So I've officially been home now for 12 days, but I don't think all the pieces of my heart know that yet. I am nestled back in the comfort of my Illinois homes in Beardstown and, more often, my beautiful new apartment in Greenville. But I miss Rising Hope and my friends there more than I could possibly say. My heart aches to be back with them. My heart aches to know what's going on, how everyone's doing...and I want to know it first hand. I literally ache to be closer to the hard stuff, closer to people who are being shoved aside. Thing is, I know that those people are here, too.
They're just harder to see in the camoflage of my backyard.
Readjusting to life here has been both humorous and difficult. I go for walks at night and, even after being out for 40 minutes or more, don't see a living soul or even a moving vehicle. I can lie down in the middle of the street and know that I probably won't have to move for at least ten minutes. Granted, these things used to be totally common and normal to me. But in the first few days, my thoughts were, "Oh, wow. This is WEIRD!" I guess to a certain extent this mission has served to make me a stranger even in my home. I think that's a good thing, though.
It becomes more difficult when I go chest to chest with prejudices and misconceptions harbored by people I love. My first and last Sunday with my home congregation was just such a difficulty. Although I understand that we had little time to share together, it seemed as though my home congregants simply wanted to pat me on the back and praise me for doing such a good thing instead of hearing what I actually did. I knew better to be in story mode...truthfully I was too flustered and tired to even share much of myself at all. But....well, let me just give one conversation for an example.
As I was headed out the door of the church, an older woman stopped me. I didn't know her name, only her face, but when she greeted me I turned with a smile. She embraced me and said, "I've been praying for you this whole time. I'm so glad you're back." Hearing that made me smile, and really feel like someone was going to care and be sensitive to my heart at that transitional moment. I thanked her and told her that I deeply appreciated it. Then she continued, "Well, I've been so worried about you in that situation. Dealing with those homeless, those vagrants, those (politically incorrect monikers that I can't remember the exact term of). I've seen those types around. I just can't imagine...I was so worried about you."
At that, my soul grabbed its side and stumbled back from her, wounded. But my mouth said, "Oh, no! It was a great experience! I never once felt really threatened or in danger. They're lovely folks. It's just so difficult to live out there. People are working three jobs and it's still not enough for rent because it's so expensive. Really, ma'am, they're just like you and I. If I moved out there, I'd be in their same situation...most times they're just one check away from a home, or they're homeless because one check didn't come through. Really, it could be you or me."
She smiled and said "But for the grace of God, I suppose." But, to the best of my perception, she said it with no understanding. Thinking about it later, I realized she couldn't possibly--just like three months ago I couldn't have possibly understood.
I left the church feeling exhausted, aching to be back at Rising Hope with my friends. My dear, dear friends.
My family.
Yet, being back in Greenville has opened a window to parts of me I'd forgotten. Being back with friends from here makes my heart do a little jig. Angela and Josh's wedding was crazy and breathtakingly beautiful--not to mention the scenery. Having the chance to be ensconced in the Holy Spirit and watch the mysterious beauty of two people becoming officially one in the eyes of the state, the country, their friends, and the Holy Spirit gave me chills and sent tears down my cheeks. Moving in to and goofing around in this beautiful apartment with 4 beautiful women has been glorious and leaves me feeling as though life is moving forward in a trustworthy (though still disconcerting) way. My lungs have filled back up with clean midwest air and I'm back with my beloved, beautiful corn fields and the plain country beauty I've grown to love.
I do feel whole, even though I realize that pieces of me are scattered across the nation and the world. It's beautiful, it really is. And I love this. I plan to keep living it.
But oh I do miss everyone in Virginia, and all my dear GBGM-SMI (jib-uh-jim smee) friends.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Let the River Flow
You who turn justice into biterness and cast righteousness to the ground...you trample on the poor and force him to give you grain. Therefore, though you have built stone mansions, you will not live in them; though you have planted lush vineyards, you will not drink their wine. For I know how many are your offenses and how great your sins. You oppress the righteous and take bribes and you drprive the poor of justice in the courts. Threfore the prudent man keeps quiet in such times,for the times are evil.
Seek good, not evil, that you may live. Then the Lord God Almighty will be with you, just as you say he is. Hate evil, love good, maintain justice in the courts. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty will have mercy on the remnant of Joseph.
I hate, I despise your religious feasts. I (cannot stand your assemblies. Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them. Though you bring choice fellowship offerings, I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen to the music of your harps.
But let justice roll on like a mighty river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!
Let the poor man say I am rich in Him...
Let the dead man say I'm alive in Him...
and let the river flow.
I've sung that song many times, but I've never listened to it with an ounce of understanding. But tonight I stood in a church for a recovery meeting and sang these words with a few friends who ARE poor and a couple who have lived feeling like walking dead. But the richness of this song (and as my mind linked to) these verses in Amos is beyond compare. I've been missing it, but tonight everything came together.
The book of Amos is responsible in large part for my being here at Rising Hope this summer. I find such beauty in the prophets, and especially in this one. They deliver power-laden roundhouse kicks to my jaw and leave me broken before the will of God, yet I find myself smiling as I spit out my teeth. I am happy to be without them if they are the cost of being drawn closer to God.
I didn't walk into Amos with the intent of being reshaped. All I wanted was to get a paper done for my Prophets class and Amos was a short book with a very clear viewpoint and style of rhetoric. I approached the book apathetically, hoping to quickly move through it, analyze it, and leave it.
Not surprisingly, things did not go as I had intended. Instead of chewing up this book and regurgitating it to my professor, Amos chewed me up and regurgitated me at God's feet. In the prophet's descriptions of indulgent Israel I saw a mirror image of myself and my people in all our grotesque habits and ignorance. I saw God looking at me, my church, my friends, and saying "I don't want your songs and your pianos and your skits. I want my people and my friends to be taken care of and brought in, and then we will all worship in fullness together. Until you do that for me, guys...something's always gonna be missing." So I said, forget my other options for this summer. I'm going with GBGM. I'm going to take this opportunity and find what I'm missing.
I found it.
I found people who really need God instead of just including him as a sort of spiritual life insurance policy.
I found people who mean the words they sing on Sundays and Thursdays, because in most instances they are unable to meet their needs--only God can.
And being with them, I see now that I am looking into another mirror, and I am seeing myself again. I have been awakened to my own deep, hungry, desperate need for God. I have started to really mean the words I'm singing and to really hear what the words are saying. What was it the scripture said?
"Seek good, not evil, that you may live. Perhaps then the Lord God Almighty will be with you just as you say he is."
Seeking good involves the good of all. It's connecting with others, caring about them and for them. Yet often when I seek good, I assume I am doing it for their sake. But I
was
wrong.
Seeking good for others is for my sake. It's so I might live. It's so I might figure out that I need, too. It's so I might find God where God has always preferred to dwell--in the margins, with the people that no one but Him will claim.
And suddenly in those connections and in that caring, God appears. Amos says seek justice, good, kindness---maybe then God will actually be as present as you say he is.
Dripping with sarcasm.* Just how I like it.
Let justice flow, you fools, and of course God will be there.
Make things right, you fools, and of course God will dwell among you. He'll finally be able to! Love knows love. Love lives where love lives. A just God will live where there is justice...
why did I not get this until now?
(*denotes that this is how I perceive the verse in my mind. If you have utter knowledge as to why this verse isn't sarcastic...you're right, I'm wrong. K?)
P.S. I seem to have lost the ability to write coherently for any span of time. I hate this about myself and apologize for those of you suffering and trying to comprehend this. However, I know that in order to get anywhere I have to turn the internal editor OFF and just come back to these things later to better them. So, yeah, sorry for now.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Beautiful Goodbye.
Yesterday. Last Sunday at Rising Hope.
All I can think of is, “Why was that so much harder than I had anticipated?”
I think it’s because I encountered a love that was unexpected.
Towards the end of the service, Pastor Keary called both interns to the front with him. Charles and I stole looks at each other from our place in the choir section, then submitted. We went with blushing necks and hunched shoulders and took our places beside the Pastor. We laughed as he showed a picture as “evidence,” against us, the culprits behind the toilet papering of his office. But then, as the laughter died down, something beautiful and painfully uncomfortable happened.
Apparently, there is an Order of Farewell in the services of the United Methodist Church. Keary had adapted this for Charles and I, and he began to lead the congregation through the service. My eyes cast about in my head like swivels, I think; I can’t remember staring at any one thing too long. But as that beautiful, oddly matched congregation of self-professed goofballs and screw-ups spoke their love for us, joy in our coming, and sorrow at our departure, everything sank into my chest at once.
And then it all rose upward to lodge in my throat. Come to think of it, it was sort of like a big mushroom cloud.
That’s a good descriptor for this goodbye. A tiny little atomic bomb detonating in my chest, then sending waves out into my body and a cloud up through my throat to mist over my eyes.
After it was over, Charles and I were given a moment to rebut during which I stammered and probably made very little since. I was just sort of overwhelmed and touched and blown light years away from whatever summary I thought I’d had of this experience. Everything. Sunk. In.
And now, I’m leaving it.
We took prayer requests, as usual. And as it turns out, a regular member of our congregation will end up homeless at the end of this week unless she and her husband receive a miracle. Hearing that, another bomb dropped. All of these people, working all this time to get people off the street and keep them off the street, and here one of our own is suffering the same thing? She herself was regularly involved in the food ministry, and I didn’t realize it, but she seemed to really love Charles and I. One more, I kept thinking. One more gets turned out on the street. It didn’t seem helpless or hopeless—it just seemed wrong.
“911? We have more babies.” (that’s an intern training joke that you probably will not get, but describes the situation perfectly.)
And then, after a special prayer for Carol and Eric, we sang “Let it Rise.” And a miracle happened. Despite the sadness of some of the congregants, despite being awash in mixed feelings within myself, we had a true, awesome, dancing and laughing worship experience. Dale’s little Brianna and Christopher stood in the choir with us, and Brianna sang at the top of her lungs. She put her arm around my back and we swung our skirts together and goofed off through the whole thing. I winked at Aliah and Tay-Tay on the other side of the room and they gave me shy smiles back.
And God said it was good.
Aliah and Tay-Tay scrambled up to me after the service. With hand on one hip, a perfect imitation of a grown woman, 9 yr. old Aliah said to me “You know you ain’t leavin’ without us!” And then she became a little girl again, scaling my body until she was balanced on my hip, arms and legs wrapped all around me. And I stood there and hugged her, never having realized that she took notice of my presence. Tay-Tay, who had come to programs even less than Aliah, also gave me hugs and asked sadly, “Why you gotta leave us?”
