Turning “Oh NO!” to “Oh…no.” June 25, 2013

Last night I stayed up way too late. I was refreshed and on the “high” that only a good walk near a beautiful sunset with one of my dearest friends can bring. I was also still quite nostalgic—thankful for a skype chat with the one person who understands both places I served in Kenya. Well after 1 am I was attempting to quiet my mind—which, truthfully, was racing partly due to an extra dose of caffeine that afternoon as I drank in the smell and appreciated the sound of a “Kenyan downpour” that hit Seattle.

In the midst of futilely trying to process and still my mind—my ear made a slight, suctiony, pop! (This may be TMI, but for those of us who wear hearing aids, our ears can tend to produce excess wax that gets and remains somewhat liquidy while having them in and for a little while afterwards…gross but true. Tell your friends, knowledge is (gross) power.) My first sleepy thought was “OH NO! My nerve cells just died, I’m going to be deaf in the morning and won’t be able to get/afford cochlear implants”. Yeah, my mind went to the “worst case” scenario at 1am. No bueno.

Thankfully, my next epiphany was much less dramatic and actually grounded— “Oh. no.” The ‘Oh’ was brought on by the realization of the liquidy wax making the same sound as I cleaned out my ear—and, much more importantly, was the result of the rational thought that it’s 1 am, I “cant party like I used to”, and my mind is going down roads its shouldn’t because its exhausted, not because those thoughts are rooted in truth. Then, there was the resolved, “No.” No ,it’s 1am. I am not going to freak out, get discouraged, feel worthless, focus on my DISability because I am tired. NO. I am going to relax, choose to have hope, rest, and to be grateful for the hearing I do have. Glass half full, if you wish.

After waking up this morning I was humbled and relieved by how the” Oh NO!” turned into the “oh, no.”  This morning I am grateful for perspective, for the ability to “gird up my mind” and “not go there”. I am thankful for a God-given grace of a sound mind and a quiet heart.

“Wherever you are, Be all there”—22 June 2013

                Wherever you are, be all there. One wise and driven missionary, Jim Eliott, wrote that in his journal—years before he was to be killed doing what he was called to and relentlessly pursued—sharing the gospel with the unreached tribes of South America.

                It’s time to get real honest—I am having a hard time “being all here” when my heart is screaming that it just wants to be back there. This week marked one year since I flew to Charlotte and this whole life-changing year began.  Since Wednesday, I’ve been thinking in terms of “this time last year…” I want to be back in the sticky Charlotte summer—connecting with new friends and meeting others in situations I never thought I would be in. I want to be experiencing the anxious-excitement of being on the brink of the fulfillment of a life-long dream. Yeah, I want that high again. The high of knowing for certain you are right where you’re supposed to be, supported (literally financially and prayerfully) by family and friends who have put their money and their mouths in the same unequivocal place affirming that “yes, this is good, this is beautiful, this is what we see for you, and we want to be a part of that”.  I want to be back walking the dusty red roads, Swahili chatter as my soundtrack as I weave between stands of vegetables, fruit, blue jeans, and pots and pans. I want to hear the confident “hallo muzungu” from hopeful owners and the shy shrieks of “how are you?!” from their curious children.  I want to be there. My heart yearns for conversations with diverse groups of people from around the world—our voices and accents blending harmoniously because we are called to a purpose that unites us uniquely for this time, this place, these people. As my mind continuously plays back—just like the beginning scenes of Up—I can’t help but acknowledge that this type of reliving and remembering is good—for a season. But I can’t stay here—becoming one of those washed-up has-beens who lives in the past and solely to recount the “glory days” all the while missing the opportunities that come each minute to make this day equally purposeful.

                So how can I “be all here”?  How do I honor the importance of the last year without letting it drain the joy, purpose, and my role with the people in front of me today? Whenever we look at how Israel, stranded in the dessert began to long for life back in Egypt, in slavery, we tend to scoff. But this morning, I wondered if any of those Israelites wanted to go back to the Exodus—wanted to relive the pillar of fire, of smoke, the frogs, seeing the Nile turn to blood—those glory days when they knew God was working on their behalf and they knew he was leading them. If so, I can relate to that. I can relate to the desire to have that profound clarity in the midst of a unique season of life. It’s easy to forget God is just as present and working just as much on my behalf when the most exciting part of my day is a surprising lack of traffic as when I bypassed a long visa line because of a Kenyan Momma who looked out for me.

