On Freedom

Day 45 of quarantine:

I can’t believe I haven’t journaled until now. You’d think, what with all this free time at home, I’d have nothing but time to journal about the very interesting and eventful…events that happen in quarantine. You know at the start of all this madness I even thought to myself… “I should journal about this. Maybe one day someone will read my journal like Anne Frank or something.” But that is not the best analogy…

And so did I use all this sudden and available time to document the secret and intriguing life of someone in quarantine? No. You know it’s even strange to read the word on paper. Quarantine. It almost makes it feel more real. Tangible. Idk.

I suppose to be honest, which I try to be, especially in my own private journal, that that is exactly why I haven’t written. Wait…why? Because at times it hasn’t felt real. And at times I wish it wasn’t. I admit that I am speaking from a position of privilege. That were my circumstances different, I wouldn’t question if this is real or not. It would undoubtedly, unmistakably be absolutely and most certainly real. Minus all the ruffles and frills. And fear wouldn’t be my only reminder. No. The pang of hunger. The worry in my children’s eyes. The sound of my mother’s quivering voice as she begs the Lord for mercy on her family and her country. They would be my daily reminders of this catastrophe. Though the most catastrophic thing to have happened in my life is having to write this with a medium point pen because I can’t just run to the store for a fine point. I say that mostly jokingly, but somewhat seriously. Sure it hasn’t been an easy ride.

Have I encountered loneliness, fear and worry whilst in self-isolation? Yes. But I can say with certainty that many would quickly trade places. Being in isolation, or better worded, in quarantine with seven other family members in Orange County, California hasn’t been all that bad.

On Fridays, we get fresh, organic produce delivered to our door. The other day, actually, I caught the driver proudly blast Lady Marmalade before making a quick getaway to his next stop, another privileged middle-class family most likely.

(On Mondays, I sleep in, and then panic.)

On Thursdays, I deliver meals to the seniors from my church. I’m sort of in charge of the whole operation. To be honest, which again…my journal…when I volunteered to pick up groceries for seniors, I didn’t know how much work I’d be getting myself into. Selfishly so, so that you realize I’m not bragging, I thought it wouldn’t be that much work. Or rather, once things started rolling, I didn’t realize it would be as much work as it was. I’m rambling now. Point is, it wasn’t what I “signed up for”. And I’m the one that signed myself up. Am I complaining? No. Actually, the whole thing has blessed me (as the senior ladies of my church would say) more than I expected. 45 some odd days ago, I didn’t realize just how much joy driving my own car, blasting Mt. Joy with the windows down, delivering meals to seniors on a Thursday would bring me. Even on that really hot Thursday when I was sweating through my mask, I was blessed more than I blessed others. I could say something sappy like…

The smile on Judy’s face when she saw me (from a safe 6ft distance) outside her door is what made all the difference. And it was. It did. But also, experiencing freedom. The kind of freedom that we often take for granted. The freedom to walk outside the door, meet a friend for coffee, get lunch with a coworker, high five your students, hug your mother, even go to the grocery store. Experiencing freedom.

A freedom I felt, I have lost. Albeit temporarily. It is a loss that does not go unnoticed. It is a loss that is deeply felt. And I suppose, in that way, this catastrophic event has unified us. For those of us who were born into the riches of freedom, now we know, even if just a sliver, of what it is to be without freedom. For we, as a privileged society, I as a privileged individual, may have lost it temporarily, but some were born without it. Born into a culture, a household, a body that is stripped of freedom. The freedom to live and love and be freely, beyond the interior, outside of four walls; to pursue a career, to go to school, to meet in a church, to marry for love, to have cereal or eggs. Many are not born with these freedoms. Many, in fact, will never know them. Many will only dream of them.

My one prayer is, that when we finally come out on the other side, when we finally see the day after this long night, that we would not rush off to meet in coffee shops and flood the beaches and laugh at the worst of it being over, but that we would sit down, and remember those who were lost, those who we failed to protect and those who we still can. For even when things go back to “normal” or rather to some semblance of it, when the clocks go back to ticking without anyone noticing, when the school bells ring and the waitress punches in for work, there will still be fear and great loneliness. Worry will not escaped this earth. But if we can learn to get really still and quiet, to hold one another and to listen, I think the earth would let out a great sigh. And as cheesy as it may sound, I think some big old guy, with greying hair, up in heaven would be smiling down.

Lessons in Quarantine: Blueberry muffins don’t go with refried beans

I’ve been thinking about writing about what I’ve learned during the first two weeks of quarantine. Something easily digestible like 10 Things I learned in 10 Days of Quarantine, or something catchy like: Jeans Say What? or Toilet Paper Propriety: What TP Taught Me About Humanity. But I haven’t given up on wearing jeans yet, currently sporting my favorite Levi’s. And I don’t really want to write about toilet paper.

As I write this I’m sitting on the back porch of my parent’s house, watching our zebra finches splash themselves with water and groom their little feathers. My brothers have been complaining about how loud they are. Just the other day, my brother told me that during a Zoom call for his NASA program, he saw his colleague’s face change as he heard the squeaking cries of eleven zebra finches in the background. My brother simply replied, “Oh also, sorry about that, my family has a finch farm.”

Yes, my family has a finch farm. We didn’t exactly plan it, much like rabbits don’t plan to have forty children, but Priscilla just has good genes. Priscilla is the mother. I’ve actually lost count of how many finches we’ve had to be honest. I got my first finches in the 5th or 6th grade. My mother made my best friend, Astrid, and I a deal: if we could build the bird cage we found in the garage, we could get a bird. She probably didn’t think we’d actually build the cage. But she kept her promise. At the pet store, I excitedly picked the prettiest, and most expensive, finches. Two spice finches, that Astrid and I named Petri and Falcon. You could imagine which was the uglier of the two. I suppose you doom a bird you name after a scientific instrument used to culture bacteria.

The finches are still grooming their feathers. One of the babies almost lost her balance mid-groom. She’s new to the whole grooming thing. As I sit here, glowing under the midday sun, realizing how incredibly dry my cuticles are, wondering the last time I got a manicure, thinking that I’m way overdue for a haircut, I realize this is my new normal. My legs are burning in my washed black Levi’s, the birds are squeaking and here I sit, completely unwilling to work on job applications. So instead I’m writing about zebra finches. Earlier when our dog, Max, was lying at the foot of the finch cage, he was suddenly sprayed with a wave of water. He eventually got too hot lying under the midday sun and went inside to lie on the rug. If I would have taken a photo, it would explain my quarantine mood exactly.

Hopeless with a pinch of I’d rather be lying on the floor. I say that mostly joking. The one thing I am certain of is the uncertainty.

March 11th, 2020. It was a Wednesday. At the time, it felt like any other Wednesday. I had gone to the library to work on job applications. I had been spending many afternoons at the library then. I was tired of coffee shops, and also I was broke. In the past, I hated working at libraries. The shrill quiet was too much. I preferred the hum of a coffee shop. The coming and going of people, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sense of possibility. It’s something I’ve always felt in a coffee shop. It’s the birthplace of ideas. I believe it’s why a lot of creatives live there, that and the fact that they’re lovingly addicted to caffeine. The library, on the other hand, felt so terribly studious. I was no longer a student, nor was I working on a book report. But I had come to enjoy the quiet of the library. It wasn’t presumptuous or assuming. I had full freedom to simply sit and be myself, with or without great ideas. I remember taking a break that Wednesday, from the application grind. I went outside for some fresh air. I noticed a patch of sunlight hitting the yellow lilies against the wall. I took a photo. Later that day, I read that WHO had declared the coronavirus outbreak a pandemic.