To which I replied, “I have to go back to school.”
“Why?”
“So I can get a good job where I can work to help people like they do here at Rising Hope.”
“Yeah…but you know, nobody wants you to leave…”
And I paused, and finally responded, “Well, neither do I.”
Both girls will be at camp all this week. So we had our final goodbyes there at church. I hated it.
I guess it’s how life goes, though.
And that’s how life will go all this week. Shoot.
All I can think of is, “Why was that so much harder than I had anticipated?”
I think it’s because I encountered a love that was unexpected.
Towards the end of the service, Pastor Keary called both interns to the front with him. Charles and I stole looks at each other from our place in the choir section, then submitted. We went with blushing necks and hunched shoulders and took our places beside the Pastor. We laughed as he showed a picture as “evidence,” against us, the culprits behind the toilet papering of his office. But then, as the laughter died down, something beautiful and painfully uncomfortable happened.
Apparently, there is an Order of Farewell in the services of the United Methodist Church. Keary had adapted this for Charles and I, and he began to lead the congregation through the service. My eyes cast about in my head like swivels, I think; I can’t remember staring at any one thing too long. But as that beautiful, oddly matched congregation of self-professed goofballs and screw-ups spoke their love for us, joy in our coming, and sorrow at our departure, everything sank into my chest at once.
And then it all rose upward to lodge in my throat. Come to think of it, it was sort of like a big mushroom cloud.
That’s a good descriptor for this goodbye. A tiny little atomic bomb detonating in my chest, then sending waves out into my body and a cloud up through my throat to mist over my eyes.
After it was over, Charles and I were given a moment to rebut during which I stammered and probably made very little since. I was just sort of overwhelmed and touched and blown light years away from whatever summary I thought I’d had of this experience. Everything. Sunk. In.
And now, I’m leaving it.
We took prayer requests, as usual. And as it turns out, a regular member of our congregation will end up homeless at the end of this week unless she and her husband receive a miracle. Hearing that, another bomb dropped. All of these people, working all this time to get people off the street and keep them off the street, and here one of our own is suffering the same thing? She herself was regularly involved in the food ministry, and I didn’t realize it, but she seemed to really love Charles and I. One more, I kept thinking. One more gets turned out on the street. It didn’t seem helpless or hopeless—it just seemed wrong.
“911? We have more babies.” (that’s an intern training joke that you probably will not get, but describes the situation perfectly.)
And then, after a special prayer for Carol and Eric, we sang “Let it Rise.” And a miracle happened. Despite the sadness of some of the congregants, despite being awash in mixed feelings within myself, we had a true, awesome, dancing and laughing worship experience. Dale’s little Brianna and Christopher stood in the choir with us, and Brianna sang at the top of her lungs. She put her arm around my back and we swung our skirts together and goofed off through the whole thing. I winked at Aliah and Tay-Tay on the other side of the room and they gave me shy smiles back.
And God said it was good.
Aliah and Tay-Tay scrambled up to me after the service. With hand on one hip, a perfect imitation of a grown woman, 9 yr. old Aliah said to me “You know you ain’t leavin’ without us!” And then she became a little girl again, scaling my body until she was balanced on my hip, arms and legs wrapped all around me. And I stood there and hugged her, never having realized that she took notice of my presence. Tay-Tay, who had come to programs even less than Aliah, also gave me hugs and asked sadly, “Why you gotta leave us?”
To which I replied, “I have to go back to school.”
“Why?”
“So I can get a good job where I can work to help people like they do here at Rising Hope.”
“Yeah…but you know, nobody wants you to leave…”
And I paused, and finally responded, “Well, neither do I.”
Both girls will be at camp all this week. So we had our final goodbyes there at church. I hated it.
I guess it’s how life goes, though.
And that’s how life will go all this week. Shoot.
A Prayer: 6/23/08
I wrote this after reading a section of Shane Claiborne's "The Irresistable Revolution," where he describes his trip to Iraq as a peacemaker. Specifically, his visit to a children's hospital where he witnessed a young girl, horribly marred, rocking back and forth repeating "What did I ever do to America?" After this incident, he spoke with a doctor who said sadly, "Violence is for those who have lost their imagination. Has your country lost its imagination?"
I had to put the book down. I was crying. This is my heart's response.
Lord, it has to end. The violence, the war, the injustice, the aloneness, the terror...
it has to end! And while I want the satisfaction of feeling that I'm standing at your door, pounding and screaming for you to come rescue us, I don't get it. Instead I find you waiting for me on the porch, hands simply at your sides, saying, "I know. What are you going to do about it?"
And I stand here, dumbly, and then sink to my knees, crying, "I don't know! God, I don't know...! I just can't stand it anymore."
But you, you stand there and you look at me and I know I'm the problem.
But I know I'll never be enough.
Oh God, help us. Help us! It has to end.
It's not enough that God loves us. It's not enough that he finds us beautiful and special.
He loves them.
Theyare beautiful and special, and that is the reality, no matter who our "they" may be.
...but I need my prayers to change. Change from "God, when will they understand" to "God, help us to understand." Because they are both the oppressed and the oppressors, the war victims and the warmongers. And I am bound up in both of them.
I have sinned against so many. The vastness is just beginning to sink in. I ache for the sin in me, for the wrong I've done in passivity, entitlement, self-centeredness, and greed. I am so quick to seek happiness for me and mine that I idly allow others to be crushed in labor until my purchase profits their crushing Big Foot.
God, I need forgiveness, and with it I know repentance is not an option but a requirement. But I wonder about tripping over my humanity. God, I wonder about my frailty and my inability to follow through.
To follow You.
And God repeated, for the billionth time, "I factored failure into the equation long before you ever did, and it still equals out that I love you. Besides, it's a journey we're on together."
And photos faded in and out on my computer screen saver, most of them containing faces from Rising Hope.
The Holy Spirit whispered, "Aren't they worth it?"
My oh-so-timid heart whispered, "Yes."
God, I don't know where to begin, but, I'm beginning. I'm naked--no pledges to hold before me or promises to cover me. I can't keep a single one. But God, this life is worth so much more of me and I don't know where that more of me is. Please awaken it, sustain it. Help me help it to grow. Times like this I get so overwhelmed with passion...I want to hop planes to Iraq, take years off of school. But what do you want me to do? (And the questions in my heart begin to surface, breaking the flow.)And Scripture whispers to my heart, calming it, saying "Behold, I am with you always..."
Another piece of my Self broke away and blew into the dark room. I get the feeling it floated all the way to the stars, and maybe it glimmers there, now free to be a part of something bigger than little old me.
I think when you lose yourself it's easier to breathe. When you lose yourself, the whole world breathes with you.
I had to put the book down. I was crying. This is my heart's response.
Lord, it has to end. The violence, the war, the injustice, the aloneness, the terror...
it has to end! And while I want the satisfaction of feeling that I'm standing at your door, pounding and screaming for you to come rescue us, I don't get it. Instead I find you waiting for me on the porch, hands simply at your sides, saying, "I know. What are you going to do about it?"
And I stand here, dumbly, and then sink to my knees, crying, "I don't know! God, I don't know...! I just can't stand it anymore."
But you, you stand there and you look at me and I know I'm the problem.
But I know I'll never be enough.
Oh God, help us. Help us! It has to end.
It's not enough that God loves us. It's not enough that he finds us beautiful and special.
He loves them.
Theyare beautiful and special, and that is the reality, no matter who our "they" may be.
...but I need my prayers to change. Change from "God, when will they understand" to "God, help us to understand." Because they are both the oppressed and the oppressors, the war victims and the warmongers. And I am bound up in both of them.
I have sinned against so many. The vastness is just beginning to sink in. I ache for the sin in me, for the wrong I've done in passivity, entitlement, self-centeredness, and greed. I am so quick to seek happiness for me and mine that I idly allow others to be crushed in labor until my purchase profits their crushing Big Foot.
God, I need forgiveness, and with it I know repentance is not an option but a requirement. But I wonder about tripping over my humanity. God, I wonder about my frailty and my inability to follow through.
To follow You.
And God repeated, for the billionth time, "I factored failure into the equation long before you ever did, and it still equals out that I love you. Besides, it's a journey we're on together."
And photos faded in and out on my computer screen saver, most of them containing faces from Rising Hope.
The Holy Spirit whispered, "Aren't they worth it?"
My oh-so-timid heart whispered, "Yes."
God, I don't know where to begin, but, I'm beginning. I'm naked--no pledges to hold before me or promises to cover me. I can't keep a single one. But God, this life is worth so much more of me and I don't know where that more of me is. Please awaken it, sustain it. Help me help it to grow. Times like this I get so overwhelmed with passion...I want to hop planes to Iraq, take years off of school. But what do you want me to do? (And the questions in my heart begin to surface, breaking the flow.)And Scripture whispers to my heart, calming it, saying "Behold, I am with you always..."
Another piece of my Self broke away and blew into the dark room. I get the feeling it floated all the way to the stars, and maybe it glimmers there, now free to be a part of something bigger than little old me.
I think when you lose yourself it's easier to breathe. When you lose yourself, the whole world breathes with you.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Getting It Together.
So today is the most glorious and inimitable Saturday, the most popular day of the week for all things fun and family and lazy. Today has afforded me the rare opportunity to have the house to myself in the quiet sunlight that comes through the windows. I've been quite lazy and a little domestic (i.e. I used the microwave and am doing laundry) but what's really great is I've had a chance to tie up some loose ends.
The thing I find about tying up loose ends, though, is that there always seem to be question marks dangling off of them.
Maybe this is a trait that's unique to me. For example, I located my itenerary for my trip back to New York and then home and found that everything was in order. I contacted my dear MIRYAP (missionary-in-residence for young adult programs) for my weekly check-in (as per my program) and asked her about travel plans as well. Then I sat back, expecting to feel a sense of contentment--you know, that feeling you get when you've checked something off the list.
I didn't feel any such thing.
Instead, I found myself wondering how I'm going to manage this whole leaving bit once I (seemingly) just got used to staying.
When I left home, many people I spoke to expressed concerns about my safety. Now that I'm returning to it, I think life at home...Beardstown, Greenville...is a lot more dangerous than life at Rising Hope. At least, it is for me. It is so easy to get comfortable at home. All that comfort surrounds me like a buffer. Complacency settles in around my shoulders and Comfort bubble-wraps me in, away from the world's, the US's, Greenville's urgent problems. It's easy to stay on top of things when I'm in the nation's capital working with the poor while the rich (and occasionally oblivious) legislate away. Of course homelessness seems urgent to me when I work with the homeless every day and suddenly one of our people goes missing for 5 days. Of course it seems urgent when a critical resource center for my friends and coworkers is in danger of being shut down.