                I can be all here when I let myself be encouraged FOR today by the ways I was lead and the experiences I had this time last year. I can be all here when I see this day as an important part of fulfilling the next part of my journey and dreams—this day of rest is preparing me for the craziness of graduate school, which a year from now I will be almost done with. Today I can be all here as I read a book about a girl with Autism whose window to the world is typing. As I’ve read the portion of her story written by her dad-the one detailing her early “pre-typing” years—I cannot help but see myself in the dedicated ABA therapist who spent countless hours pushing Carly to engage in this world—relentlessly seeking communication. I cannot help but hope that my life and career will be marked by that type of influence—as someone who is “all there” in my work to help the marginalized and very special—in America and in Kenya.

                I can be “all here” because there is always a new dream that is driven by the memory and the experiences of the last one.

Unpacking My memories—June 19th

                One year ago today I was packing with anticipation, joy, and unbelief that at the end the week I was going to be on my way to stepping onto Kenyan soil. The day is a blur, but I do remember floating through one last day of work, rechecking my packing a million times…and once I was ready (hours before I needed to be) I walked to one of my churches small groups just to be with people. I remember the anxious excitement and fear, of hugging my “second parents” as I stepped into the security line. My mind flew as I waited for my plane, and I hurriedly wrote a post about dreams and the journey. The traveling to charlotte is a blur, but I can vividly feel the sticky summer day, the joy of meeting instant friends that were just as much of a jumble of emotions as I was. The hospitality of the SIM staff, the preparation, the reality checks on powerpoints by people who had been there that don’t, and can’t, hit you until you actually experience them.  The blind date at Chipolte and Barnes and Noble—the stealth asking of my cousin of how the afternoon went while I was able to get a glimpse of my family’s celebration of my Grandparent’s 60^th anniversary. The tears that came at the most unexpected times—waiting to board my plane, the confusing Amsterdam airport, a majority of the flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi—and the flood of tears upon arriving where I would call the next three months home. I remember the joy of sitting at the Nairobi airport waiting for a fellow short-termer, exhausted but exhilarated that I was finally in Kenya.

                I cannot stop the flood of memories, of emotions—and I don’t want to. Sure, I may be a little crazy today—but I have to remember. Re-living is a way of healing, of honoring, and in some ways moving on to the new dreams that stemmed from this important season in my life. Today I want to live out one of the lessons from my time in Kenya—I don’t have to live a rushed life. I want to let myself feel, reminiscing on where I’ve been, the people I am privileged to have met and gotten to know the past year, the real pain that bubbles up at the unexpected moments,  grief for who I’ve lost within the last 365 days. I will embrace where I am at because while time heals all wounds, no one dictates how much is needed—there’s no deadline or real end for how life-changing experiences and losses affect you.  Today I will let my mind and heart unpack, sort, re-arrange and re-organize.

Called to Today—June 5, 2013

                One of the themes throughout my time in Kenya was the distinct and conscious “feeling” that each day mattered, that I had been called there specifically for that day, the people I would meet, the lessons I would teach, the walks I would take. I awoke with a purpose, a clear picture of what I was supposed to do and go. I felt called, equipped, and needed. I was driven, joyful, and excited to experience each day that came—the challenges and the triumphs.   The time was short; I wanted to make the most of it.

                But as I’ve settled into my life back in the states; slowly the complacency, the drudgery of normalcy, the “mundane” has robbed me of a purposed perspective. I’ve forgotten that I’m just as much purposed and called today—to the people I work with, the children I serve, and the friends I share a cup of coffee with.

It’s funny how beginnings, endings, and new experiences remind us of the purpose in each day.  As the school year winds down, and I am approaching the “one year since I left for Kenya” mark, I am already becoming nostalgic. Countless times in the last few weeks I have made mental notes of “this is the second to last time that...” and sighed with thankfulness and a twinge of sadness. As I entered this second to last week with the kiddos I’ve grown to love I have found myself grateful and marking the simple, everyday things—the wide smiles, loud cries of excitement, constant songs, artistic bursts, and creative phrases. I am intentionally going into each day wanting to show them love, acceptance, and to call them up to their best and to push them with encouragement to achieve it—because the time is short and this day, this hour, the people I am with right now—matter.

But in reality, each day, monotonous or momentous, hold that same weight and truth. Tragedy strikes, tornados touch down, we breathe our last breaths. Tonight I write with renewed vigor, joy, and yes, purpose. This day, this mundane Wednesday evening-matters.