Part Two: Things to be thankful for

I was reading The Secret Life of Bees when she called. At first I thought she was just calling for a last check-in, details, all that jazz. And then it became abundantly clear. There is trouble in my beloved place. So much trouble that I am not going back. I held it together while we talked, shoved the lump in my throat down. When we hung up I yelled.

A few days prior, when I had first heard of this trouble I had told my mama, “If I don’t get to go back I’m going to be devastated.” And I am.

A small part of me is relieved. If Kristin and Sarah can’t go back, why should I? Part of me is relieved that for the three of us, that summer place was sacred, in a way. It is untouchable now, but we all lived that glorious experience together, once.

I grieved being away from the place and the people last fall. And then I decided to go back. And I do believe God was in that decision. And now I must grieve again.

I get attached to places. I know that’s not good, but it is. It was the willow tree, the grove of trees, the scratchy grass, the ants, the fence even. The city too, I knew my way around. I knew the gist of how it worked, what to expect. I knew to take the number 19 bus and where to get off. I knew how to take the tram to the forest. I knew where to get the cheapest ice cream, and where to get the rich chocolate flavor I like best. I knew where the flower street was, and where to buy tomatoes. I suppose I still know all of these things, I just can’t get to them.

A huge reason to go back was simply to show the refugees that I cared enough about them to be there again. They hate that place; it’s like prison to them. It means a lot to them when someone is willing to return. Now, I don’t know if it will be possible, for them to know I’m back.

If I had known, back in October when I signed on to another summer, that Debrecen was out of reach, I do not know if I would have returned. In that regard, I feel as though God has tricked me, though I know that is not the case. I do know that God will use the circumstances or have something better in his plans.

But I feel as though the carpet has been pulled out from under my feet and there is a gaping hole under it.

However, there are many things in this situation to be thankful for.

I am thankful that she called to tell me, instead of letting me find out through and email, or at training.

I am thankful that she fought for me.

I am thankful that she values my service, my willingness.

I am thankful that R gets to go back, even as that also makes me jealous.

I am thankful that there is T, who is older and experienced and that at least some refugees in Debrecen have the opportunity to learn this summer.

I am still honored to feel this pain, to have gotten to experience something so heartbreakingly wonderful that this change of plans is so difficult and painful.

I was really looking forward to the team this summer, but going forward, I am thankful for the opportunity to be on an all female team. Though I know it will have its challenges, I’m excited to be able to share a deeper level of vulnerability with my team.

I’m thankful that God has trusted me with this painful experience. I know there is a lesson somewhere in it, and I am thankful that He is in control and constant. I’m thankful for His steadiness as He takes me through this. I’m thankful that He wants to use me this summer, even though it’s not in the capacity that I was expecting. I’m honored that He would trust me with this hardship.

I am thankful to feel even a millionth of a fraction of what displaced people feel. I wanted to live there. My goal was to live there for a year. I decided to make that place home for the time I was there so I could fully live in the present. So in that tiny, tiny, not even comparable amount I feel like a displaced person.

It sounds dramatic, I know, and I would never say that to a refugee. And I know what they feel is a million times more important and worse. But it is a taste and I am honored to have it.

In the same vein, I am not going back because I am a woman. And though for a different reason than so many other women in the world, I ache to not be able to be there for a reason completely out of my control. I am not wanted there just because of who I am. It is no one’s fault— we do not fight against flesh and blood, after all. But it hurts all the same. And again, in other parts of the world it is so much worse, but I am honored for this taste, to be part of the world’s community of women in this hardship that is life. A millionth of their pain is still a piece. I am still in this. I am not immune to the pain, to the experience of not being enough. I’m honored to share in a piece of it, even though, (thank You, Jesus) it is a small piece.

I knew it would be a completely different experience this summer, no matter what. But now, it is as if I am signing up for a different trip entirely.

It hurts. Deeply.

I wonder if my experiences last summer prepared me for this summer. My dear friend Sarah, who also went last summer, said to me that maybe it will even be more difficult, but that I will learn even more and change even more.

I know more now. I know last summer’s experience will help. I feel as though I’ve walked through the fire once already— that is no exaggeration. It was incredibly painful and difficult. But it was beautiful too. And the small moments of beauty outweighed the long days of struggle and frustration.

I mean, obviously, I decided to go back.

I ache deeply.

But I know God has a plan for me and for this trip, and I know His plan is better than mine, that He withholds no good thing.

I know all these things. I know that places shouldn’t matter. That most of the people would be different anyway, that the experience would be completely different. I know I serve a loving God. I know I want God’s will, because it is always better than mine, even if I don’t find out how until Heaven. I know I do not live for myself and to love God well I must die to my own desires. I know that this story isn’t about me. I know that God is always good, always strong, and always loving.