How urgent will it seem when I'm in a classroom surrounded by other comfortable people like me?
How urgent will it seem when the homeless are hidden in St. Louis alleyways 50 miles away?
How urgent will it seem when I'm in the Union at 1 in the morning watching The Dark Knight when it comes out on DVD in February?
Although I understand that I don't have to feel that all-out sense of urgency every minute of every day, I still fear the creeping power of comfort, which leads to complacency, which leads to apathy. I know it will be a temptation, and it's a sweet one; it comes so stealthily. But now that I know what I know, home has become the dangerous place. In the face of all this adversity, diversity, and scattered privelege, I can feel vitality filling my soul and guiding me through.
But home is dangerous. If I'm not careful, this vibrant soul-life will slowly die, and with it will go my true care for the greater problems and issues I've come to notice.
(I don't mean to say in any of this that people at home don't care about these issues or don't work to resolve them--this is not a feeling that minimizes home. It's just a struggle that I anticipate within myself based on the ways that I interact with the world around me.)
I get squirmy when I think about these things. And that's okay. It's usually in my times of general unrest that I get the most done. So, my unrest pushed me forward to think about and research how I could live out my experience at Rising Hope. I find myself, much like Mayjean, seeking shalom. I want that holistic, all-permeating life that integrates my experiences and the experiences of others and of God into one beautiful whole. I simply can't allow myself to let these people, faces, and stories live in a little 2-month compartment in my heart; they deserve more than that and they are more than that to me. I want this to be about my whole life and I want my whole life to be about this. So I thought about the next possible step...
and clicked over to the Peace Corps website.
I read all the material there, then clicked over to another website that gave me a little more of an unbiased history of the organization. Then I went back to the PC site. Did you know that there is a program in Morocco for youth services? Did you know that an ability to speak Arabic is a plus? Did you know that only 6% of PC programs are youth-oriented and only 2 countries in the Middle East are receiving PC volunteers?
Neither did I.
All I knew is that I really wanted to go to the Middle East (or anywhere overseas, but I do really want to go there),
I really loved learning Arabic,
and I've always loved working with youth.
Now, I'm not saying that this is "like, totally definitely completely amazing and I'm so like going to do this." But it's out there. It's a possibility that excites me to no end. On the surface (and I am careful to note that it's only surface,) it seems like a wonderful blend of everything I'd want to do.
I guess I'm just excited. Every big adventure begins with knowledge of the possibility, and now I have the knowledge.
Step One.
Now, it's occuring to me that this is a really rambly post and I'm supposed to be getting Cold Stone with Charles and then seeing Transformers for free at an outdoor film festival. I can't really think of a good way to wind this up elegantly either, something classy like this:
FIN.
The thing I find about tying up loose ends, though, is that there always seem to be question marks dangling off of them.
Maybe this is a trait that's unique to me. For example, I located my itenerary for my trip back to New York and then home and found that everything was in order. I contacted my dear MIRYAP (missionary-in-residence for young adult programs) for my weekly check-in (as per my program) and asked her about travel plans as well. Then I sat back, expecting to feel a sense of contentment--you know, that feeling you get when you've checked something off the list.
I didn't feel any such thing.
Instead, I found myself wondering how I'm going to manage this whole leaving bit once I (seemingly) just got used to staying.
When I left home, many people I spoke to expressed concerns about my safety. Now that I'm returning to it, I think life at home...Beardstown, Greenville...is a lot more dangerous than life at Rising Hope. At least, it is for me. It is so easy to get comfortable at home. All that comfort surrounds me like a buffer. Complacency settles in around my shoulders and Comfort bubble-wraps me in, away from the world's, the US's, Greenville's urgent problems. It's easy to stay on top of things when I'm in the nation's capital working with the poor while the rich (and occasionally oblivious) legislate away. Of course homelessness seems urgent to me when I work with the homeless every day and suddenly one of our people goes missing for 5 days. Of course it seems urgent when a critical resource center for my friends and coworkers is in danger of being shut down.
How urgent will it seem when I'm in a classroom surrounded by other comfortable people like me?
How urgent will it seem when the homeless are hidden in St. Louis alleyways 50 miles away?
How urgent will it seem when I'm in the Union at 1 in the morning watching The Dark Knight when it comes out on DVD in February?
Although I understand that I don't have to feel that all-out sense of urgency every minute of every day, I still fear the creeping power of comfort, which leads to complacency, which leads to apathy. I know it will be a temptation, and it's a sweet one; it comes so stealthily. But now that I know what I know, home has become the dangerous place. In the face of all this adversity, diversity, and scattered privelege, I can feel vitality filling my soul and guiding me through.
But home is dangerous. If I'm not careful, this vibrant soul-life will slowly die, and with it will go my true care for the greater problems and issues I've come to notice.
(I don't mean to say in any of this that people at home don't care about these issues or don't work to resolve them--this is not a feeling that minimizes home. It's just a struggle that I anticipate within myself based on the ways that I interact with the world around me.)
I get squirmy when I think about these things. And that's okay. It's usually in my times of general unrest that I get the most done. So, my unrest pushed me forward to think about and research how I could live out my experience at Rising Hope. I find myself, much like Mayjean, seeking shalom. I want that holistic, all-permeating life that integrates my experiences and the experiences of others and of God into one beautiful whole. I simply can't allow myself to let these people, faces, and stories live in a little 2-month compartment in my heart; they deserve more than that and they are more than that to me. I want this to be about my whole life and I want my whole life to be about this. So I thought about the next possible step...
and clicked over to the Peace Corps website.
I read all the material there, then clicked over to another website that gave me a little more of an unbiased history of the organization. Then I went back to the PC site. Did you know that there is a program in Morocco for youth services? Did you know that an ability to speak Arabic is a plus? Did you know that only 6% of PC programs are youth-oriented and only 2 countries in the Middle East are receiving PC volunteers?
Neither did I.
All I knew is that I really wanted to go to the Middle East (or anywhere overseas, but I do really want to go there),
I really loved learning Arabic,
and I've always loved working with youth.
Now, I'm not saying that this is "like, totally definitely completely amazing and I'm so like going to do this." But it's out there. It's a possibility that excites me to no end. On the surface (and I am careful to note that it's only surface,) it seems like a wonderful blend of everything I'd want to do.
I guess I'm just excited. Every big adventure begins with knowledge of the possibility, and now I have the knowledge.
Step One.
Now, it's occuring to me that this is a really rambly post and I'm supposed to be getting Cold Stone with Charles and then seeing Transformers for free at an outdoor film festival. I can't really think of a good way to wind this up elegantly either, something classy like this:
FIN.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Beautiful.
A reflection on Acts 3
Beautiful
I sit at a gate called b\Beautiful
and the women who pass me are Beautiful
and the colors and worship around me are Beautiful
and I know, deep in my heart,
I feel God is Beautiful.
But while the beauty gleams above me
and steps around me
and always seems to flit just beyond my grasp,
I sit on my mat.
And the Beautiful, strong ankles all hurry past my sightline
and I beg for alms
and the palms that they fall from are always
clean and soft and Beautiful.
God gives me everything I need. I know God is Beautiful.
It is I who am Not Beautiful.
I am so covered in sin and shame. My parents or mine I cannot say, but with these mangled, twisted feet I cannot be Beautiful.
So I like to sit as close as I can get.
And then two men,
weary, dirty,
passed by the gate called Beautiful
but they were not Beautiful, not like the
women and Pharisee men.
I saw as their strong, sturdy ankles moved past, tracing around the delicate ankles of the women. And I saw as they stopped in front of me.
I wondered at those ankles
those straight, balanced toes
but my feet would never be as Beautiful as those.
But the man said look at him
and I raised my eyes and hands
because when you're taking charity the two are linked.
But no alms clinked into my palm;
he spoke grace instead.
He grasped and he pulled on all my dead weight until he fell,
stumbling back again as my weight came alive.
What Beautiful ankles!
What strong, sturdy toes!
What feet that bent and rippled in the ways they were meant!
And the Beautiful people
at the Beautiful gate
on a Beautiful day, all marveled.
They whispered of miracles
and hushedly spoke of power and shalom
and the man who tugged at me spoke on about
a Beautiful God and
a Beautiful Son
and in my heart then I knew all along
I was born, not of sin, but of Beauty.
From then on I sat at the Beautiful Gate
and told any listeners of my Beautiful wait.
How I, too, became Beauty
when Beauty lowered himself to me.
One day Peter and John were going up to the temple at the time of prayer--at three in the afternoon. Now a man crippled from birth was being carried to the temple gate called Beautiful, where he was put every day to beg from those going into the temple courts. When he saw Peter and John about to enter, he asked them for money. Peter looked straight at him, as did John. Then Peter said, "Look at us!" So the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something in return.
Then Peter said, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. He jumped to his feet and began to walk. Then he went with them into the temple courts, praising God. When all the people saw him walking and praising God, they recognized him as the same man who used to sit begging at the gate called Beautiful, and they were filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened to him.
Beautiful
I sit at a gate called b\Beautiful
and the women who pass me are Beautiful
and the colors and worship around me are Beautiful
and I know, deep in my heart,
I feel God is Beautiful.
But while the beauty gleams above me
and steps around me
and always seems to flit just beyond my grasp,
I sit on my mat.
And the Beautiful, strong ankles all hurry past my sightline
and I beg for alms
and the palms that they fall from are always
clean and soft and Beautiful.
God gives me everything I need. I know God is Beautiful.
It is I who am Not Beautiful.
I am so covered in sin and shame. My parents or mine I cannot say, but with these mangled, twisted feet I cannot be Beautiful.
So I like to sit as close as I can get.
And then two men,
weary, dirty,
passed by the gate called Beautiful
but they were not Beautiful, not like the
women and Pharisee men.
I saw as their strong, sturdy ankles moved past, tracing around the delicate ankles of the women. And I saw as they stopped in front of me.
I wondered at those ankles
those straight, balanced toes
but my feet would never be as Beautiful as those.
But the man said look at him
and I raised my eyes and hands
because when you're taking charity the two are linked.
But no alms clinked into my palm;
he spoke grace instead.
He grasped and he pulled on all my dead weight until he fell,
stumbling back again as my weight came alive.
What Beautiful ankles!
What strong, sturdy toes!
What feet that bent and rippled in the ways they were meant!