March 17th, 2020. Tuesday. I went to Trader Joe’s. As I stood in line to enter, I watched the store workers discuss the strangeness of the situation as one sanitized the shopping baskets. Inside the store, a man with a face mask pushed his cart to the checkout. I wondered how long this would be normal. I was stopped by the starkly white shelves where chicken stock and rice should be. I took a photo, for posterity. Friday the 13th, Trump had declared a national emergency. But it was the empty shelves that spoke with greater urgency. Things were getting real, fast. In the spirit of self-assured optimism, I bought a bouquet of bright orange flowers. They made me happy. And I had the feeling I would be trying to put happiness in a vase in the coming days. My youngest brother was sent home that night from his program, a secondary education program housed on a military base. Things were getting real, indeed.

March 22nd, 2020. I found myself on the toilet. Head in my hands. Overwhelmed. I hadn’t felt that overwhelmed since I lived in Guatemala. When I took care of 12 orphaned boys by myself. The end of one week in self-quarantine. Thursday the 19th, Governor Newsom had declared a shelter-in-place order for California. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what led to my overwhelming feelings of being, well, overwhelmed. Two of my brothers had recently come back home, with no idea how long they would be staying, if their program would continue, how to pay rent for their newly vacated place back at school. Living and working in a house with seven other people was beginning to take a toll. Being unemployed may have been the icing on the cake.

I haven’t sent out a single job application today. Job search is hard. Learning how to make an edible meal, that tastes mostly good, for eight people, out of the contents of your pantry is hard. Adjusting to a sudden move, transitioning to working from home, learning how to home-school your children, learning how to home-school your children while working from home, having your social life go from 60 to 0, having your travel plans cancelled, your academic program, graduation, wedding postponed with no foreseeable date in sight. All of these things are hard. Throw a pandemic on top, and it can render even the most optimistic zealot hopeless.

Times are weird. Everything we once knew and relied on as normal is changing. Stress is high. Anxiety has crept in. And fear is looming on the horizon. But I am learning to sit in the uncertainty. To hold hands with discomfort. Because I know it won’t be forever. I know this too shall pass.

The finches are still squeaking away. Busy cleaning their feathers, pecking at bird seed, curiously watching me from atop a coconut. They go quiet for moments at a time. The air is cooler now. The biting midday sun has melted away, leaving a cool afternoon breeze. I took a break from writing this post to walk the dog, mostly because I wanted to go for a walk. I walked slower than usual, let him smell every flower, pee on every tree, and I breathed in deep the early spring air.

Yesterday I had something profound to say. As I was lying on my bed, mid-Sunday-nap. Something about trying to be perfect, even during a pandemic. About how we shouldn’t be striving for perfection, but just learning to forgive, to slow down, to be in the uncertainty. I think that what’s most important right now is that we’re honest. About how we’re feeling, about what we need, and even just to own up and say “I don’t know.” That we would simply open up and share.

In times of distress, it’s normal to grit our teeth, clench our fists. Fight-or-flight, or freeze. It’s a natural stress response. “A physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival.” Our sense of safety, security and even normalcy have been attacked. Fear for the safety of our loved ones, fear of a lost physical, emotional, social and financial security. And fear of uncertainty, that everything could change in a moment. All of these fears are warranted and real.

Yet, amidst the fear, there is always hope. In the face of threat, I think there can be faith. In this time of uncertainty and fear, my prayer is that we would grow softer, not fight harder. That we would find those patches of light against the wall.

Oh, and about blueberry muffins and refried beans. Yeah, they don’t go together. But maybe you’ll find a lonely watermelon that is just past ripe, and maybe it will go with the muffins. You might spill some watermelon juice on your pink tie-dye shirt. But that’s okay. Tomorrow you can make pasta with the wilting basil on your windowsill, and maybe send out a job application or two.

Love and All We’ve Lost

Anne, August 17th, 2016

This past year and a half has been filled with loss. I lost my identity, my faith and my hope. I also lost Anne.

I haven’t told the story yet, but I feel ready now.

It all started when I left. My place of residence in Guatemala, my job and my then home. I got hurt, so I ran. And run I did. All the way home to California.

I have wanted to write about what happened for some time now, but I felt I couldn’t. I felt silenced by those who hurt me. I also didn’t want to sound like I was throwing a giant pity party. But mostly, I just wasn’t ready. One time when I tried to write, I had a panic attack. I’ve had a few of those since then. I also didn’t want to condemn anyone or throw accusations. I didn’t want to write from a place of resentment nor bitterness. I wanted to be honest without causing more harm.

The thing about loss is that it’s personal. It depends on the person. It depends on the thing or person lost. It all comes down to value. Losing a doll in a fire could matter more to one than another losing their a grandfather. Life is full of loss. Riddled with it. A familiar foe to all. It shakes our bones, sometimes breaks us.

February 21st, 2019 I lost my grandmother, Anne. She wasn’t my grandmother by blood, but she was my grandmother by choice. My mentor, my confidante and my dearest friend. 9:41am – I got a text from her daughter telling me that she had passed that morning. They found her at 4am. “So grateful she is with my dad at home with our Heavenly Father,” she told me. I cried that morning. Tears of sadness, and praise. For as much as I already missed her, I knew she was finally home. Finally at rest.

Anne had been struggling to breathe for a long time. My mother and I saw her just a month before she passed. We visited her at the senior home where she had been living for about two years. I remember when she first moved into her cottage. She had decorated the place with antiques and photos of her grandchildren. It felt like her. She hung the birdhouses we gave her outside and had a floral wreath on her door. As her health deteriorated, she moved from the cottage to assisted living. Her memory and breath worsening. By the time we saw her in January, she wasn’t quite herself anymore. Her body was frail, her breath frantic and her memory a shadow of what once was. She was Anne, but not the youthful, vibrant and sarcastic Anne I had known. She had started to do this thing, where she would speak under her breath completely unconscious to it. She was pleading God for help. She was attached to an oxygen tank, night and day, and still couldn’t catch her breath.

At her memorial I read a poem I wrote for her. As I stood before her family, her daughter and grandchildren, I could hardly choke out the words. “She was sweet like summer rain, warm evenings in Pennslyvania, before the sun laid down to sleep…”

The thing about loss is it can try to take everything from you. Uproot all you’ve planted. Burn down the forest. Leave nothing but ashes. It’s easy to be discouraged. It’s normal to be disoriented. It’s not uncommon for it to destroy. Loss has wrecked nations. Broken families. And tormented every human soul.

The irony of Anne’s passing is that just the day before, February 20th, I wrote about death. After reading the House on Mango Street, the chapter about Aunt Lupe, I wrote some thoughts down. “Something has to die inside you before something can be born within you. Many dreams are born from sickness. From darkness. From suffering and great pain,” I mused.

Why is it that we must enter the dirt below, to grow?
Why is it after tasting the cold earth, we know?
The value of life itself. And how to hold her near.

I wrote these words just nine hours before I found out about Anne’s passing. I don’t believe it was a coincidence. Nor do I think Anne’s passing is merely to be studied for symbolism. But I do think the Lord has been speaking. On death and loss.

