Preaching to the Choir 27 January 2013

                In the midst of making the “awkward flossing face” of my nightly (okay, honestly flossing isn’t “nightly”…) routine, I realized that today I definitely preached to the choir.  This morning I had the privilege of teaching young souls the Biblical story of the Tower of Babel, where the people wanted to build a “stairway to heaven” minus led zeppelin but still the idea of getting or buying our way to heaven, on our own effort. The kids are so much more insightful than we give them credit for.  To draw out more than the “he confused their languages because he was mad, because he didn’t want them to try to work to heaven” and to somewhat follow the lesson plan of showing that” it was because God loved them that he confused them”, I asked them to tell me things that were hard for them, that maybe confused them, but then to think of how God could be showing his love to them through that.

                It wasn’t until hours later, beaver-faced and flossing, that it hit me—that is exactly the season I’m in. I am in a season that feels like waiting, wandering even—big things are coming—grad school in the fall, hopefully plans to return to Kenya after that, and yes, I’d like to think marriage and a family. But I can’t see those things—the “way to heaven” so to speak. So, in true “Western do-it-yourself-form”, I started building—building doubt, worry, panic at times for things I cannot control or grasp today. This season of waiting, confusion; muddled voices of where I think I should be or where “I think others think I should be”—a vicious road to travel—is purposeful. I needed this confusion to force me to stop building—just like the tower of Babel. I needed to be reminded of the purpose in this day—that my life doesn’t start to have meaning when I’m where I want to be—it has significance where I am. These months of waiting in wonder are a gift—I’ll miss so much if I only look to my wishes; and even more if I attempt to build my own stairway to heaven.

                I toss the floss in trash, close the cabinet, and say a prayer of thanks—that preaching to the choir doesn’t happen when you expect, but always when you need it.

Just Keep Swimming 26 January 2013

 

Dory: Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills. When life gets you down do you wanna know what you've gotta do?
Marlin: No I don't wanna know.
Dory: [singing] Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim, swim.
Marlin: Dory, no singing.
Dory: [continuing] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ho. I love to swim. When you want to swim you want to swim. 

Now, this may have been swimming, hah, in my head today because I have the privilege of working with a boy who loves this movie, or because I too am guilty of loving this gem from Pixar, watching many times when it came out. But this snippet also has truth for today. It has been a topsy turvy month…being sick for a week, getting a new job sorted out, and yes, still processing. I have had days where I have had to remind myself to keep swimming, to know that there are concrete aspects of life that are currently obscured by fog. I have to be brave enough to swim in the darkness, to keep fighting for joy, perspective, humbly walking this journey. It hasn’t been easy. All too easily I’m like Marlin—fearful, rationalizing, and frankly, “I don’t want to know” the next steps to take or to be told to move on. 

To draw from another animated analogy, “ogres (and processing time abroad as well as the death of many friends and family) are like onions”.  They have layers, make you cry, sting, and yet are so necessary for life—giving it fuller flavor because we appreciate peaks and valleys, happiness and sadness, when we have lived through each of them; fully grasping the one because of the reality of its “antithesis” if you will. Thankfully, we don’t experience the full extreme of only happiness or sadness—because as humans there is always something to be happy or grateful for even in the midst of grief.

You have to choose to keep swimming. Even though I can’t force the fog to go away, or always anticipate the memories each day will bring, I can choose to keep going. I can commit to walk this journey of grief, processing, and gleaning direction from the past year.

“When you want to swim you want to swim”—akin to “fake it ‘til you make it” but I think there’s something to say for fighting for something until you want it. It may be tedious but there is purpose in trudging on in habits and trusting there will be fruit at the end. Now, the end is somewhat obscure—we don’t know when we’ll be over a bend, look back and realize the bottom of the valley is farther away than you expected—but we can trust that choosing to walk, even getting out of bed on some days, is a way of moving, living, being. Just keep swimming.

What Hospitality Looks like

                I hop over a puddle in the crowded walkway carved between mud and stone houses following the “yes, this way” as I and three others are eagerly herded towards our destination. I push aside a curtain and smile as my eyes adjust to a single room, lit by a small circular hole in the side of one wall. My friends and I huddle together on a bench covered in fabric and can’t help but smile from our hearts as we are heartily greeted by our hosts. Curious faces periodically peek to see the muzungu guests, their faces silhouetted by the bright daylight.  I grasp the cup given to me and am humbled by the gratitude our hosts are showering us with—just for arriving and spending a few hours with them. Almost immediately a heaping plate of steaming rice and beans is handed to me. I can't help the convicting thought that “She must have saved all week for this…” 

Words cannot adequately express the honor and humility that washes over me at that realization. When was the last time I truly lived sacrificially, when did I save so I could give? My culture prides itself on what you can keep…seemingly blind to the joys of giving.

Our meal is full of food made with love, sacrifice, and conversation of new friends getting to know each other; worlds apart but together for this day, this meal.  Through the clinking silverware, the gratitude, the laughter, and the universal connection of a smile—I know I am changed. One meal of rice and beans has humbled and honored me—this is what hospitality looks like,

True hospitality allows the guest to enter in. It is unapologetic and joyful. It is infectiously welcoming—there is freedom in openness that is contagious. I will never forget that.

All too soon our meal ended and we left with full stomachs and hearts. Through the crowded paths, the rain-soaked streets, and cacophonous Saturday, my heart was stilled. I had been invited to so much more than a meal—I was invited to enter into a new perspective, one that lived out the truth that it IS better to give than to receive.  