And the Beautiful people
at the Beautiful gate
on a Beautiful day, all marveled.
They whispered of miracles
and hushedly spoke of power and shalom
and the man who tugged at me spoke on about
a Beautiful God and
a Beautiful Son
and in my heart then I knew all along
I was born, not of sin, but of Beauty.
From then on I sat at the Beautiful Gate
and told any listeners of my Beautiful wait.
How I, too, became Beauty
when Beauty lowered himself to me.
Faith.
I am sometimes reminded just how tenuously we are held together. Everything is mystery--God, love, life, and how all three work--nothing important follows rhyme or reason. All I know is that I am held, completely and utterly, suspended in love and saran-wrapped in mystery. I can feel its static cling all over me--tingling, waiting to spark.
All that is asked of me in return is Trust.
And how short I fall,
but how high I reach.
Faith, for me, is like reaching for a cookie jar set interminably high. Nearly on pointe I stand, calves flexed, spine stretched, brow furrowed in concentration, fingers splayed. I strain and stay in this position until my bones are on fire and my muscles tremor with fatigue. It is a master discouragement to see how very short my fingertips fall from my greatly desired prize. Still I stay, straining, seeming to reach but never grasp.
Then, just when I am on the verge of collapse, it happens! When my shaking becoms most violent, when the fire encapsulated in my bones reaches its peak, when my weakness seems to have overtaken my mass, I collapse...
only to find that, miraculously, what collapsed me was not my weakness but the weight of that big, beautiful cookie jar falling inexplicably off of the shelf and into my lap. With a wallop to the chest it sits me down hard on my rump. When I recover enough to sink my wonderstruck little palm inside, I pull out the biggest, warmest, juicyest, softest cookie imaginable. It's never the same flavor and even though there are always bitter portions to it, they only serve to add to the sweet of the whole. I am always left wanting more, but I am always left filled. I savor the cookie and get horribly messy with crumbs left all over my person, falling from my fingertips and smiling cheeks. And then the jar is replaced and it seems even higher than the last. The stretching begins, the doubt begins, and hope digs in its heels.
Help me, father, to fill the gap between my outstretched fingertips and the Heights with faith. (My child, my child--between your reaching and your grasping is Light. The very thing you reach for, though high, is yours so long as you reach. Remember.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Seriously.
I've been silent for a long time.
I spend a lot of my days at Rising Hope relatively silent--relative to my normal talking rate, that is. I listen. I hear stories, or half-baked rants or complaints or disrespectful comments. If I get honest with myself, I truly don't know what to think about it most of the time. I shake my head, drop my chin, and try to get on with my day. The sheer weight of a lot of the things that go on at Rising Hope is...enormous. And I don't really know what to do about it.
People ask me all the time how I'm liking it here, whether or not I miss home, what I think of the work, etc. etc. but I don't feel like many of them want my real answers. For one, my real answers would take more time than they want to offer me at the moment. For two, they all seem to be looking for some cute anecdote or amazing story of redemption. Truthfully? Very little of what I do is what I would call "cute."
Sure, every Tuesday we allow kids to play in some water games out back in the parking lot and every Wednesday we take them to the movies. And some of them...really all of them...are ridiculously cute. They have moments of being total angels--bright of face, sweet of spirit, unexpressably kind to one another and bear-hugging all of life they can get. And then they have moments where they look a lot more like me and the rest of humanity; whiny, petulant, ungrateful, and brokenly beautiful. But it's so easy to become detached or pessimistic. I flirt with a happy, dazzling four-year-old boy, giggling and tickling and teasing him into eating his lunch, and then I wonder what will happen to him as he grows up. Who will his friends be? What if his mom loses her work? Will he end up out on the street, too? Will he end up behind bars?
Will he, like so many of the people we see every day, become a victim of forces beyond his control and then grow up believing that nothing is in his control?
And I don't mean to make the situation seem hopeless, because it's not. It's so beautiful and messed up and broken and full of stories and redemption and love, but the latter seem so few and far between and the vastness of 2,000 homeless people in one of the richest counties in the richest country in the world...
I just don't know what to do with it. I can't fit it in my head or in my heart or in my arms. I can't find a handhold to grapple with it. Here I am, in the thick of it every day for 5 weeks, and I still can't figure it. I don't know if I'm running from it because it's too hard or if it just needs a lot of time to sink in. Slowly, slowly, it's sinking in. It's penetrating everything. And while that's happening, a lot of well-meaning people are approaching me and saying "So what do you think of your work here?" and I think to myself, you know, I'm really not sure, but I guarantee it's not the answer you're looking for. Usually I throw in the words "challenging" or "stretching" but always end with "but still fun" or "it's really been great to be here."
And I feel fake.
And I sound fake.
But I just don't know what else to do.
The truth is it's discouraging. It's hard. It's frustrating to the point of popping blood vessels, but not because of the craziness coming from our oddball constituents. The people I trip over are the have's, not the have-not's. Some of them work with us. Some of them just bring donations. All of them mean well but clearly harbor some feeling that the homeless are on a different kind of level and seek a different kind of life than they do. A lot of people bring a lot of amazing things to Rising Hope. And a lot of people just bring one man's trash and expect it to be one homeless man's treasure. And sometimes, I just want to look at these people and say, "With all due respect, sir, sometimes trash is just trash, and we're not a disposal service."
But I don't say that.
I take things, and I smile, and I rage inside, and I reflect on Micah 6:8. And that's where God always takes my hand and helps me up after I've tripped over myself, or the Trash Man.
(Act justly.) -yep. I know I've given my best to act justly today.
(Love mercy.) -yep. I know I've really striven to be merciful today.
(Walk humbly with your God.) -ummm...well crap. And then I pray that God will help me take my shaking-with-frustration hand and put it in the hands of those he's placed around me and simply walk. I can't stand uncritically and idly by, but I certainly can't wrench my hand away in disgust and indignant belief that I have found a better way. The fact that these people have found a way is an out-and-out miracle. And I've found my way with them and I like them. Sometimes in spite of myself, but I like them. And like any family we roll our eyes at each other and sometimes want to scream and sometimes get screamed at and sometimes share side-splitting laughter and sometimes feel like walking away and never looking back.
But the minute I see someone messing with one of our people I get so prickly and defensive I can hardly sit still. Sometimes it's people in the Rising Hope family itself. Sometimes, unfortunately, it's the Fairfax County police. And sometimes it's this great invisible wall of Accepted Apathy, and it's built of structures and omissions and dishonesty and government programs and well-meaning people who bring used bottles of salad dressing and 27 year-old pasta packets to people who probably "won't know the difference anyhow."
So I guess this post is me ceasing my 5 week silence. It's me refusing to give the cute story or the patent answer because even though they exist, they're not what it's about and they're not what I've become. I'm raging and railing against the wall of Accepted Apathy aloud now, just like I have been within myself.
But I know that I am not alone.
Martin Luther King railed against that wall. Shane Claiborne rails against that wall. Anne Lamott, Joe Culumber, Pastora Martha de la Rosa, and millions of others rail against the wall.
I grew up reading about the standard subjects for third and fourth graders. I read about Titanic in third grade. I read about the civil war and slavery in the fourth grade. I read about the civil rights movement in fifth grade. But everything that had to do with fights for humanity (I notice in retrospect) struck a deeply resonating chord within me. I devoured everything I could about the civil war and civil rights when I was younger. I checked out nearly all the books about the subjects from my school library. I all but worshipped Harriet Tubman and Rosa Parks and MLK. I was sick at how low-income people were treated on board the Titanic and deeply saddned about how lopsided the survival figures were. And over and over again I would think to myself, pray to God, or whisper beneath my breath, "I hope if I had lived back then I would've gone against slavery." Or segregation. Or allowing 'more important' people onto the lifeboats.
I was leaving the Lincoln Memorial with my mother and father a couple of weeks ago. They had come to visit and we decided to view the monuments by night. We walked along beside the reflecting pool with the words of Abraham Lincoln ringing in our ears, our downhome-boy from Illinois, who wrote these truth-drippingly relevant words in 1865: "Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause
of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself
should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less
fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray
to the same God; and each invokes his aid against the other.
It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's
assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces;
but let us judge not, that we be not judged.""
My mother and I had read those words aloud in the monument and we could feel each of our hearts aching, wondering how it seems we could have gone so far away from that sentiment, wondering why on earth this country had allowed its presidents to seemingly stray so far from it. I asked my Mom how we could have wandered so far away, and quickly she said, "Apathy."
We sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and thought in black-and-white pictures of Martin Luther King and his dream, his demand that Lincoln's signed check of freedom be cashed in 100 years later.
And then we walked along that reflecting pool together and I told them about being little and praying that I would've fought on the right side. "And that's why I'm doing this," I said. "The fight isn't over. There are still things that need fighting. I think that, more than anything, is why I'm doing this this summer." And my Dad said "You're absolutely right." And my Mom said, "Honey, we knew that."
But until then, I hadn't known that.
So my job isn't cutesy. I can't fit my hands around it. I want to yell at the belligerent man who comes to lunch and then criticizes the people who prepare it sometimes. I want to pull my hair out sometimes and sometimes I want to cry, or hide, or just come home. But I couldn't in a million years, because that all-cursed Wall still stands smugly invisible.
...and I can't help thinking that at least if I beat my hands bloody, the color might allow people to notice the wall, and then maybe they'll think that it ought to come down, too. Because then they, like me, will get messed up because they'll always know it's there and it'll drive them crazy. Maybe I can ruin somebody's peaceful, comfortable life. And actually no, not "maybe I."
But maybe I can help the God who makes it an annoying habit to ruin people's peaceful, comfortable lives.
I spend a lot of my days at Rising Hope relatively silent--relative to my normal talking rate, that is. I listen. I hear stories, or half-baked rants or complaints or disrespectful comments. If I get honest with myself, I truly don't know what to think about it most of the time. I shake my head, drop my chin, and try to get on with my day. The sheer weight of a lot of the things that go on at Rising Hope is...enormous. And I don't really know what to do about it.
People ask me all the time how I'm liking it here, whether or not I miss home, what I think of the work, etc. etc. but I don't feel like many of them want my real answers. For one, my real answers would take more time than they want to offer me at the moment. For two, they all seem to be looking for some cute anecdote or amazing story of redemption. Truthfully? Very little of what I do is what I would call "cute."