When I left Guatemala, I felt I had lost everything. I was desolate. I left because I made choices, mistakes. I was condemned. Rejected by people I considered friends. I no longer felt safe nor wanted in my home. So I left. Completely and utterly broken. My identity was rattled. All these words and identities were shaken up inside me like steel nails in a glass jar. Christian, missionary, sinner.

I came home and wrestled with my demons, wept into my pillow, and withered away a little. In a truly fragile state, all I wanted was comfort. I sought the safety of my family, my friends. I went to therapy. My therapist was wonderful actually and gave me a safe place to land. But I had been deeply wounded, and it would take time for the soft places not to sting anymore. I tried to force the healing. Rush through the process. I just wanted to get to the other side, where things wouldn’t hurt so much. But healing takes time.

I tried to practice forgiveness [through clenched teeth] when really I was searing with anger. I tried to numb the pain. With busyness, a new job, romantic flings. I tried to fill where I felt empty. But I didn’t want to bury. I knew I had to look at it to deal with it to heal. Lay out all the hurt on the table like it was pieces of a broken statue. A statue that once beheld majesty, that once stood in a sunlit courtyard where passerbys admired its beauty.

I was afraid to look inside. To find what lay deeper beyond the surface. I was afraid to discover the dark places in my heart. Afraid to find the thread tied around my finger led to a branch that led to a trunk that led to a root buried deep inside. I didn’t want to dig. For I didn’t want to find.

Leaving caused me to experience a whole spectrum of emotions. Guilt, bitterness, resentment, frustration, anger, sorrow, regret, anxiety, fear, shame. The loss was great. And it’s reach stretched out in every possible direction. My identity was questioned. My faith tested. And my hope deflated. I had been wounded, so I threw up my walls to do all I could instinctively do, shield. My trust had been violated, so I had a hard time trusting. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. Especially not the church. So I ran from the church. But I also ran from my Father. I didn’t trust Him, not anymore.

I remember thinking how sad it is, that when people get hurt by the church that they turn from God. I wouldn’t do that, I thought. But a year later, I found myself rolling my eyes at the mention of His name. I had lost. And instead of softening, I let my heart grow hard. Over time, slowly. In my anger, I fumed off, determined to reinvent myself. I tried everything under the sun to quench my hunger. Sought purpose and fulfillment in a job, friendships, romantic relationships, personal accomplishments. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. None of it could soothe the pain of loss. Nothing sustained.

Loss has a funny way of uncovering things. Of peeling back the layers. It leaves us raw and exposed. It sears and often leaves a scar. But we can heal.

Rejection hurts. Death stings. And loss can leave deep wounds. But there is hope. From the ashes, beauty will arise. Even in the desert, in times of desolation, there is still hope. Only in Him is there hope.

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,^[a]
2 to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
³     and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

Isaiah 61: 1-3

The last day I saw Anne, I snapped a photo of her walking into her room. The scenery had changed. From a cozy cottage to a carpeted hallway lined with rooms. Her floral wreath still hung on her door. Beside her door, beneath the hospital placard with her name, a wall hanging that read, “Forever blessed with every breath”. This was the last photo I took of her. Before she went to be with her Father.

Loss may take everything you have. Or it may damn well try. But no matter how great the loss, I promise you, for now I know, all is not lost.

I don’t know if there is oxygen in heaven, but I know Anne can finally breathe easy. And she’s dancing. Praising our good, good Father.

In this moment of loss all I want to do is dance. Rejoice. Anne would have done just that. Dance.

From my journal entry the morning Anne passed, February 21st, 2019.

Anne, January 15th, 2019

Community

Last weekend, I was in Alabama for a wedding. It was a beautiful southern wedding, complete with a BBQ rehearsal dinner and a cake from Publix. The bride-to-be was a dear friend of mine. The eldest daughter of eleven children.

I flew into Nashville, rented a car and headed south on the highway. 65 South for Huntsville. The carefully crafted and developed city of Nashville gave way to a softer underbelly. Scattered towns clinging to the highway. The green and yellow land seemed to stretch on endlessly, the towns becoming few and far between. The highway seemed to grow freer then, curving graciously with the land. Trees rose with the land, boasting thousands of purple flowers. I wouldn’t have known I had crossed into Alabama if not for the sign that read “Welcome to Alabama the Beautiful”. Homes sprung up from the earth, sitting peacefully between great acres of land. Leaving the highway for a dirt road, I knew I was close. I crossed a small bridge. Fields to my left and right. Houses resting on their plots of land. Mailboxes crouching along the edge of the road. I scanned each one. 15771. I had made it.

As I pulled to the side of the gravel road, I noticed the open garage. A dog ran from one end to the other, barking at this newcomer. A boy of about seven and an older girl about nine or ten carrying a cat walked out. My welcoming committee. I parked my big and sporty rental car under the tree and walked over. Another girl came to corral the dog. A little girl trailing behind.

“And who are you all?” I asked. Shyly, they introduced themselves. Esther (9), Joshua (8) and Julianna (5), but we call her Juju. Oh, and Elizabeth. And Sebastian the dog.

The following days were spent learning their names. Maria. Ah yes, we’ve met before. John. The middle son. He likes to play Fortnite. Elizabeth. Ellion. Already met Esther, Juju, and of course, Joshua. Emma too. Miranda just came home from her nursing clinical. Michael is at school. He won’t be back for a while. He’s always busy, and popular.

The same days were spent falling in love. With the Hutchins family. I was adopted. Nothing official. Completely unplanned and totally on accident. Just a simple invitation.

A nap in the girls bedroom. Kitchen conversations. A quick run to the grocery store. Throwing a spear with John. Swinging on the tree swing. Meeting the goats, and September the pony. Waiting my turn for the bathroom. Breakfast at the dining table. Biscuits and sausage. Making scrambled eggs with Joshua. Late night talks at the top of the stairs. Learning nicknames. More kitchen conversations. Cuddling the kitty.

Each member of the family taught me something. Maria, how to love K-pop and how to rock a jumpsuit. Miranda, how to laugh with your whole self and be your whole self. Michael, that being handsome is more than an exterior act. John, how to throw a spear and bust a move on the dance floor (not simultaneously). Elizabeth, how to be a leader and how to hide forty hairpins in your hair. Ellion, how to dry a plate really well and how to be present. Emma, how to look cute all the time, even as a black llama. Esther, how to talk really fast and what it takes to be queen. Joshua, how to steal hearts and how to properly make eggs. And Juju, how to love a new friend and get kisses from papa.

Sharing in the everyday moments, jumping into their rhythm, the heartbeat that is their home. I fell in love. Slowly and all at once.

…

As I write this, I am sitting outside of my favorite coffee shop. Just before me is a kind gray-haired woman with delicate black-framed glasses, surrounded by four high school girls. They are clearly not her grandchildren, but she encourages them as if they were. She appears to be their mentor, or something of the sort.

“You can make college whatever you decide to make college,” she tells them.  Casually asking each girl what their thoughts on college are, if they have a school in mind. She doesn’t rush them or force the conversation. She simply listens. Gently guiding them, as one by one they respond to her questions. At times, they break into laughter. Other times, it grows quiet, in between thoughts.

The woman reminds me of my dear friend Anne. The way she listens so attentively. Her tender disposition. Her smile. The way she intentionally pours into these girls.

…

Community.

A nine letter word that carries more meaning than its weight on page.

Merriam-Webster defines community as “a unified body of individuals: such as people with common interests living in a particular area” Dictionary.com gives a second definition, “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.”