Embracing THIS Season

              Today is another foggy January morning. It has been an interesting week. Sunday was a day of joy-filled teaching—I reveled in watching the 4 to 9 year old boys embrace Jesus as the crusher of the Snake, and delighted in their joy at seeing my safari pictures—which were totally applicable to the Noah’s ark story…

This week however, has also been rough...it has been a twilight zone of dead ends with getting in contact with the school district I have been hired onto but have yet to do orientation with…and it has also been full of strong and powerful Kenya flashbacks…from the bumps of the safari van with the wind in my hair, to the dusty dirt sidewalks and the smell of fresh rain. These came at the most random and caught off guard moments. As the week has progressed I found myself anxious and disillusioned. I became frustrated with this apparent “holding time” as the things I feel called to work for are months away. Comparison is an ugly and vicious cycle—it is easy to look at others’ lives—their accomplishments, marriages, families, etc—and to feel like I am not measuring up. But I have to take a step back…

The past couple of days have been reminders to rest in what I can see. Our futures come one day at a time and I miss out on the purpose of this day—rest—when I am anxious or striving for a future that I really can’t change. I had to come to a place of surrender and humility—I had to admit that there are so many aspects of life I can’t control and that striving to do so is a form of futile pride. A wise friend reminded me that this is a season, there is good in it and chances are life will only speed up from here. I needed to learn to embrace this season as much as I want to be moving forward.

While I was in Kenya, I wrote about it being my “40 years in the desert” much likeIsrael. What I didn’t realize was that the analogy would also pertain to this season of re-entry. I’ve been in the “desert” its been dry, frustrating, monotonous, and discouraging at times.  But I needed to be here. I needed the time to reflect, to sort out the crazy experience that Kenya was and to grieve the many losses of the past year. I needed to trust God for the manna in this desert. I needed this test of faith after obediently following him to Kenya. I needed to learn to embrace each season—the mountain tops to the monotonous.

 
Ironically enough, in the middle of typing this post I received an email telling me that orientation for a job at the school district is next week. I am grateful and beyond blessed.

Roots and Wings 13 January 2013

         
            Well tomorrow marks the end of the second week in 2013…yes, I did just type “2012” for the umpteenth time.  I am thankful for 13 days thus far that have been full of frigid (by my moderate climate and pathetic Pacific North West Standard) and beautifully sunny weather, getting back into the swing of working in the afternoons, discovering new favorite books and authors (I’m in a British author phase)…and missing Nairobi in new ways—the smells, the sights, the precious hugs and cries of “how are you?!”, and the many friends I wish still lived a door instead of hours or a day of travel away. As I begrudgingly realize that it has now been more months that I’ve been back then I spent in Kenya, I also have to admit that it’s time to look forward. I am still processing in many ways…and randomly finding that I’m in the second spiral of the hate of materialism and object-based identity—as experienced on  a recent trip to the mall as I looked around and thought“what we’re really looking for is identity…things to define our worth, status, clique…it’s all so temporal and hollow”.

   I’ve also realized that I am a “trip person”…even if it’s just an hour and a half drive to visit a friend, I need that. I need the drive, the change of scenery, the time to think, listen to music and sermons. This Saturday was refreshing—catching up with one of my closest friends…a “meeting in the middle” and a visit to one of my favorite places on earth.


I also have been contemplating the notion of roots and wings. A quote that has always stood out to me from Sweet Home Alabama is when Jake tells Melanie “You can't have roots and wings”. It’s an interesting concept that describes where I am at. I used my wings last year—went to Kenya, further explored this world, my gifts, my call. I also have returned to my roots—with a myriad of different perspectives and dreams. I realized, unlike Jake, that you can have roots and wings. Your roots are the launch pad for your wings. They shape, direct, and enable your flight. A tree can't stand without roots and they are the source of water-of life to the soaring dreams.

 

As I look ahead…to the next 50 weeks of 2013 (hah, typed it right that time). I know that as much as I want to book the next flight back to Nairobi, it is purposeful for me to be here, to return to school as another way of watering roots so I can take flight again. I am thankful for the ebb and flow of life, for roots and wings.

New Year, New Hope Blooms

                I sip the steaming coffee, settle back into the holiday pillow, and think, “this year doesn’t look too different from the last one so far—but that doesn’t mean it won’t be one of growth and pain". That’s the pattern of life—birth, growth, decline, death. To my right is a beautiful amaryllis. See that bud at the top? A week ago it was well below the blooms that are now wilting. I can approach this metaphor two ways—one, I can remorsefully look at the dying flowers, reminiscing of their “glory days” and ignore the bud shooting up. The other option is to gaze at the new life—the bud that is growing as the first fruits wilt—their dying is purposeful, allowing for new life and blooms to come.

What a beautiful picture for the coming year.

                I could look back on 2012—a monumental year for me in many ways—and scorn the uncertainty of the “new bud” and seasons ahead—or I can trust that even though the life of the blooms of growth and realized dreams of last year are wilting—their “death” is purposeful too. One of my favorite authors, Jan Karon, articulates that “one of the things that pushes the dead leaf of the stem is bud of the new leaf that pushes it off the limb”. As I look past the amaryllis into a bright sunny New Year’s Day morning, I can’t help but think amen. Isaiah 43:19 reminds me that God is “…doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert” (ESV). He is preparing buds for their time of flourishing. This year, I don’t want to choose option one—constantly re-living in the fulfilled dreams of 2012 like a has-been athlete—No, I want to focus on the “will be”. I’m not naïve to think that I can know what this year will tangibly bloom into, but I know my God and I know it’ll be beautiful. It will shine because He works all things for good—even wilting memories and petals. So today, in the beginning of this new trek around the sun, I choose hope. I can’t wait to see what blooms in 2013.