Sure, every Tuesday we allow kids to play in some water games out back in the parking lot and every Wednesday we take them to the movies. And some of them...really all of them...are ridiculously cute. They have moments of being total angels--bright of face, sweet of spirit, unexpressably kind to one another and bear-hugging all of life they can get. And then they have moments where they look a lot more like me and the rest of humanity; whiny, petulant, ungrateful, and brokenly beautiful. But it's so easy to become detached or pessimistic. I flirt with a happy, dazzling four-year-old boy, giggling and tickling and teasing him into eating his lunch, and then I wonder what will happen to him as he grows up. Who will his friends be? What if his mom loses her work? Will he end up out on the street, too? Will he end up behind bars?
Will he, like so many of the people we see every day, become a victim of forces beyond his control and then grow up believing that nothing is in his control?
And I don't mean to make the situation seem hopeless, because it's not. It's so beautiful and messed up and broken and full of stories and redemption and love, but the latter seem so few and far between and the vastness of 2,000 homeless people in one of the richest counties in the richest country in the world...
I just don't know what to do with it. I can't fit it in my head or in my heart or in my arms. I can't find a handhold to grapple with it. Here I am, in the thick of it every day for 5 weeks, and I still can't figure it. I don't know if I'm running from it because it's too hard or if it just needs a lot of time to sink in. Slowly, slowly, it's sinking in. It's penetrating everything. And while that's happening, a lot of well-meaning people are approaching me and saying "So what do you think of your work here?" and I think to myself, you know, I'm really not sure, but I guarantee it's not the answer you're looking for. Usually I throw in the words "challenging" or "stretching" but always end with "but still fun" or "it's really been great to be here."
And I feel fake.
And I sound fake.
But I just don't know what else to do.
The truth is it's discouraging. It's hard. It's frustrating to the point of popping blood vessels, but not because of the craziness coming from our oddball constituents. The people I trip over are the have's, not the have-not's. Some of them work with us. Some of them just bring donations. All of them mean well but clearly harbor some feeling that the homeless are on a different kind of level and seek a different kind of life than they do. A lot of people bring a lot of amazing things to Rising Hope. And a lot of people just bring one man's trash and expect it to be one homeless man's treasure. And sometimes, I just want to look at these people and say, "With all due respect, sir, sometimes trash is just trash, and we're not a disposal service."
But I don't say that.
I take things, and I smile, and I rage inside, and I reflect on Micah 6:8. And that's where God always takes my hand and helps me up after I've tripped over myself, or the Trash Man.
(Act justly.) -yep. I know I've given my best to act justly today.
(Love mercy.) -yep. I know I've really striven to be merciful today.
(Walk humbly with your God.) -ummm...well crap. And then I pray that God will help me take my shaking-with-frustration hand and put it in the hands of those he's placed around me and simply walk. I can't stand uncritically and idly by, but I certainly can't wrench my hand away in disgust and indignant belief that I have found a better way. The fact that these people have found a way is an out-and-out miracle. And I've found my way with them and I like them. Sometimes in spite of myself, but I like them. And like any family we roll our eyes at each other and sometimes want to scream and sometimes get screamed at and sometimes share side-splitting laughter and sometimes feel like walking away and never looking back.
But the minute I see someone messing with one of our people I get so prickly and defensive I can hardly sit still. Sometimes it's people in the Rising Hope family itself. Sometimes, unfortunately, it's the Fairfax County police. And sometimes it's this great invisible wall of Accepted Apathy, and it's built of structures and omissions and dishonesty and government programs and well-meaning people who bring used bottles of salad dressing and 27 year-old pasta packets to people who probably "won't know the difference anyhow."
So I guess this post is me ceasing my 5 week silence. It's me refusing to give the cute story or the patent answer because even though they exist, they're not what it's about and they're not what I've become. I'm raging and railing against the wall of Accepted Apathy aloud now, just like I have been within myself.
But I know that I am not alone.
Martin Luther King railed against that wall. Shane Claiborne rails against that wall. Anne Lamott, Joe Culumber, Pastora Martha de la Rosa, and millions of others rail against the wall.
I grew up reading about the standard subjects for third and fourth graders. I read about Titanic in third grade. I read about the civil war and slavery in the fourth grade. I read about the civil rights movement in fifth grade. But everything that had to do with fights for humanity (I notice in retrospect) struck a deeply resonating chord within me. I devoured everything I could about the civil war and civil rights when I was younger. I checked out nearly all the books about the subjects from my school library. I all but worshipped Harriet Tubman and Rosa Parks and MLK. I was sick at how low-income people were treated on board the Titanic and deeply saddned about how lopsided the survival figures were. And over and over again I would think to myself, pray to God, or whisper beneath my breath, "I hope if I had lived back then I would've gone against slavery." Or segregation. Or allowing 'more important' people onto the lifeboats.
I was leaving the Lincoln Memorial with my mother and father a couple of weeks ago. They had come to visit and we decided to view the monuments by night. We walked along beside the reflecting pool with the words of Abraham Lincoln ringing in our ears, our downhome-boy from Illinois, who wrote these truth-drippingly relevant words in 1865: "Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause
of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself
should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less
fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray
to the same God; and each invokes his aid against the other.
It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's
assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces;
but let us judge not, that we be not judged.""
My mother and I had read those words aloud in the monument and we could feel each of our hearts aching, wondering how it seems we could have gone so far away from that sentiment, wondering why on earth this country had allowed its presidents to seemingly stray so far from it. I asked my Mom how we could have wandered so far away, and quickly she said, "Apathy."
We sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and thought in black-and-white pictures of Martin Luther King and his dream, his demand that Lincoln's signed check of freedom be cashed in 100 years later.
And then we walked along that reflecting pool together and I told them about being little and praying that I would've fought on the right side. "And that's why I'm doing this," I said. "The fight isn't over. There are still things that need fighting. I think that, more than anything, is why I'm doing this this summer." And my Dad said "You're absolutely right." And my Mom said, "Honey, we knew that."
But until then, I hadn't known that.
So my job isn't cutesy. I can't fit my hands around it. I want to yell at the belligerent man who comes to lunch and then criticizes the people who prepare it sometimes. I want to pull my hair out sometimes and sometimes I want to cry, or hide, or just come home. But I couldn't in a million years, because that all-cursed Wall still stands smugly invisible.
...and I can't help thinking that at least if I beat my hands bloody, the color might allow people to notice the wall, and then maybe they'll think that it ought to come down, too. Because then they, like me, will get messed up because they'll always know it's there and it'll drive them crazy. Maybe I can ruin somebody's peaceful, comfortable life. And actually no, not "maybe I."
But maybe I can help the God who makes it an annoying habit to ruin people's peaceful, comfortable lives.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
((See What I See))
National Zoo:
Tree-vore's animal double.
Note the genus/species above.
Dan's animal double.
The King Cobra--Hannah--A Formidable Foe
D.C. Carribean Carnival
Car-nee-VAL!!!!
Street-wise
I want to be a peacock one day, too.
4th of Joo-lye
1) Parade
"I mean how often is there a 300 ft. cartoon dog loose over the city?"
"ALMOST NEVER!"
President Garfield?
Patriotic Krishnas!
2) Concert a la Mall
Me and the Mormons
3) Brought to you live from the Jefferson Memorial
Pi-
Rho-
Technics.
Oh, and P.S...
shout out to Mama Loeffler! Thanks for letting me borrow your son kinda. =)
Tree-vore's animal double.
Note the genus/species above.
Dan's animal double.
The King Cobra--Hannah--A Formidable Foe
D.C. Carribean Carnival
Car-nee-VAL!!!!
Street-wise
I want to be a peacock one day, too.
4th of Joo-lye
1) Parade
"I mean how often is there a 300 ft. cartoon dog loose over the city?"
"ALMOST NEVER!"
President Garfield?
Patriotic Krishnas!
2) Concert a la Mall
Me and the Mormons
3) Brought to you live from the Jefferson Memorial
Pi-
Rho-
Technics.
Oh, and P.S...
shout out to Mama Loeffler! Thanks for letting me borrow your son kinda. =)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Water Balloons, Minas Tirith, and Terrorist Clipboards.
So it's been awhile since I last posted. Let's take it a day at a time, shall we?
Saturday:
FAMILY FUN FAIR!
A day of popcorn, pizza, hotdogs, lemonade, jumprope, moonbounce, and 300 screaming children. Can we say Awe-sum? Other than being bitten by the popcorn machine and almost assassinated by a kite-toting, sprinting first grader, I survived. (My index finger has a large blood blister and there's a fishing line cut across my ankles, though.) I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who sustained any injuries, though, and with 300 kids running around on asphalt, that's a pretty good record. No one can say that Rising Hope folks don't know how to do a party!
On my end, too, it was really great to see the fruits of the hard work Charles and I had put in. Do you have any idea how long we tried to figure out how to translate 'moon bounce' into Spanish? (In the end we just gave up and put "trampolin.")Several of the kids and parents I had handed out fliers to ended up coming, so it was nice to be able to smile and say "Hey there! I'm really glad you decided to come." I was given the privelege of manning the popcorn machine as well, so I almost felt like I had jumped into a wormhole between childhood summers in the Rice Field Snack Shack back home and this new, crazy summer in the middle of Alexandria, VA.
The day also uncovered a talent I never knew I had. Upon our arrival that morning, Charles and I needed to fill 300 water balloons. Yes, 300. And we had about an hour and a half. In the end, I tied 200 in about an hour and ten minutes--pretty much one balloon every 20 seconds. For whatever reason, I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment while I was tying those balloons like a one-woman machine. I kind of want a medal to hang around my neck: The unofficial Fastest Water Balloon Maker in the WORLD! (WORLD! would be written in glitter, by the way.)
Anyway, our 300 water balloons were used in one of the largest games of balloon toss I've ever seen. It went about 6 rounds; we finally called it quits when the kids started getting a little violent with the tossing. Charles and I even got a chance to get in on the action. I think both of us played twice. I made it into the finals at one point, but we ended up tying with the other partners who were still in. And, I admit it, I "bobbled" the balloon in order to make it so. All in all, it was a good day. I left with my legs throbbing to the bone and admittedly a bit sick of kids and aggravating parents, but it was still a blast and a half.
Sunday:
Relatively unremarkable. I was exhausted, so I went to church, sang, and came home.
Monday:
FIRST DAY OFF! WHEEEEEEE! Who let the interns out?
Charles and I ventured into Old Town Alexandria for an afternoon of aimless wandering. We began by searching out cheap parking (which took awhile) and then set out on foot. It's a beautiful neighborhood with lots of odd little shops as well as your typical Restoration Hardwares and Banana Republics. (There's an Ann Taylor Loft as well, which I may need to return to when you get here, Mom...they have a great petites section...) We decided to just walk downhill because that would likely lead us to the waterfront and, of course, we were right.