When I think back on my weekend in Alabama, I think of community. The Hutchins family taught me what true fellowship looks like. What it looks like, walks like, talks like. They taught me what a family can be. Family is the community we don’t choose, but the community we need.

Community is the gathering of family around a table. Community is the neighbors down the road. Community is two friends at a coffee shop. But community is also the cousins you met at the wedding. Community is the strangers in the airport, life shared in passing, fifteen minutes at the gate. Community is the mechanic and his son. Community is a volunteer team in Guatemala. Community is the immigrant men waiting for a job outside the liquor store. Community is the homeless woman begging for her children. Community is the lady surrounded by high school students.

Sometimes we don’t choose community. It happens where we live, where we work, where we go to the gym. But often, we get to choose. Usually, even if it happens by accident, we get to choose. Community is a choice. Community is a relationship you choose. Community is not looking in through the window. Community is looking out from within. Community is like a garden. You can plant it, but unless it is watered, it will die. You must tend to it.

I believe in a worldwide community. Where everyone is a brother, sister, friend you haven’t met yet. I believe in the kind of community that gets vulnerable, that shares in the joys as well as the sorrows. Jesus encouraged this kind of community. The kind that breaks bread together, journeys together, prays together. I believe this is what true communion looks like.

I have known what it is to lack. And I have known what it is to overflow. I have been hungry for community. Desperate for someone to come alongside me. Aching for a friend, a hand, even just a smile. And I have been filled by community. Flooded with unconditional love. Overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers, turned family. Saturated. Surrounded. Fully embraced in the arms of an eight-year-old.

…

On my last night with the Hutchins family, I was invited to write on the thankfulness wall. I was still wearing my dress, but my boots were off. It had been a long day on my feet. The littlest Hutchins approached me with a sweet smile and beckoned me to come to the stairs. She showed me her own handiwork and handed me the box of sharpies. The wall read things like “plenty of clothes”, “a good home”, “weekends” and “killer soup”. She added to her drawings. Beneath, someone else’s handwriting read “Toys, beds and baths. Mommy and daddy.” I picked a dark blue sharpie, but the ink was weak. Juju suggested I try the lighter blue. In the end, I decided to layer the two.

Thank you, Juju. For teaching me what a simple invitation can do. Thank you to my new family. For teaching me what community is. I had forgotten. But your warmth reminded me.

Insanity

They say Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. I think I may be going insane then. They say nothing changes if nothing changes. Change begets change. It’s 9:52pm on a Thursday. I’m sitting in my childhood bedroom. RESTLESS. In a few hours, after brushing my teeth and reading a few chapters of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I’ll finally settle in my bed. But my mind won’t. In the silent, dark, a thought will arise. Soon to arrest. I’ll set my alarm for 6:00am sharp. But I won’t get up at 6:00am. At 6:10am I’ll unwillingly drag my heavy, body, from my bed.

It’s 9:58pm on a Thursday. I’m sitting in my childhood bedroom. I dream of a different life, but reality scares me. I want to scale mountains with the wind in my face. ALIVE. Yet, here, I sit. The walls are still pink and yellow and blue. They’ve been the same for years. Why do I relate? It’s 10:01pm on a Thursday. It rained today. The water reflecting off the blacktop was beautiful. I noticed and froze. For a moment I fell into the deep black pools. But reality broke my fall. And I came back to my feet. My break was over.

I imagined something different. In my daydreams, there is more color. Lately, it’s all gray. It’s 10:14pm on a Thursday. Thursday. Friday. Monday. But what’s in a name? Today a student told me he wants to learn more about time. He spelled it ‘tyme’, but it was the idea that pinned me. TIME. Forever escaping, never repenting. I’ve had 26 years of life. 9,626 days. 231,047 hours. 13,862,842 minutes. 831,770,547 seconds. Respectively. According to the internet anyways.

It’s 10:24 on a Thursday. I’m sitting in my childhood bedroom. This song has been playing on repeat. Why do I relate? Things keep repeating, keep repeating, repeating, repeating. Though I do not shake, I’m trembling. Fear has me shaking.

I remember how it was when my dreams kept me awake at night. When I’d dream with my eyes open. (Before the nightmares.) I remember them fluttering through me, like the wind tousling the pages of a book. I was a paper girl running through my paper world. Every page become my adventure. Where thoughts became mountains, and ideas seas. Page after page, I climbed. Letters became a window, a river, a road. Exclamation marks flew me to the moon. In those lands, they called me La Brava. But my world got turned upside down and I came tumbling out. They threw the book in the fire. And I got burned.

It was a Tuesday. Things got ugly. So I ran. I ran and ran and ran and ran. Blindly, I ran. Bleeding, I ran. And when I had run far away, I hid. And fell apart. It’s 10:46 on a Thursday. I didn’t imagine this. I want to chase the sun. Yet, here, I sit.

“It’s okay. I’ll sit here with you,” He said.

Stranger Things

Some things in this world are just plain weird. Sauerkraut and toe socks, for example. But seriously, some things are so strange.

Sometimes I forget I’ve dyed my hair and remember when it catches the sun. Sometimes I wake up and I’m in funky mood. Sometimes strangers are rude. Sometimes you put eight pairs of socks in the washer and by the time they come out of the dryer there are only thirteen socks. Sometimes the key doesn’t open the door, though it’s opened it hundreds of times before. Sometimes you feel a familiar connection with someone you’ve just met. Some insects eat their partners heads after mating. Weird.

Sometimes you look around and realize you’re the adult in the room and wonder where the little girl went. The one that used to be afraid of everything. The one who hid behind momma’s legs. Who is this woman in the mirror? The one with dark circles and eye lines. When did my hands get so big, and my fears bigger? Sometimes you look down at the child in front of you and wonder who has more questions. Sometimes you hold one tight, and wonder when you’ll have one of your own. Sometimes you’re so angry one moment and so overjoyed the next.

Sometimes, suddenly, a child leaves, forever. No warning. Mom shows up. Kisses him. Backpack on his shoulder. Hugs and goodbyes. And just like that. The door is closed behind them. I felt guilty, for punishing him so harshly just a few hours before. But he lied, and disobeyed. Why do I feel like crying? My heart feels confused. We weren’t even close. Two months. Only two months with him. But he was one of many. One of twelve. Yet somehow, it’s strange. The best kind of strange. Goodbye, you’re going home. Strange how quickly things change. How suddenly they leave. And suddenly, a new one is at the door.

It’s strange. To have a heart. This bloody, beating thing inside you. Sometimes it feels to have a mind of it’s own. Sometimes it feels to literally break, and you wonder if you’ll bleed out. Sometimes it burns, aches. Often it has no words. Only expressing itself in racing rhythm and faint drumming. Sometimes it screams. Sometimes I don’t understand how this squishy muscle pumping blood through veins is connected to these tumbling, churning feelings. Sometimes I don’t care. I just want it to stop hurting.

It’s strange. To feel like you have all these little hearts running around outside of you. To fall in love with twelve boys, who do not share your name, nor blood. To feel eternally connected while being so temporary. To feel like you’re heart is in two places at once. To feel restless and strangely content. To long to be away and here. All at the same time.

It’s strange. To love, to hurt, to ache. To burn, like stars smoldering the night sky. To be human. How bizarre.

Sometimes I think about it for too long, and everything starts to get strange. Like repeating a word so much it loses it’s meaning. So I think instead, I’ll let the sun warm my closed eyes. Or maybe I’ll dance.

