own terms for what it meant to be drowning in the lifeblood leaking from every pore on my body. My internal equipment just wasn’t mature and qualified enough for my external reality, a reality that was demanding more of me than I could bear


What happened to me is what some psychologists call an identity crisis, a term coined in the early 1950s by Erik Erikson to refer to a state of confusion and unhappiness over one’s sense of self. If anyone had thought to ask me “Who are you?” in my good and lucid moments—which were few and far between—I could’ve answered with just about nothing.


I don’t know if you’ve ever felt the pain of not knowing who you are or if you feel that pain right now, but what can easily happen in that place of ache is that you start looking at other people, extracting the qualities you like about them, and injecting those qualities into your person as a substitute for what you don’t understand about yourself.


This is no bueno and that was what I did. In my naivete, I saw the people around me as more inherently gifted than I was, so I decided that self-fulfillment meant adopting their God-given gifts as my own. I looked at this person’s way of socializing and that person’s version of hospitality and another person’s artistic expression and began mimicking their nuances. Before I knew any better, I had squeezed my shape into several different ill-fitting molds at once, while cramming my own personhood into a tiny, overlooked corner in the nether regions of my body.


What I didn’t realize at the time was how devastated my spirit would become under the influence of everyone else’s borrowed qualities. Other people’s gifts and character traits are designed to enhance, enrich, and complement our own, but never act as substitute for them.


A healthy sense of self-identity seemed to be a luxury I didn’t have the currency for . . .”


(Excerpt from Erika Morrison’s book, Bandersnatch: An Invitation to Explore Your Unconventional Soul.)



The cardinals make it look so easy. The honeybees make it look so easy. The catfish and the black crow, the dairy cow and the cactus plant, all make being created appear effortless. They arise from the earth, do their beautiful, exclusive thing and die having fulfilled their fate.

None of nature seems to struggle to know who they are or what to do with themselves.

But humanity is the exception to nature’s rule because we’re individualized within our breed. We’re told by our mamas and mentors that--like snowflakes--no two of us are the same and that we each have a special purpose and part to play within the great Body of God.

(If your mama never told you this, consider yourself informed: YOU--your original cells and skin-print, guts and ingenuity--will never ever incarnate again. Do you believe it?)

So we struggle and seek and bald our knees asking variations of discovery-type questions (Who am I? Why am I here?) and if we’re semi-smart and moderately equipped we pay attention just enough to wake up piecemeal over years to the knowledge of our vital, indigenous selves.

And yet . . . even for all our wrestling and wondering, there are certain, abundant factors stacked against our waking up. We feel and fight the low ceiling of man made definitions, systems and institutions; we fight status quo, culture conformity, herd mentalities and more often than not, “The original shimmering self gets buried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all.

Kamille Scellick

Kamille Scellick passionately believes that gathering around the table is where the body, mind & soul will be nourished. It's around the table where you're sure to find her on any given day...eating, talking, listening & sharing life with her husband, Ben & three girls.

A Look into the Glory of Sharing the Table (video)

I was going to make a video for Grace Table for my post; but, as I added more pictures, short clips and began listening to Rend Collective's Lighthouse, I just knew it needed to be turned into a video for my blog.  I encourage you to watch it if you have about four minutes.  It's what sharing the table looks like in our life.  Most of which is with my family, while there are other glimpses into my life with people who we get to share the table.  

I realize how difficult it can be to simply show up to the table.  Maybe you're a parent of a child who has anxiety or sensory issues, and you're too tired to have to leave the house in an unfamiliar place.  Maybe you have food allergies, which prevent you from enjoying to actually share the food at the table.  Maybe you've been hurt on more than one occasion when you became vulnerable in community.  

I'm here to encourage you to keep coming to the table.  When I think of Jesus' table, it's open to everyone, all you need to do is show up.  My hope and prayer for you is to come.  Come with your weary, burdened soul.  Come without the shackles of shame and past regret.  Come because you are worthy to be loved and known.  Come and learn to dance, sing, speak eat without fear of condemnation.  Rather see the broad smile of approval, like that of a person seeing a young child dance with such abandon, only delight can spill forth.

Getting to the table is often hard, choosing to gather and share life is never a regret.

I want to thank you for joining me at my table, be it in person or here at Redeeming the Table.

PS I would love to have you join my monthly newsletter, Around the Breakfast Nook

Kamille Scellick

Kamille Scellick passionately believes that gathering around the table is where the body, mind & soul will be nourished. It's around the table where you're sure to find her on any given day...eating, talking, listening & sharing life with her husband, Ben & three girls.

Exercising the Hospitality Muscle Memory

As a little girl it took me forever to say, "I'm sorry."  Always have and always will have a strong spirit.  It is not easily budged for the "just because," answer. 

I've learned by working my memory "forgiving" muscles over the years the easier it is for me to vocalize an "I'm sorry."  It's like anything in life.  When I first learned how to roast a chicken I read the instructions thoroughly, had my ingredients mise en place, seasoned the bird, set the timer, used the thermometer testing the thigh temperature, allowing it to rest to keep the juices in the chicken and carving it.  It has led to fantastic results to slightly dry birds; but, one thing is constant, the consistency of training the muscle memory.

Professional athletes, head surgeons, virtuoso musicians, well versed parents of 35 years all have this consistency of muscle memory in common.  They have put in the hours, the grueling times, seen mistakes, doubted their ability, and thrown their hands up in retreat like all of us; but, what sets them apart is continuing in the drudgery to build up the basics (ie muscle memory).  


I was reflecting upon this lovely picture our new friend Hosanna posted on Facebook.  It captures new friends we just met days prior, ones who we were fortunate to share life with, have our girls learn what it means to love the other, and what it means for me to stop making excuses for my cooking or my children's behavior.  This picture signifies pulling out fish and loaves, blessing it and hoping God makes it stretch.  It represents all of me pouring myself out is never enough, for I am weak and weary, easily discouraged.  

Still, it gives me such hope to keep at this thing called hospitality, even when my children act more like wild animals than little girls with their behavior and manners.  It gives me hope, because working my muscle memory to keep at it reminds me how much I rely upon my Jesus to love through me.  It reminds me how we are all broken people desperately looking for other broken people to share a meal so we can rest in our humanness.  More so, we can rest in a Saviour who was God with skin on.  He came to rub shoulders, to understand the desperation in our voices, our eyes to give us hope.  

I can't think of a better reflection of why I want to keep exercising the hospitality muscle memory in me.  If it means I get to bring the hope of Jesus to my own brokenness and all who gather with me, I consider the work worth it.  

**Be sure to sign up for Redeeming the Table newsletter, "At the Breakfast Nook."