We also stumbled upon a wonderful place full of awkward beauty: The Torpedo Factory. Down on the waterfront, an old WWII torpedo factory has been converted into an artist's colony. It's beautiful and funky and smells like dried clay and turpentine and creativity (which is code for artsy-building smells that I don't know how to label.) At one point I found myself staring into a huge ball made of what looked like tin can cylinders and discovering that as I looked, parts of my soul were being sucked into the center never to return to me again. (At least, that's what the description block said. The piece was titled "The Center of the Known Universe." The guy was...quirky.) My soul feels intact to me, but it's hard to assert my opinions when I'm up against the center of everything. Then again, there is also a center of everything in Delphi, Greece...maybe we could put them close to each other and see what happens!
After the Torpedo Factory, we grabbed some frozen yogurt and strolled down the waterfront. Eventually we just made ourselves at home on a big rock near the water and chatted. There was some trepidation in our chatting, though, because after we sat down we were perpetually surrounded by maniacal birds. We'd have six little finches sitting at our feet staring at us menacingly while we talked. I kept getting unnerved--I swore one was just going to walk up to my shoe, peck it, and then we'd be flocked. To this, Charles simply suggested, "Eh, just punch it."
Finch-punching? I'M IN! (Not really...please don't call PETA or anything...)
After narrowly escaping our encounter with the bird mafia, we set forth in search of victuals. It is at this point in our excursion that we stumbled upon Bilbo Baggins' Wine Bar!
It was tasty!
It was epic!
It was orc-free and hobbit-licious!
I did note one stark contradiction, however. In this hobbit-namesake establishment, the majority of tables were the lofted kind where, if you're me, you sit on a chair as tall as you are and dangle your feet with varying degrees of discomfort. I ask you, how could Bilbo have eaten at his own establishment?
After our lovely stay in the Shire, we moseyed over to Arlington National Cemetery which was just up the road. Long story short: We saw beautiful monuments, we felt respectful and grateful and connected to centuries of American history, we saw the changing of the guard, and then
we got soaked.
In a downpour.
Which then became a huge gale, but thankfully not until we had reached the van.
There was a great beauty in it, though. I got to walk leisurely through Arlington National Cemetery barefoot and in the rain. The thing that struck me about it was the beauty I felt in that act. It wasn't at all depressing, though had I envisioned it beforehand I would have assumed it would be. It was very calming and, at least to me, life-affirming. Here we were, a couple of kids, strolling through a downpour as we passed row after row of headstones, many of young men our age. It seemed symbolic to me. It seemed like a way of saying, "What you gave isn't forgotten, and we will walk on with you present in our minds. Not just on solemn memorial days, but in our simple acts, too." It was a good day.
Quote of the afternoon: as we drove into D.C., Charles says in awe "Omygosh, we're in friggin Minas Tirith!"
(...crazy witch-king on the throne and all?)
And it ended with dinner and KUNG FU PANDA.
(I now know the secret ingredient to the secret ingredient soup.)
Tuesday:
Not as fun or epic as Monday, but still good. Slower day at work. Passed a group of protesters standing in front of a building with signs that said "Honk against terrorism" and "Terrorists trained here." Turns out that building was the Institute of Saudi Arabia, an Arab high school owned by the Saudis. I don't know much of the story beyond that.
Also, a clipboard fell off a tall cabinet while I was opening one of the doors. It connected with my forehead and yanked off a small portion of skin above my left eyebrow. I had to wear a band-aid there for awhile, resulting in me looking like a white girl Nelly wannabe.
Pero, esta bien.
Saturday:
FAMILY FUN FAIR!
A day of popcorn, pizza, hotdogs, lemonade, jumprope, moonbounce, and 300 screaming children. Can we say Awe-sum? Other than being bitten by the popcorn machine and almost assassinated by a kite-toting, sprinting first grader, I survived. (My index finger has a large blood blister and there's a fishing line cut across my ankles, though.) I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who sustained any injuries, though, and with 300 kids running around on asphalt, that's a pretty good record. No one can say that Rising Hope folks don't know how to do a party!
On my end, too, it was really great to see the fruits of the hard work Charles and I had put in. Do you have any idea how long we tried to figure out how to translate 'moon bounce' into Spanish? (In the end we just gave up and put "trampolin.")Several of the kids and parents I had handed out fliers to ended up coming, so it was nice to be able to smile and say "Hey there! I'm really glad you decided to come." I was given the privelege of manning the popcorn machine as well, so I almost felt like I had jumped into a wormhole between childhood summers in the Rice Field Snack Shack back home and this new, crazy summer in the middle of Alexandria, VA.
The day also uncovered a talent I never knew I had. Upon our arrival that morning, Charles and I needed to fill 300 water balloons. Yes, 300. And we had about an hour and a half. In the end, I tied 200 in about an hour and ten minutes--pretty much one balloon every 20 seconds. For whatever reason, I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment while I was tying those balloons like a one-woman machine. I kind of want a medal to hang around my neck: The unofficial Fastest Water Balloon Maker in the WORLD! (WORLD! would be written in glitter, by the way.)
Anyway, our 300 water balloons were used in one of the largest games of balloon toss I've ever seen. It went about 6 rounds; we finally called it quits when the kids started getting a little violent with the tossing. Charles and I even got a chance to get in on the action. I think both of us played twice. I made it into the finals at one point, but we ended up tying with the other partners who were still in. And, I admit it, I "bobbled" the balloon in order to make it so. All in all, it was a good day. I left with my legs throbbing to the bone and admittedly a bit sick of kids and aggravating parents, but it was still a blast and a half.
Sunday:
Relatively unremarkable. I was exhausted, so I went to church, sang, and came home.
Monday:
FIRST DAY OFF! WHEEEEEEE! Who let the interns out?
Charles and I ventured into Old Town Alexandria for an afternoon of aimless wandering. We began by searching out cheap parking (which took awhile) and then set out on foot. It's a beautiful neighborhood with lots of odd little shops as well as your typical Restoration Hardwares and Banana Republics. (There's an Ann Taylor Loft as well, which I may need to return to when you get here, Mom...they have a great petites section...) We decided to just walk downhill because that would likely lead us to the waterfront and, of course, we were right.
We also stumbled upon a wonderful place full of awkward beauty: The Torpedo Factory. Down on the waterfront, an old WWII torpedo factory has been converted into an artist's colony. It's beautiful and funky and smells like dried clay and turpentine and creativity (which is code for artsy-building smells that I don't know how to label.) At one point I found myself staring into a huge ball made of what looked like tin can cylinders and discovering that as I looked, parts of my soul were being sucked into the center never to return to me again. (At least, that's what the description block said. The piece was titled "The Center of the Known Universe." The guy was...quirky.) My soul feels intact to me, but it's hard to assert my opinions when I'm up against the center of everything. Then again, there is also a center of everything in Delphi, Greece...maybe we could put them close to each other and see what happens!
After the Torpedo Factory, we grabbed some frozen yogurt and strolled down the waterfront. Eventually we just made ourselves at home on a big rock near the water and chatted. There was some trepidation in our chatting, though, because after we sat down we were perpetually surrounded by maniacal birds. We'd have six little finches sitting at our feet staring at us menacingly while we talked. I kept getting unnerved--I swore one was just going to walk up to my shoe, peck it, and then we'd be flocked. To this, Charles simply suggested, "Eh, just punch it."
Finch-punching? I'M IN! (Not really...please don't call PETA or anything...)
After narrowly escaping our encounter with the bird mafia, we set forth in search of victuals. It is at this point in our excursion that we stumbled upon Bilbo Baggins' Wine Bar!
It was tasty!
It was epic!
It was orc-free and hobbit-licious!
I did note one stark contradiction, however. In this hobbit-namesake establishment, the majority of tables were the lofted kind where, if you're me, you sit on a chair as tall as you are and dangle your feet with varying degrees of discomfort. I ask you, how could Bilbo have eaten at his own establishment?
After our lovely stay in the Shire, we moseyed over to Arlington National Cemetery which was just up the road. Long story short: We saw beautiful monuments, we felt respectful and grateful and connected to centuries of American history, we saw the changing of the guard, and then
we got soaked.
In a downpour.
Which then became a huge gale, but thankfully not until we had reached the van.
There was a great beauty in it, though. I got to walk leisurely through Arlington National Cemetery barefoot and in the rain. The thing that struck me about it was the beauty I felt in that act. It wasn't at all depressing, though had I envisioned it beforehand I would have assumed it would be. It was very calming and, at least to me, life-affirming. Here we were, a couple of kids, strolling through a downpour as we passed row after row of headstones, many of young men our age. It seemed symbolic to me. It seemed like a way of saying, "What you gave isn't forgotten, and we will walk on with you present in our minds. Not just on solemn memorial days, but in our simple acts, too." It was a good day.
Quote of the afternoon: as we drove into D.C., Charles says in awe "Omygosh, we're in friggin Minas Tirith!"
(...crazy witch-king on the throne and all?)
And it ended with dinner and KUNG FU PANDA.
(I now know the secret ingredient to the secret ingredient soup.)
Tuesday:
Not as fun or epic as Monday, but still good. Slower day at work. Passed a group of protesters standing in front of a building with signs that said "Honk against terrorism" and "Terrorists trained here." Turns out that building was the Institute of Saudi Arabia, an Arab high school owned by the Saudis. I don't know much of the story beyond that.
Also, a clipboard fell off a tall cabinet while I was opening one of the doors. It connected with my forehead and yanked off a small portion of skin above my left eyebrow. I had to wear a band-aid there for awhile, resulting in me looking like a white girl Nelly wannabe.
Pero, esta bien.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Of Mice and Jumper Cables
So the past two days have been big. Really big. Larger-than-I-have-the-ability-to-hold-all-at-once big.
But I'm going to try to shake it all down here. Thus, this blog may become boring and itemized; I'll just have to get over it, though, or it'll never get done.
Okay, so *general disdainment *door-knocking(?) *choir practice *dead van *keys *jumper cables *mice *spanish *testify to love *carpet cleaning *food pantry *kck *gravity *kenya = past two days.
Ready? Begin.
Like I said, everything has been super-mondo big these first couple of days. Not all of it has been so great. In retrospect, it's been a good thing, though--kind of like being in a cold pool and sticking your head under the water after that big, scared gulp you take. It's not a pleasant thing and if you could find a way around it you could, but you still feel warmer and refreshed after you do it.