 

 

Little Sloth

How do I tell you? How can I explain? How can I possibly describe what it’s like? How can I use words to properly express things there are not words for? I could try and sum it up into sentiments. Frustrating. Exhausting. Overwhelming. Messy. Confusing. Painful. Wonderful. Beautiful. Joyful. Sometimes I could rant for hours about the difficulty. And other times I’m so spent, there’s no words, only exhaustion. It took a lot of encouraging self-talk just to sit here and write this post, when my bed is sweetly calling my name.

You might be wondering. Why are you parenting twelve boys? Let me back up. So, I have these friends. Said friends are house parents to a group of twelve boys, but were expecting a baby of their own. So while they took a hiatus to the city, they asked me to care for their little ones. So here I am. Sitting on a bed that’s not my own, in a bedroom within the children’s home. As I write this, the little ones are sleeping. Just a few feet from me are the youngest two, fast asleep. Just on the other side of the wall are the rest, dreaming. This is my life right now. My new normal.

Sometimes my life feels like a long pattern repeating. 5:00 AM. Wake up. Roll out of bed. Change into cleaner clothes. 5:30 AM. Turn music on. Wake boys up. Good morning boys! Time to get up! Good morning, Gerson. Good morning, Nelson. Good morning, Antony. Good morning, Jairon. Good morning, Max. Jairon, go shower please. Antony, sweetie, time to wake up. Nelson, get up. Max, time to get up, sweetie. Joshua. Israel. Elmer. Did you brush your teeth? Go brush your teeth. Nelson, get up, it’s getting late. Boys, beds made, please. Did you fix your hair? Socks and shoes, please. 6:00 AM. Breakfast bell. (And that’s just half an hour.)

Parenting twelve boys has been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. EVER. Nothing matches nor compares, nothing even comes close. Before the first week was over, I wanted to quit. My feet and entire body were so sore. I was fed up with their nasty attitudes, blatant disrespect, endless whining and just done with the whole thing. I felt like my life was, as my fellow co-parent said, “running in little circles shouting twelve different names for nine hours.”

I feel like a warden. Barking orders all day. Brush your teeth! Stop it! Don’t touch that! Leave him alone! To the wall, right now! But also, I’ve never felt more like a mother. Having a few minutes to myself in the morning, before it’s all about them. Getting them ready for school. Eating breakfast with them. Supervising chores. Giving gummy vitamins. Scolding them for provoking the neighborhood dog. Dropping them off at school. Waiting for them to come home from school. And so on and so forth. In my first few days, I wondered how long it would be before I’d want to give up, before I’d say “No more. I can’t do this anymore.”

Often times I feel like I’m just surviving. My days consist of self chants. Just make it to breakfast. Just get them to school. Just get through lunch. Just get through chores. Just make it to dinner. Just a few more hours. Just a few more days. Sometimes when I wake up, I’m already looking forward to going back to bed. Sometimes my patience has reached a hair, and I feel like pulling my own out. Sometimes I’ve almost lost it. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed, I’ve wanted to shrink to nothing. Sometimes I’ve found myself on the toilet, in the front office, head in my hands, taking slow, deep breaths. Because it’s the only place I could escape, the only place I could have a moment, alone.

Sometimes it’s painful. Some nights I’ve laid in bed, crying. It’s not fair. What’s happened to them. They shouldn’t be here. Twelve boys, from different families, sleeping under one roof. Because the people that were supposed to love them most didn’t, couldn’t, can’t. It’s not fair. That some of them have parents. Parents who only visit on Sundays. It’s not fair. That mom only comes for an hour, to pass out plastic bags filled with juice and cookies, to say hello and see you later. It’s not fair that have some were sexually abused by their own fathers or brothers. It’s not fair that some have learned to steal and hide food because all their lives before they had to. To survive. I feel weird being around their mothers. It should be her, not me. What does mother really mean?

Sometimes I’ve paused, looked around, and had the strangest realization that I’m the adult in the room. I’m the one responsible for literally everyone in the room. I’m the one in charge. I’m doing this thing. This “parenting” thing. It’s a lot of responsibility. A huge responsibility. To care for the lives of these little ones. It’s the most important job in the whole world. And they trusted me.

When I think back on this month, it doesn’t play out smoothly. It’s a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories and feelings. It’s fried plantains. Licking sticky fingers. It’s stained underwear. Puddles on tile floor. It’s leaky faucets. Dead moths. It’s point charts. Timers going off. It’s a zombie dancing to Skrillex. Enrique Iglesias. It’s dirty socks. The smell of bleach and urine. It’s indoor volleyball games. Dodgeball and headlocks. It’s rows of silver lunch trays. Hot sugary coffee. It’s watching One Direction videos. Picking Harry over Niall. It’s sharpie mustaches. Moco de Gorilla gel. It’s sorting through boys underwear at the paca. Hoarding toilet paper like it’s the apocalypse. It’s superhero movie nights. Bowls and bowls of popcorn. It’s soiled sheets. Clothes on a line. It’s reading Harry Potter in Spanish. Bedtime meditations. It’s telling stories. Antony resting his head on my arm.

I think about going to the grocery store. One shopping cart. Ten little hands, grabbing food off shelves. Can we get this? Please, please! Squeezing past other shoppers. Boys, watch where you’re going. Slow down. Don’t touch everything. Where’s Marlon? Ten little hands, shoving chips and salsa, into little mouths. Did everyone get one? Little feet, running up and down aisles. Filing into the checkout line. Getting ice cream. Little bodies. Filling chairs. Anxiously waiting. Bored. Boys, please sit down. What do you want? Dos de Galleta. Chicle. Frutas? Is that what you wanted? Fresa. Mango. Otro de chicle. Riding the elevator. Crowding in between metal doors. Squished. Everybody, jump! Laughing. One more time? Okay, just one more. Fake Spiderman. Shoe stores. Taking pictures. Everyone say, whisky! Walking home. Holding hands. Everyone is tired. Dragging little feet. Almost home.

I think about the day the went to the circus. Eleven little feet scrambling up the bus, rushing down the aisle to get window seats. Counting heads. One, two, three, four, eight, ten. All here. Cold air rushing past my face. Granizadas. Counting orders. One, two, three, four, eight, missing three. Angel has to pee. It’s raining. Running in the rain. There’s a bus! Hurry! Hurry! Sitting. Churros. Sticky fingers. It’s warm. Wiping sticky fingers on jeans. Circus tent. Wooden benches. Climbing. Climbing. Careful. Who has to pee? Everyone? Running through grass and over mud puddles. Hearts beating fast. Racing. Did you wash your hands? Everyone finished? Running, more running. Duck! Jump! Now you have to pee? Why didn’t you go before? Round two. Running again. Gerson won. Neon lights. Spiderman. Clowns. Motos in cages. A woman bought us popcorn. Munching. Munching. Munching.

I think of Antony. His hugs. Little arms wrapped tightly around my middle. His sweet smile, as he looks up at me. I remember the day he jumped on my legs, wrapping himself around me like a koala and said, “Eres mi arbolito!” I told him he reminded me of a sloth. He asked, “What is a sloth?” I asked the other boys how to say sloth. Oso perezoso. I told Antony he looks like a little frog, or a little sloth. Now whenever he comes to hug me, I call him my little sloth.