I know all these things. And there is comfort in these things. But if I am to be honest, and I am, I am surrendering only because I can do nothing else. If it were up to me, I’d be in Debrecen, sitting under the willow tree drinking orange juice (the color, not the flavor) with S and F and their mothers, being frustrated at the men’s stares and remarks. If it were up to me. But God. He reminds me of these good things. I do trust Him, and I am excited to see what He will do.

Thank You Jesus, for loving me though I am unlovable.

But at the end of it all, I am still so thankful for the privilege of last summer. To share in the suffering. To witness and experience, and be.

It was an honor.

where the beauty is

There is trouble in my beloved place.

The sort of trouble that makes it very clear what I have learned in the past year, sets a fire in my bones and reminds me what I find most important, what I want to do with my life.

{Perhaps this will be a compilation, of sorts.}

My dear friend said to me today, about teaching, “I am not here to be me. I am here to show God’s presence to these people.” A good reminder that I am not on this earth to show who I am. I am here to show I AM, to be the love of God to people.

The word for this season has been privileged. I am privileged to pray for this trouble. I am privileged to be part of humanity. I am privileged to be able to mow the lawn, and run for exercise, and have these beautiful friendships. I am privileged to have experienced life in a refugee camp, a small glimpse into the hard life. I am privileged to have been respected, a teacher. Privileged to have shared simplicities: sunsets and soft bread, The Pink Panther in Persian, a night of dancing in the dark, sitting by a fountain watching pigeons and children.

Talking with my dear friend today about this trouble, and we realized that things like this are happening right now all over the world. We just happen to be privileged to pray for this one.

Because it isn’t about me changing the world. It’s about me being a conduit of God’s incredible love for the world. It isn’t about what I can give, what I can share. It isn’t about anything I can give, but what God can give. I am just privileged to be able to participate in that.

I realized, too, that the more aware I am, the more crises there are. I am slowly learning how to balance joy with sorrow, how to hold excitement for God and yet not forget the sorrow.

All year I hemmed and hawed and tried to figure out what happened to me there. And I know now, but I cannot put it into words. There is a language barrier, I think. Something to do with privilege- a gift, and the inescapable love of the uncreated One. Something to do with an ache that will never quite dissipate, an ache for the ones who do not know their value, and a longing for the way it was meant to be.

I ache for people displaced. I ache for people who hoard their lives, their synthetic imitations of love. I ache for the ones who walk across deserts, only to find there is no place that wants their stories. I ache for the ones who do not understand the value of listening. I ache for the children who know no different.

We’re missing out. The hard life is where the beauty is.

I don’t write this to preach. I’m really bad at praying consistently. I forget to be thankful. I get frustrated with people way too easily. I snap. I forget to allow God to love the world through me. I choose not to serve. I just think we’re missing out. Most of the time, I’m missing out. It’s these hard reminders that the world isn’t as it should be but oh what a privilege it is to get to talk to the uncreated One about it. And the special, painful times that make my heart ache and my bones burn for life. These troubles that remind me of the glory of God— funny how that works, isn’t it?— and God’s incredible, inescapable, awesome love (and the absolutely stunningly beautiful privilege it is to get to participate in being human, being loved, walking the deserts and listening.) 

Truly Beautiful Things

"You are accomplishing truly beautiful things."

This is the beginning statement in a beautiful letter sent to me by a dear friend.  It arrived at a truly perfect time, though so beautiful that I don't know if there could be a time not perfect for it. It is sincere and candid, and full of encouragement. 

This evening, a week after I've moved back home, I was surprised that when I checked the internet networks my computer picked up, there were only four. I was surprised that the Saudi networks weren't there, which makes me remember the hallway smelling delicious, the loud voices in the hall speaking Arabic, the piano music played in a loop. Then I remember the obnoxious music from downstairs: sometimes country, sometimes Ke$ha. It wasn't an incredibly clean place, usually smelling like marijuana, the occasional puddle of puke near the door. But I liked it there. I kind of miss it. 

Not the kind of missing worth spending time on. Not the kind of missing reserved for places, or people. Just a reminder, in the back of my mind that it was a good place to live. Not nice because of the cleanliness or maintenance, but just because it was. It was cozy, all those lamps and plants. It had a lock. We had blankets and a tea kettle, running water.

We had people over, tea parties and movie nights, sleepovers, craft afternoons, lunches, homework sessions, cuddle piles.

A truly beautiful place to live, to be.

sola

sola. it means peace in Pashto. I like it. 

thoughtserrhea

I become increasingly uncomfortable in this culture.

It’s not a good sort of discomfort, and I believe some discomfort is.

