leaving oceanside

The hardest part about leaving Oceanside was leaving Oceanside.  I cried every day of my last week and a double portion on my last day. I would not miss 10 hour days and 2 hour commutes and sharing a schedule with the sun; I would not miss complete and utter exhaustion and I would be happy to enjoy things like rest and the energy to call a friend and time for play. But oh, I would miss Oceanside.

My biggest fear in leaving Oceanside was the inevitable distance between the richness of that time and place, and the life I would surely settle into 30 miles away. Richness seems like such a strange word to use when considering how my time there was spent: addressing symptoms of poverty and hearing stories of struggle and pushing back against so much heartache. And yet, hardly twenty-four hours goes by without me remembering the richness of conversations in my classroom, of the honor of being trusted, the gospel preached to me in such a peculiar way, and by such foreign priests.

Father Greg, one of my heroes, says of his time in Bolivia:

"I can't explain how the poor in Bolivia evangelized me during that year of 1984-85, but they turned me inside out, and from that moment forward I only wanted to walk with them. I knew that the poor had some privileged delivery system for giving me access to the gospel.  Naturally, I wanted to be around this."

I guess Oceanside was my Bolivia. Giving me access to Jesus in a way that is out of reach when I settle into my busy life and avoid the streets where He would've walked. Something truly rich is added to my faith when I get the privilege of learning Jesus and His heart for justice, and (maybe possibly even) being opened up to see the world (and a few beautiful souls) with the Mind of Christ.
Still, I only want to walk with them.