I think of the bonfire tonight. As I sat there, I thought to myself that I should write. But nothing inspired me. I didn’t feel like it. Often when I write, I wait for a feeling. For a distinct feeling, that I need to write. That I have something inside me, burning, ready to pour out. It’s often a romantic thing. A feeling, emotional, thing. But there’s nothing romantic about this. It’s not romantic. Orphanage. Orphans. Bonfire. Parenting. Trauma. Exhaustion. It’s real. My mind wandered back to reality. I’m sitting alone. Now there’s a child in my lap. Now Antony is snuggled up under my cardigan. Jairon points out there are no stars. He’s right. No stars. We’re singing. People are singing. I’m silent. Listening. Too tired to sing. I’m breathing. I’m alive. God, this is so hard. God, you are good. God, you are here. I felt something. I think it’s raining. Fire burning. Children shuffling, restless. Rain falling on my cheeks. Little faces, lit by the fire. Glowing outlines. Embers. A child on each side. Snuggled up under my cardigan, nestled into my arms. It’s raining. Breathe. Let go. He is good. Faces. I see faces. Now I’m crying. I’m so overwhelmed. God, you are beautiful. Your children are beautiful.

Parenting is hard. Really, really hard. Everything smells like cats and pee. Why does it always smell like pee? Someone is always yelling. Why the yelling? Whining. Whining. Whining. Twelve voices shouting, laughing, talking. Be quiet! Parenting is a headache, results in frequent stomach aches and will cause heartache. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, here I am. Still alive. Barely. One month in. Not dead, thoroughly exhausted, mostly crazy, maybe slightly wiser. Can’t say it’s been a joyride through merrytown. But I can say this, I’ve learned a lot. About parenting, about these boys and about God’s goodness. Every day is a challenge. Every day I’m learning. Every day I make mistakes. Every day I fail them. Every day I’m reminded I’m not perfect. Nor am I supposed to be. God is the perfect Father. I’m just a temporary, stand-in tia.

Michaela, myself and the boys (minus Antonio who took the photo)

The Girl You Didn’t Know

Disclaimer: This isn’t for you. It’s for me…

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is take a walk down memory lane, because you never know what you may find lurking in the shadows.

I remember the dark water. The waves crashing relentlessly into the bank. I was gripping his hand. He was shaking with anger. His clenched fist in mine. Tears burning down my cheeks. I remember those stairs. Holding his face against mine. The empty feeling of hopelessness. I remember the cold white sheets. The sound of the fan blowing. The lonely drive home. I remember him kissing my shoulder. His warm skin against mine. The morning light through the window. I remember the moon. It’s eerie glow. Watching us like a giant eye. I remember lying there. The room was dark. I had never been so afraid. I had never felt so naked.

I remember so many things. So many things I’ve tried to forget. Things I can never seem to bury.

Please don’t try to piece it together. The stories aren’t in order. So please don’t try to make sense of it. And please don’t feel sorry for me. Because you don’t understand. I don’t need your pity, I need my Savior.

Sometimes people tell me I’m a good listener. But I’ve often not listened. Sometimes people tell me I’m a good writer. But I’ve often disagreed. One time, I was told I wasn’t good enough. And I believed it. And since then, I’ve been fighting the mirror.

I don’t really know where to begin. I just always remember being hungry. I could almost describe the feeling like itching. That I was often itchy, and the more I scratched, the more I itched. Itching for something. For a man, a relationship, to feel loved, to be wanted, desired, adored. So I always sought something to ease my itch. Anything to soothe my hunger. To feel full, even if just for a moment. But the moment always passed, and I was left hungry again. I felt a huge void inside me. And it was always burning. So every chance I got, I would feed. But it was never enough.

I’ve heard it said that relationship problems stem from daddy issues. But I don’t believe life is a simple math equation. Plus, I always had a good relationship with my father. My earliest memories of my father are happy ones. I remember him doing my hair for school (a very messy ponytail), watching television with me when I was sick with the flu, carrying me downstairs in my blankets when there was an earthquake. I remember we were always different, like apples and zucchini. There was always a divide between us. He liked soda; I didn’t. He was a top student; I had lots of potential. He was rational; I was a dreamer. He wasn’t very emotional; I felt too much. As I got older, the divide grew to a wide expanse. But I still loved him. We just didn’t understand each other.

I don’t blame my father for anything. Not for any of it. I could blame myself. And I have. For all of it.

All those years, I felt I was living a double life. Sitting in the church pew, the sundress concealing my sin. I’d think to myself, “If only they knew. All the evil I’ve done. All the evil I’m capable of. They’d shun me. Maybe not outwardly, but they’d judge me in secret. Their scrutinizing eyes.” I felt like a hypocrite, a liar, a slut. And even when messages of forgiveness and redemption were shouted from the pulpit, I still felt like a leper amongst saints. The words resounding in my head like a gong: You don’t belong.

Sometimes I’ve wanted to take it all back. To forget all those nights. The heaviness that comes from remembering. The kicking and screaming. The nights swallowed in tears. The feeling of drowning. I remember being so tired. Of fighting, of sinking, of hiding, of lying. My secret shame. My sickly habits. My wickedness. I couldn’t even face my own reflection. So I’d make myself numb. Detach myself from the past. Bury my brokenness beneath a fake smile. But no matter how I tried, I could never hide my blood-stained hands. They’d remind me. That I was unworthy. That I was dirty. That I was a sinner.

Sometimes I wish I could go back. Rewind the tape. Start over. But life doesn’t work that way. And I’m okay with that.

Life is this continuous stretch of film, a spider web, a single thread that runs and runs until one day it runs out. But it doesn’t end there. And thank God for that. I am not defined by my past. I am greater than my brokenness. And I am free from my sins. Yet, while I’ve heard truth over and over again, I’ve not let it sink into my bones. I’ve not allowed Him to redefine, refine, and reshape my heart. Because sometimes remembering is painful. And digging hurts. So I’ve often swept things under the rug, instead of examining the filth. But I want to be able to look at my reflection, scars and all, and see what my Father sees. Not just sometimes, but all the time. So I’m over remembering only to forget. Digging only to bury again. I’m digging to find. I’m not ashamed to look in the mirror anymore. Because when I’m brave enough to look, I see His fingerprints everywhere.

I’m the girl you didn’t know. The one in hiding. For fear I would be rejected. But please don’t apologize. Because I’m already forgiven.

[P.s. It just started raining. Thank you, Father.]

Fire, Flood and a White Horse

Easter Sunday. Pastels. Painted eggs. Rabbits. Chocolate and honey ham. Easter Sunday. Resurrection. Commemoration. Celebration.

Today is generally a day of Sunday dresses, brunches and lunches, and a message of Christ risen. But when I woke up today, I wasn’t celebrating. In fact, I was kind of doing the opposite.

I checked my phone… 5:46 AM. Late for church. Gah. Is that the sun rising? Fantastic. So much for a sunrise service. I guess I’ll watch the sun rise as I fast walk to church. Why did no one wake me up? I know it’s not their job, but come on. Common decency. Now I’m late. But really, why did no one wake me up? If I get ready in ten maybe I won’t miss everything. Forget a dress, it’s freezing outside. Where are my keys? Teeth brushing is a must. Shoes: check. Purse: check. Phone: check. Seriously, where are my keys!?! Whatever, I don’t have time. I need to leave. Crap, forgot my Bible. I swear, where did I leave my keys!? Ok, I’m leaving. Gah, I’m so late. So typical of me. Gosh Sophia. Always late. Great, the sun is fully out now. I won’t even be able to get into the building without my keys. I’ll be stuck outside. By the time I get there, service will be over. But actually, how will I get in? No one can hear me yell from down below. I’ll just spend Easter Sunday with the dogs. Great. Why did I even come?