Today I was in the grocery store. I’ve come to be very overwhelmed in the grocery store. I walk in and everyone is in a rush around me. Yesterday in fact, at church, a woman apologized while holding a door for me. I did not understand why doing something kind for me warranted an apology. Anyway, today I walked into the grocery store to busy people and bright signs, save more! It’s a bit over-stimulating for my senses, these fake, joyful bright colors. But no one smiles. No one looks the least bit happy. No one looks as if they’re enjoying themselves. A woman before me in the u-scan looks annoyed because the machine is working too slow for her taste. She tries to make annoyed eye contact with me but I won’t meet her eyes. Everyone hurries in the grocery store.

Everyone hurries in their cars.

Everyone hurries on the phone.

Everyone hurries.

Where is the humanity? I just want to scream at everyone, slow down, show some grace. You’re not in that much of a hurry. A woman in the grocery store tells the young child she is with, “stop crying. No one wants to hear that.” And for that reason alone, I want to tell the girl to cry. Cry because it will rip us from our bubbles. Cry because it will make us see each other. I want to be that kind of uncomfortable. The kind that rips me from my self-centered thoughts and forces me to see people.

I watched this. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=224E-VtB4k4) I smiled at the end. People honor the subway musicians. People honor the flash mobs. These small pieces of humanity we have left, these unexpected gifts and surprises that cause us to look up from our phones for a few minutes, to make eye contact in our delight, to see people for the beautiful beings they are.

Maybe that is why subways and airports are so beautiful: because everyone has a story and everyone is aware. Because we watch each other there, because what else is there to do? Because we are not in control of our time. And most people are not “good!” in airports, and most everyone knows it. Most everyone is a bit tired and stressed, and we’re all running in some direction, but at the same time, there is a slowness to it. You can’t use your phone on the plane. Well, sometimes you can, but most people don’t. You sleep. Or read. Or talk to someone you’ve never met and will probably never meet again. And it’s absolutely beautiful.

And then there’s the whole, howareyou? question and answer situation. I don’t know anyone who likes being told a snappy good to answer that question. But I also don’t know very many people who find new ways to ask, or don’t answer that way. Like at church yesterday. The greeter asked me how I was. It’s a bit of an awkward question, if you are to answer honestly. The question puts me on edge, no matter how I am. Part of me always wants to be super snarky and plant my feet in front of the asker and answer slow, and ask back as many times as it takes to get a real answer. But by the time the question is asked I am already too frustrated to sound genuine when I ask back. So I propose we just stop asking unless we are actually prepared to hear.

So I guess I am suggesting we all just  slow down.

BGSU year four

I should be doing the dishes, packing, wiping the dust from my dresser.

But I would rather write. Warm nights with the windows open seem to be fitting for that.

I'm not finished; I have a semester left to go. I realized recently that I could have finished, probably in August, if I had taken more summer classes. But I chose to fill my summers with people instead, and I am content with that. 

Oh, these four years. They've changed me. I'm at the same time angrier and calmer. I know where I'm headed, though I have no idea what tomorrow holds. 

The past year... going to Hungary- actually, the being in Hungary, the being in the refugee camp changed my life in more ways than I even know. God changed my heart. It took me all year to figure out how, and I'm still putting pieces together. So much.

I traveled over the ocean, alone, three times. 

I sat on a bench in a park I discovered in a tiny town in Germany in January and had a good long talk with my Creator. I spent a night with bad music and dance parties, just me and my Jesus in that hotel and then at four in the morning I sat down with all my luggage in the Munich airport and waited for the check in counter to open- well, first I got lost. But I found it eventually. And then ran through the Paris airport all the way from gate M1 to M44... went through security in Cincinnati twice because I forgot to dump my water, made friends with the people in line around me, listened to a girl in New Jersey talk about "the worst day ever," how her first flight had been delayed a few hours even though I had woken up in Budapest, heartbroken... oh adventures. Just me and my Jesus. It was good. 

My sisterfriend went across the ocean to Africa, and Asia, and now she's in Central America. 
And God gave me another sisterfriend here to lean on and be loved by. 
And a small (but growing!) community of people with passion for Him and His justice. 
And quality time with Lucy over Christmas break. 
And this lovely apartment, with Joan.
And the constant, sweet, and humbling reminder of who God is, how big God is.

This year was so hard. In my heart I was still sitting in the scratchy grass, annoyed by the ants, fire in my bones. 

God broke me down in beautiful ways, and surrounded me with beautiful people. 

Somehow it is warm again, summer is coming, somehow I am going back. (God willing) And I'll be back to this place again, another year to learn and grow and break and mold and morph. 

restless in my soul
haven't eaten in too long. i'll probably get a headache later.
i don't want to go out and be CHEERFUL
because i am restless in my soul


later: okay, that was better than expected. God gave me the gift of some really nice jeans, among other things, for FREE!