What it boils down to is I got a reality check, yelled at God, he loved me anyway and decided to show off all day (much to my delight,) and I did a lot of very manly things--that is, if you're into stereotypes. If you're not, forget that stereotypical phrase and insert "empowered" or "physical" or something.
To start the morning (which started a little late thanks to some miscommunication and misunderstanding on my part,) we went out to give a jump to my "noble steed." The aforementioned 1996(?) minivan coughed its last yesterday after an ordeal involving keys that I don't particularly want to relive. Unfortunately for the old beast we still need him, so Laura and I went outside to perform a belated defibrillation. We attached the cables in a fashion which I can never remember while I fought the distinct desire to yell "Charge to 250....CLEAR!" After fifteen minutes of electroshock therapy, our patient clicked and sputtered and roared back to life. By this time I was alone at the operating table (a.k.a RHUMMC's parking lot) and let out a great whoop of "Yeah, noble steed! That's my noble steed! Atta boy!" I am glad to report that he spent the afternoon recovering in the ICU (a.k.a Action Auto) and was returned to us better than ever by 4 pm (he now has air conditioning!)
After this task was completed, I found Charles working on getting stuff ready for a Family Fun Fair we're hosting at the church on Saturday...and by the way, I might be facepainting!? I met Prince Charles, as he has come to be known, outside where he had a large tupperware bin on occupying a parking space in the back. Curiously enough, he was putting on kitchen gloves. I must have given him a quizzical look because he looked at me with a smile and said "RAT PATROL."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. I was carrying this into the church and when I sat it down he poked his little head out at me and was like, 'oh, crap!' and dove back in."
"I'll go get some gloves."
Turns out he was a she and she was not alone. She had babies...three of them. Very tiny, very shaky, very scared little adorable mouse babies. Oh, and did I mention it was a mouse and not a rat? She was also very quick. First we almost herded her into a trashcan--that is my official title, actually, mouse herder--but then she jumped out and scurried about the parking lot. Soon I successfully herded her into the trashcan. It was then we discovered the babies. They were much easier to herd given that they were so scared they could not cease their shaking. Charles and I decided we would put the three of them in the empty trash can and leave it near the shed until we knew what to do with them seeing as there's no way either one of us could kill them. Fortunately our kindess was met and exceeded by James, our janitor. Seeing the plight of our little mouseys, he unearthed a large jar from some storage cabinet and took them home. Further tales of the wayward mice will be chronicled upon notification.
This post will be edited at a later date. I'm already exhausted.
But I'm going to try to shake it all down here. Thus, this blog may become boring and itemized; I'll just have to get over it, though, or it'll never get done.
Okay, so *general disdainment *door-knocking(?) *choir practice *dead van *keys *jumper cables *mice *spanish *testify to love *carpet cleaning *food pantry *kck *gravity *kenya = past two days.
Ready? Begin.
Like I said, everything has been super-mondo big these first couple of days. Not all of it has been so great. In retrospect, it's been a good thing, though--kind of like being in a cold pool and sticking your head under the water after that big, scared gulp you take. It's not a pleasant thing and if you could find a way around it you could, but you still feel warmer and refreshed after you do it.
What it boils down to is I got a reality check, yelled at God, he loved me anyway and decided to show off all day (much to my delight,) and I did a lot of very manly things--that is, if you're into stereotypes. If you're not, forget that stereotypical phrase and insert "empowered" or "physical" or something.
To start the morning (which started a little late thanks to some miscommunication and misunderstanding on my part,) we went out to give a jump to my "noble steed." The aforementioned 1996(?) minivan coughed its last yesterday after an ordeal involving keys that I don't particularly want to relive. Unfortunately for the old beast we still need him, so Laura and I went outside to perform a belated defibrillation. We attached the cables in a fashion which I can never remember while I fought the distinct desire to yell "Charge to 250....CLEAR!" After fifteen minutes of electroshock therapy, our patient clicked and sputtered and roared back to life. By this time I was alone at the operating table (a.k.a RHUMMC's parking lot) and let out a great whoop of "Yeah, noble steed! That's my noble steed! Atta boy!" I am glad to report that he spent the afternoon recovering in the ICU (a.k.a Action Auto) and was returned to us better than ever by 4 pm (he now has air conditioning!)
After this task was completed, I found Charles working on getting stuff ready for a Family Fun Fair we're hosting at the church on Saturday...and by the way, I might be facepainting!? I met Prince Charles, as he has come to be known, outside where he had a large tupperware bin on occupying a parking space in the back. Curiously enough, he was putting on kitchen gloves. I must have given him a quizzical look because he looked at me with a smile and said "RAT PATROL."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. I was carrying this into the church and when I sat it down he poked his little head out at me and was like, 'oh, crap!' and dove back in."
"I'll go get some gloves."
Turns out he was a she and she was not alone. She had babies...three of them. Very tiny, very shaky, very scared little adorable mouse babies. Oh, and did I mention it was a mouse and not a rat? She was also very quick. First we almost herded her into a trashcan--that is my official title, actually, mouse herder--but then she jumped out and scurried about the parking lot. Soon I successfully herded her into the trashcan. It was then we discovered the babies. They were much easier to herd given that they were so scared they could not cease their shaking. Charles and I decided we would put the three of them in the empty trash can and leave it near the shed until we knew what to do with them seeing as there's no way either one of us could kill them. Fortunately our kindess was met and exceeded by James, our janitor. Seeing the plight of our little mouseys, he unearthed a large jar from some storage cabinet and took them home. Further tales of the wayward mice will be chronicled upon notification.
This post will be edited at a later date. I'm already exhausted.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Numbers.
Temperature outside: 104 degrees (with the heat index)
Year of minivan: 1996 maybe?
# of working air conditioner vents: 0
# of engine death occurences at intersections: 2
# of idiotic driving moves by me: 1
# of days driving in Alexandria: 1
You do the math.
But you know what?
It was still a great day!
Year of minivan: 1996 maybe?
# of working air conditioner vents: 0
# of engine death occurences at intersections: 2
# of idiotic driving moves by me: 1
# of days driving in Alexandria: 1
You do the math.
But you know what?
It was still a great day!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Clomping. Tiptoeing. Dancing.
There is a beauty in knowing absolutely nothing. I have come to realize, though, that there is also a great danger in it. Just as small children are dangers to themselves because they know so little, I am a danger to the work I am trying to do when I am ignorant of my surroundings. I guess that's where this week's training came in. I know now that had I gone straight to Alexandria, I would have arrived clueless--it would have been equal to trying to learn to ballroom dance in combat boots. I can just picture it; my thick, clumsy limbs in huge, clomping boots, galumphing around the ballroom making out-of-sync noises and being a general nuisance. Even better? I would have only had a vague sense of it all.
I guess that's why, when training started, I thought they were teaching me how to tiptoe. The first quote we examined was
"In approaching another people, another culture, another religion is to take of our shoes, for the place we are approaching is holy; else we may find ourselves treading on someone's dreams. More serious still, we may forget that God was there before our arrival." (Max Warren)
So slowly, slowly, I was shown how to unknot and unlace my combat boots and sink my toes into the deep, rich culture I'd be injected into. My fingers were clumsy; my mind had a hard time wrapping itself around the concept of unknotting just who I was, what I had been given and what I could possibly give. At the same time, though, I was surrounded by great, equally inadequate-feeling witnesses--people I soon came to call "dear friends." We looked to one another this week to figure out how to unknot ourselves, how to get our shoes off, how to be truly naked (spiritually...) with one another and, soon, with other complete strangers. We tiptoed into one another's worlds. We crept in with curiosity and care and, while doing so, dared to leave our own. We (or...I, at least,) crept around one another, dipping toes into the pools of one another's dreams and testing the waters of our faith.
The beautiful moment came, though, silently and anonymously. I didn't notice it until it had long gone. In the blink of an eye or the breath of a prayer, we went from being pseudo-strangers to brothers and sisters. I know that sounds cliche, but it is truly what happened among us. One moment we were not too comfortable touching one another; the next, we dove in and bearhugged, hand-held, hair-tousled, side-poked, shoulder-smacked...the list goes on. One moment we were together for a purpose and the next we were purposed together. One moment the conversations went from being a little formulaic and politely interesting to wild, raucous and tender-hearted. Suddenly we were relaxed and as one; still entirely different, still largely in the dark about the details of each other's lives, still individual, but living communally and moving forward together with purpose. Suddenly we were no longer tiptoeing about--we were dancing. We were twirling and gliding and leaping around the room. Reflecting on it now, I see pairs of eyes in my memory and how deligthfully detailed each person's dancing eyes were. With strong bodies and spirits we all danced together, the different steps all in time flowing inbetween partners and rhythms.
On the heels of this moment came, for me, a great sense of possibility. Possibly I could manage to do this internship the way it was designed. Possibly I could learn people's stories. Possibly I could learn more about living a life of service. Possibly I could learn to link elbows with people different than me and understand that my future is bound in theirs. Possibly, fifteen of us could spiderweb across the country and weave connections between people. After we learned to be with one another, we had the desire to go and be with other people. We heard it in our prayers and in our songs as we worshipped in Spanish, Hebrew, Tagalog, and Sign. We found that, for a little bit, we were the world. We found that, in turn, we wanted the world with us. Not in theology or doctrine or hard and fast ways of living, but we wanted the world with us in shalom.
Now we have scattered along the eastern and western seaboards, across the plains, in cities and hamlets. We'll come back together in August knowing (hopefully) the steps of the people we have spent time with, be they great loping strides or a hassled canter, a limping lindy or slow do-si-do. Maybe we'll be able to teach each other a little bit and maybe we'll go home and teach others the dances we've been shown. I really don't know, though, whether that can happen.
First you need to be barefoot.
Then you need to be free.
Otherwise, you might crush toes, and dreams, and the dance of beautiful men and women who dance differently than you.
I guess all this means my mission this summer is:
Everybody Cut Footloose.
To everyone who has danced with me until now, I thank you for showing me how. Thank you for taking me farther than I could've gone on my own. Thank you for being patient while I clomped on your toes.
To my fellow interns who helped me learn new steps this week and to get naked, I thank you. I truly believe in our vision of becoming nudist farmers...or at least, the nearest non-oppressive equivalent. :)
To the people of Alexandria who sleep in the same city as me tonight, I am glad to be here with you. Forgive me for the monstrosity I might make of your dance in my coming days and know that I will try to keep my steps light and on point.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Caves. Stories.
We’ve also done a lot of talking about what mission is. I think really, though, it’s almost easier to define what mission is NOT.