That was the inner dialogue that ran through my head this morning. Unfiltered. Unchecked. And very destructive. From the moment when I woke up to the moment someone heard me yelling.

The morning proceeded with lots of tears and a cinnamon roll to top it off. I couldn’t bring myself to sing the worship songs when I first sat down, so I just listened. I looked at the scene laid before me. Teachers and staff worshipping. Groups of young boys sitting in the corners coloring. The soft morning light over the rooftop. Everyone looked so peaceful. Eyes closed, soft voices. Even the boys were all sitting so quietly. Everything was tranquil, but I was burning inside. I could feel the tears boiling up. What the heck is wrong with me? It’s Easter Sunday for Lord’s sake. I should be sitting here pretty in a pastel dress, praising Christ risen. But instead I feel heavy. I’m tired. I don’t belong here. I still have a lot of crap I’m dealing with. Lots of things I’m healing from. I’m ashamed. I shouldn’t be here.

And again the inner dialogue ran relentless. Unfiltered. Unchecked. Untrue.

I sat there, embarrassed of my tears. Finally, I got up to stand by the edge of the rooftop. I looked out over the sheet metal rooftops, over the colored houses, over the green field. I breathed deeply. And suddenly, I saw a white horse. It was grazing in the field. It was beautiful. I still don’t know why it caught my attention so profoundly, but it did.

You know how sometimes God sends little messengers? In a friend or a waitress or a stranger? Well, as I stood there questioning why I was even here, He sent a little messenger. A literal little messenger. A small boy whose named I won’t mention. His little face suddenly appeared beside me. He was smiling and so incredibly happy. He asked me what I was doing. And just like that, I began to soften.

What God had to share with me this morning, I had been so stubborn to hear for so long.

I’ve not taken much time to process lately. It’s been close to two months since I got here. I feel like I was thrown in, stumbled around a little, and suddenly I was running. Not gracefully, but fumbling. Falling all over myself. I’ve wanted to write, but have been too tired most nights. So much has happened since I arrived.

When I first arrived, there was this overwhelming feeling of hope. I had prayed this year would be different. This new home, new friends, and new beginning gave me a warm feeling. I felt so welcomed and wanted here. I remember the day I arrived at the teacher house. Everyone came out to greet me. They hugged me one by one as they introduced themselves. They took me into their home, asked me about my travels, offered me food, and sat to listen. There was even a handmade sign on the door. And yet, in the first few days I couldn’t help but feel like a visitor in someone else’s home, just a traveler passing through. I felt displaced. Like an awkward piece that didn’t quite fit. However, with time, the teacher house began to feel like my home too.

A few days ago, my friend Levi asked us, “Look where we are now. Where were you two years ago?” Two years ago. I thought to myself. Two years ago, I was stuck in what felt like a rut. Doing a job that I enjoyed, but didn’t give me life. Don’t get me wrong, I loved being a nanny, but my life at the time seemed to be one long endless drone of the same thing repeating. I questioned why I was doing it and why I couldn’t be like other people (doing something better with my life). And now, here I am, living and working in Guatemala. Doing a job that I love. Not questioning why I am doing it, but how I can do it better. Not questioning why I’m not doing something better, but seeking the strength and courage to keep doing it. I know exactly why I am here. It’s one reason why I love being here. There’s hardly ever a doubt. The reason is clear. The purpose is known. But the devil is quick to sweep in. He comes to distract, discourage, and destroy. He feeds my doubts and plants lies. Suddenly, I’m not so certain. I look around at the world, and then down at my two hands. Suddenly, I’m not so sure.

As I sit here on my bed, my body is tired. Not quite exhausted (though that has been the trend for much of the last weeks), but thoroughly tired. I think back on how anxious I’ve been lately. I’ve felt the pressure. The very real pressure that often comes with living/working in a ministry-based, Christian community. The pressure to perform. To do more, plan better, organize smarter, work harder. We glorify exhaustion and romanticize overworking. If you’re not exhausted you’re either not working hard enough or not doing enough. The goal is always more. In the Christian setting, this translates to service. Serve more. Give more. Sacrifice more. Love more. But it’s exhausting. It’s not sustainable nor realistic. I can only do so much. My body can only take so much much. My plans will fall through, change, fail. And I can work until I can no longer stand, but there will always be more work to do.

So much of my life I feel like I’ve been trying to prove myself to someone. To my parents, my friends, myself. I’ve been running an exhaustible race that my muscles weren’t made for. And time and time again, no matter how hard I try, my legs can only carry me so far. Sooner or later, I simply can’t any longer, and I need to rest. All my life has been running this race I can’t win. I’ve failed my parents. I’ve failed my friends. And more times than I can count, I’ve failed myself. Somewhere along the line, I believed the lie that it was works not grace. Somewhere along the way, I carefully hid that lie beneath the guise of pleasing others, beneath ambition, beneath good intentions and earnest desires. To love, to serve, to give. But underneath it all, I’m just a pile of bones, just a vapor, just some hunger. Nothing substantial to hold up my body. I continually push my engine to overdrive, but forget to fuel up. So I crash and burn. I run out and am used up. Left dry and tired.

I’ve learned so much since I’ve been here. I’ve experienced every possible emotion. Faced old fears, confronted new ones. I’ve made new friends. Started a new job. Embraced new roles. Wrestled new challenges. Dreamt of the future. Learned of dark pasts. Witnessed loss and grieving. Felt the deep pain of tragedy. Shed angry tears. Pled for mercy and justice. Prayed for change and healing. Been renewed in hope. I’ve felt the flood. And have been overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

But, today, I was reminded it’s not my weight to carry. He already carried the cross. He already carried my sins and shame. It is not mine to carry, nor conquer, any longer. Not my world to save. Not my war to win. He said, “It is finished.”

I may feel incapable, underqualified, and simply just not suited. But He chose me, purposed me, and will finish the work He began in me. I am His hands and feet. A laborer in the fields. And while I plow at the earth, I cannot make anything grow. I can water and prune and tend to the fields day and night. But I cannot make a tree sprout from the soil. He causes things to grow. By my hand alone, I can do nothing.

We’re human. We stick to patterns. We keep to our huddles. But also, we’re human. We break away, explore new horizons, blaze trails, make goals, pursue knowledge. We’re achievers, dreamers, doers. Naturally. I always want to do more, be more for somebody, meet a need, fix something, give more fully. But sometimes the best I can do is just be. There will always be fires and floods. Mountains will crumble. Peoples scattered. Storms will rage on. But He always remains. Forever steadfast and ever present. Amidst every storm, He is there. No matter how the wind howls, and no matter how strong the waves, I don’t need to fear. I can fret and fuss and fight to keep the ship from sinking, but my strength will never be enough. He controls the wind and the waves after all.

There will always be more work to do. Children to feed. Orphans to clothe. Battles to fight. Just as one is ending, another is beginning. And it cycles. But, I was only given two hands and two feet. I can only run so far. My body will get tired. It’s designed to. My muscles will grow sore. Yet, I can push and press and drag myself to do more. But, I will always come up short. Without water or rest, I will dry up. Often, the best I can do is just be. It’s all He asks of me. To come and rest at His feet.

