Things I like about not having air conditioning

When I was little, I'd dream of the day I had a place with A/C. I loved sleeping at my friends' houses in the summer, being able to sleep under covers all year long.

But now, I hope I never have to live in a place where A/C rules. I've grown to love the air. :) (It sounds silly sometimes, even to me, as I would choose winter any day.)

• the satisfying way my skin cools down late at night- still sticky, but cool.
• breezes. I appreciate each of them.
• walking down near the river or in the woods because it is cooler there
• listening to owls at night through the open windows
• having the windows open at night, and the scent of the air filling the house
• feeling ice melt in my mouth
• appreciating a good glass of ice water
• lying in bed with just a sheet, or not, feeling the heat. I feel it connects me, somehow, to the rest of the world, to everyone else depending on breezes
• the experience of the temperature dropping before a summer storm.
• the coolness of morning and evening
• smells- honeysuckle, rain, summer...
• even the little no-see-um bugs that get in through the window screens. 

I'll be adding to the list. I think I appreciate life, air, more. And in an Anne of Green Gables sort of way, it's kind of romantic. 

haha!

I don't know if it's the warm weather or God or what, but I have found myself laughing all the time.

I catch myself walking down the street with a tremble in my throat, a laugh erupting- the type that causes me to throw my head back and let one rip- a laugh that is. :)

I laugh just thinking of something remotely funny.

I laugh any time I look at pictures of Debrecen. My heart hurts about that, but all the same, I laugh.

When I pray aloud, often I dissolve into giggles.

I love it, these soul giggles I have no control over. :)

revision

"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."

I wrote this in another post- on the third of May. And already, only two weeks later already it has changed. 

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 off on a new grand adventure. Back to Hungary, but not to my beloved place. I will go where God wills, and I'll be back to this place again, another year to learn and grow and break and mold and morph. 

No longer can I categorize my life in school years and summers. It's turned into a steady melting and turning of seasons. 

Two days, and the plans for my life are changed. Does that sound dramatic to you? The experience in the refugee reception centre in Debrecen, Hungary changed my life. I knew that this summer would change me more, but I thought it would be there, and it isn't any more. It's somewhere else, all new people... 

Anyways, all this to say, it changes so fast. 

God willing.

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.