It’s not taking Jesus anywhere—Jesus is everywhere.
It’s not leading someone to new truth—it’s exposing all the truth inherent to their life.
It’s not preaching or teaching or cultivating—it’s experiencing and listening.
It’s everything that resonates with what I hear out of the gospel story. And the gospel story is my story. It’s the story of everything. It’s a myth retold with flesh on: Life, Death, and Rebirth. It’s cyclical. It’s beautiful.
It’s people.
It’s people being as divinely human as humans are capable of—caring for each other, being courageous for one another. It’s not speaking up for the voiceless, it’s giving people space to make their voices. In some cases, it’s reminding people that they have voices when their voices have been beaten out of them by dark stares from some and passive silence from the majority.
And it feels like deep, rich, bass notes with high-flung overtones ringing through your chest.
Like I said, my feet are beginning to feel ground. I’ve got a heart full of memories and a personhood full to bursting of the love and support of others. Really, I think that’s all anybody needs. It’s like the example of making a human chair circle: if you’re supported, you can be supportive and if everybody’s doing that, nobody falls through the cracks.
The only thing is, we have caves; personal caves of insecurity, doubt, and fear and societal caves of injustice, misunderstanding, and lack of accountability. So I guess mission is an exercise in caving, exploring those crevices and bringing people together to fill the gaps and light up the dark spaces. (The last part sounds really overused, but I think it still has truth even if it seems stale in my head.)
So, the great feelings of tension I’ve been wrapped in for the past several weeks are finally beginning to release. I’m being slowly unraveled from the spider web of anticipation and nervousness and apprehension and my feet are touching on something solid.
I like this ground where I am.
I like these people I’m with.
I’m even beginning to like not knowing what’s next.
A great deal of stress has been placed on the importance of becoming a story-gatherer this summer. I breathe a sigh of relief at that because, if I do one thing well, it’s stories. My entire thought process is wrought of stories. Every taste, every texture, every color, every musical thing is linked to a story for me. Nothing is mine, but everything is mine. My thoughts are the thoughts of everyone I encounter. So, I guess, encountering more people and places, I can just add to my stock and hope that I get privileged enough to share those stories with other people, and then maybe we can get stuff done.
I guess what it boils down to is my profound belief in the transforming power of Story and Gospel. Deep down inside, I truly believe that if enough people are made aware of the true nature of the issues and suffering present in the world, they too will want to act and then something will really get done. In the mean time, though, we have to get there. I think maybe this summer is my attempt at getting there.
Already so much of what has been setting my intellect on fire at school is being covered and applied actively here. In these past couple of days my heart has leapt up out of its seat to join my mind in the wonder. I’m really beginning to feel whole again now that I’m matching learning with action instead of just learning.
I also think it will be really difficult for me to go back to school again when this concludes. I know myself; I’m impatient, and I can see myself wanting to just jump in and do this without going back to school. Somewhere, though, there’s a place for me, and I get the feeling it’s in the middle of both of these. Somewhere between Acadamia and Mission Miscellania. That’s where I’ll sink a mailbox post.
It’s not taking Jesus anywhere—Jesus is everywhere.
It’s not leading someone to new truth—it’s exposing all the truth inherent to their life.
It’s not preaching or teaching or cultivating—it’s experiencing and listening.
It’s everything that resonates with what I hear out of the gospel story. And the gospel story is my story. It’s the story of everything. It’s a myth retold with flesh on: Life, Death, and Rebirth. It’s cyclical. It’s beautiful.
It’s people.
It’s people being as divinely human as humans are capable of—caring for each other, being courageous for one another. It’s not speaking up for the voiceless, it’s giving people space to make their voices. In some cases, it’s reminding people that they have voices when their voices have been beaten out of them by dark stares from some and passive silence from the majority.
And it feels like deep, rich, bass notes with high-flung overtones ringing through your chest.
Like I said, my feet are beginning to feel ground. I’ve got a heart full of memories and a personhood full to bursting of the love and support of others. Really, I think that’s all anybody needs. It’s like the example of making a human chair circle: if you’re supported, you can be supportive and if everybody’s doing that, nobody falls through the cracks.
The only thing is, we have caves; personal caves of insecurity, doubt, and fear and societal caves of injustice, misunderstanding, and lack of accountability. So I guess mission is an exercise in caving, exploring those crevices and bringing people together to fill the gaps and light up the dark spaces. (The last part sounds really overused, but I think it still has truth even if it seems stale in my head.)
So, the great feelings of tension I’ve been wrapped in for the past several weeks are finally beginning to release. I’m being slowly unraveled from the spider web of anticipation and nervousness and apprehension and my feet are touching on something solid.
I like this ground where I am.
I like these people I’m with.
I’m even beginning to like not knowing what’s next.
A great deal of stress has been placed on the importance of becoming a story-gatherer this summer. I breathe a sigh of relief at that because, if I do one thing well, it’s stories. My entire thought process is wrought of stories. Every taste, every texture, every color, every musical thing is linked to a story for me. Nothing is mine, but everything is mine. My thoughts are the thoughts of everyone I encounter. So, I guess, encountering more people and places, I can just add to my stock and hope that I get privileged enough to share those stories with other people, and then maybe we can get stuff done.
I guess what it boils down to is my profound belief in the transforming power of Story and Gospel. Deep down inside, I truly believe that if enough people are made aware of the true nature of the issues and suffering present in the world, they too will want to act and then something will really get done. In the mean time, though, we have to get there. I think maybe this summer is my attempt at getting there.
Already so much of what has been setting my intellect on fire at school is being covered and applied actively here. In these past couple of days my heart has leapt up out of its seat to join my mind in the wonder. I’m really beginning to feel whole again now that I’m matching learning with action instead of just learning.
I also think it will be really difficult for me to go back to school again when this concludes. I know myself; I’m impatient, and I can see myself wanting to just jump in and do this without going back to school. Somewhere, though, there’s a place for me, and I get the feeling it’s in the middle of both of these. Somewhere between Acadamia and Mission Miscellania. That’s where I’ll sink a mailbox post.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Let the Games Begin
After Dan left tonight, I sat on the swing outside for awhile; looked at the stars, tried to place everything in perspective, you know. The usual stuff you do when you’re embarking on a big, life-changing adventure as a not even twenty-something. My eyes were kind of red and puffy and I didn’t want to field any questions from my parents, so I was also kind of waiting out the swelling but that’s not nearly as glamorous. Nothing huge hit me though, nothing huge came falling from the sky into my open chest to help me achieve nirvana or epiphany or Freudian insight into myself or my coming future. But all the same, a soft peace came upon me. Like the wet washcloth we throw over my nephew’s eyes in play, that peace just kind of cooled my stirred-up spirit with a plush, wet weight. Seconds afterward I was able to go inside and say “Well, crap, my bad; I forgot to send him home with the Dr. Pepper.”
They always tell us to spiritually prepare for these sorts of things; training for this summer is no different. The thing is, though, I’ve never really known what to do when asked that. I’ve even asked others to do that when I was in leadership, but I question now whether or not I knew what I was asking for or whether I just felt like asking for it was part of my job description. I mean, there’s no shortcuts to God in Christianity, right? We don’t get a name to invoke or an animal to sacrifice or chicken bones to scatter to “get prepared.” All we’ve got is prayer, Bible study, and basically just attending to the world around us. God is living and active in all things, so I think it’s necessary to pay attention. Yet when I’m asked to be “spiritually preparing” myself, I always feel kind of guilty because I’m not really sure what to do. I almost feel like I missed out on something in Christianity 101 that, for some reason, I think everyone else knows. This time when I received that request I just kept in my normal routine—living, learning, looking for God. Granted, I do need to read my Bible more. I do need to pray more. But, I don’t know—I’m just really conscious of the fact that my eyes are wide open, now more than they’ve ever been, and I’m so busy trying to process everything that it has become my spiritual discipline for now.
I sometimes hate how much God is into plurals. Even into the Trinity. S/he’s crazy about community, that one. “Let’s?” I think. “How about you obliterate the box and I wait and see what you’re doing and then decide to go along.” I know I’ll go along, see, I don’t have any choice. But the waiting part would make me feel better.
T minus 9 hours and counting. I think God is disinclined to aquiesce to my request.
I guess I’ll just follow the words of the frat boys here, then.
“What the hell—Let’s just go get smashed.” Amen.
They always tell us to spiritually prepare for these sorts of things; training for this summer is no different. The thing is, though, I’ve never really known what to do when asked that. I’ve even asked others to do that when I was in leadership, but I question now whether or not I knew what I was asking for or whether I just felt like asking for it was part of my job description. I mean, there’s no shortcuts to God in Christianity, right? We don’t get a name to invoke or an animal to sacrifice or chicken bones to scatter to “get prepared.” All we’ve got is prayer, Bible study, and basically just attending to the world around us. God is living and active in all things, so I think it’s necessary to pay attention. Yet when I’m asked to be “spiritually preparing” myself, I always feel kind of guilty because I’m not really sure what to do. I almost feel like I missed out on something in Christianity 101 that, for some reason, I think everyone else knows. This time when I received that request I just kept in my normal routine—living, learning, looking for God. Granted, I do need to read my Bible more. I do need to pray more. But, I don’t know—I’m just really conscious of the fact that my eyes are wide open, now more than they’ve ever been, and I’m so busy trying to process everything that it has become my spiritual discipline for now.
- I’ve been focused on trying to figure out how to really, truly LOVE the people I’m with in any given moment.
- I’ve been focused on fighting all the fears I’ve accumulated in the past decades. (Coincidentally, I have a lot more than I thought I did, and they are a lot more powerful than I’d originally thought.)
- I’ve been focused on putting together how God’s love and care for me and for the world is reflected in each relationship I am a part of, and see.
- And, I’ve been spending a lot of time making my own little side plans. Puzzling, plotting, ponderating. It’s become a hobby, really; I make side plans and itineraries and research and get maps and schedule stops and…and…and God shoves the entire project aside with a mischievous glint in his eye and say, “Let’s do this one bigger. Let’s not just go out of the box—let’s obliterate it!”
I sometimes hate how much God is into plurals. Even into the Trinity. S/he’s crazy about community, that one. “Let’s?” I think. “How about you obliterate the box and I wait and see what you’re doing and then decide to go along.” I know I’ll go along, see, I don’t have any choice. But the waiting part would make me feel better.
T minus 9 hours and counting. I think God is disinclined to aquiesce to my request.
I guess I’ll just follow the words of the frat boys here, then.
“What the hell—Let’s just go get smashed.” Amen.
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