I am not an ox, nor a machine. I am human. Or maybe, I am that white horse. And He’s calling me to come and rest a while… “Come lie down in the pasture.”

Change

Change. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Necessary. But not always met with welcoming arms. Today is a day of great change. Just this morning, Donald Trump was sworn in as the 45th President of the United States. Some are rejoicing, some are looking on with concern, others are probably boarding flights to Canada. And while I know our country has divided feelings, the fact of the matter is, it is what it is. C’est la vie. Now, I’m not saying I’m thrilled nor devastated. And I’m not saying, “Whatever. Why fight it? Life sucks and then you die.” What I’m saying is, change is. It happens. Always.

Sometimes we like change. Sometimes we hate it, curse at it, run from it. But we can’t avoid it. Maybe if you lived under a rock, never watched the news, never stepped outside, you could pretend nothing ever changes. But honestly, that’s no way to live (even if you could get cable under a rock). Change is inevitable. Sometimes we plan it, vote on it, weigh the options, and decide on A or B school, job, career path, president, etc. But often it’s unexpected, unplanned. Change hits you in the face like a ton of bricks, or a screen door. All we can do about change is choose how we respond to it. And that is something that never changes. You get to react.

Change used to scare me. Terrify me sometimes.

As I sit here at my desk, I can feel a cold breeze coming through my window. It’s raining outside. It rained all morning and will probably rain all day and all night. The weathermen say it’s supposed to rain until Tuesday. I’m okay with that. I love the rain. I love that it’s usually paired with cold weather and bundling up, with coffee shops and nuzzling your nose in book. I love sleeping when it’s raining, falling asleep as it taps on my window softly, I’ve always found it soothing. I love how farmers pray for rain because it brings new crop. I love how clean and green everything is after a good rain. I love how it cleanses and refreshes and makes new. But ironically, my favorite thing about the rain is how it makes people uncomfortable. I remember school days when it would rain. People running from one covered area to another, girls fussing about their hair getting messed up, books and binders getting wet, bolting to the car to get as little wet as possible. I found it funny actually, the fact that a little water got us so flustered. Sometimes I was that person strategizing my route to the car, but sometimes I liked to dance around in it, jump in the  big puddles, get totally soaked and just laugh. And you know what? It may keep raining until Tuesday like the forecast said. It may not. But either way, the sun will come out again. Seasons change. It’s the way of mother nature.

In one month exactly, I will be on a plane to Guatemala to begin a new season of my life. I will be working for Story International as their volunteer coordinator. Seven months ago my boss emailed me out of the blue to see if I’d be willing to return to Guatemala to fill a need as part-time teacher. I thought about the offer, prayed about it, asked trusted friends for advice, and after a week emailed my boss, “I’m in!” Well, long story short, I returned in August of 2016 for four months, not as a teacher but as a volunteer. If you had told me early last year that I would by the end of the year return to Guatemala, I might have told you “Really!? Cool!” However, if you had told me that in a year from then I’d be moving to Guatemala longer term, I wouldn’t have believed you.

Summer of 2015, I boarded a flight to Guatemala City, excited but totally and utterly scared out of my mind. I tried to relax, but I was anxious. I kept thinking about what I was about to do, and whether I could even do it. I was heading to Huehuetenango, Guatemala to work with Story International as their marketing and media intern. Somehow, out of however many applicants, I had been chosen out of the lot. I was terrified. After three months of getting acquainted with Huehue, getting to know the most incredible kids, and falling in love with it all, I was not ready to leave. But it was time to go. So I did. I packed up my bags, said my goodbyes, and left. But God had a plan. He pricked my heart that summer. And it wasn’t a gentle little pinch, it hurt. I remember looking out that bus window, watching everything move quickly behind me. I told myself, “I have to come back.” You know when you’re watching a movie, and you know it’s almost over because everything is coming together, loose ends are being tied, and you can feel the resolution just around the corner? Well, as I sat on that bus, I didn’t feel that. It didn’t feel like the end, it felt like a beginning. Like something had just begun, and I had to see it finished, because this movie was just too good.

My family got a new dog recently. His name is Max. He’s one of those poodle maltese mixes, fluffy and white and sort of looks like a sheep. We hadn’t owned a dog since my childhood dog passed away. My brothers had always wanted a dog, but allergies and our not-so-thrilled grandmother, who threatened to leave if we ever came home with a pooch, made it somewhat challenging. My youngest brother was adamant however and my mother finally gave. Before we knew it we had a new member of the family. (He even has his own wardrobe.) When Max moved in, things changed in our house. Suddenly, coming home was really exciting. Opening the door to a fluffy, little, jumping thing gave us all warm fuzzies. It made all of us feel special. But with new fuzzy feelings came new responsibilities. My brothers now had to take turns walking, feeding and picking up the poop. We also had to get used to his little presence everywhere. I am ashamed to admit that I kicked the poor thing a few times, not realizing he was standing right in front or behind me. There were a lot of little changes we had to get used to with a new dog, but the change brought a lot of fun and joy to our family.

Right now, as a nation, we’re entering into a new season. Right now, as a human, I am entering into a new one as well. That tends to happen with the new year. New year’s resolution hype. The gyms are packed, memberships are off the wall. We make plans, set goals, dream big. With planning for the new year, it’s also common to reflect on the year past. We use the start of a new year to pause, look around, and see just where we are standing and how far we’ve come. We reflect on how the last year was challenging, rewarding, miserable, wonderful. And we watch it all back like an old film reel. The new job, the loss of a loved one, the failed relationship, the heartache, the joy, the struggle. I’ve always liked taking that moment. To pause, reflect, breathe deep. It reminds me to be grateful for all I have, for all I lived through, for the challenges and rewards, even the painful parts.

Change can be viewed as both good and bad. Sometimes anticipated, hoped for, prayed for. Other times it’s burdensome, stressful, it can even lead to death. Change isn’t always painless, but it is necessary. Because without change, nothing can change. It sounds redundant, but it’s true. Change is healthy. If farmers don’t rotate their crops, the soil can become infertile and susceptible to disease. If the habits we had as children never changed as we became adults, we would still be in diapers. If governments never changed laws, policies, leadership, the world would never progress. If relationships were never tested, if people never changed, they would never blossom. If it never rained, nothing would ever grow. We need the rain, just as much as we need the sun.

Often when I’m in the middle of a season, especially the difficult ones, I am not a happy camper. I pray for the storm to be over, for the clouds to part, and for the sun to return. But after many seasons of rain, I’m learning to be thankful instead of bitter. Sometimes it rains and rains hard. Sometimes you try to strategize but get pelted and completely soaked anyways. Other times the sun beats down, day after day, and it seems as though a cloud will never grace the sky again. But I’m learning to appreciate the seasons, however they come. To trust that my Father is timing it all like a beautiful orchestra. Sometimes I need the warmth of the sun, to feel it kiss my face, to laugh and dance around in it. But my Father is good, and knows just when to send the rain. Because sometimes only rain can bring healing. Sometimes only rain will do.

Seasons are always changing. When the rain comes I get to choose how I respond. I can hide from it under an awning, fuss about how it ruins my hair, try to avoid it as much as possible. Or, I can embrace it, dance around in it, making sure to jump in all the big puddles. When change approaches, instead of raising fists, clenching teeth, or even closing my eyes, I’m learning to greet it with, “Welcome friend, I’ve been expecting you.”