more perfect weekends, please

I went to work this morning still feeling the joy, and the jetlag, of the rush of forty-eight hours. It was the perfect weekend, in so many ways. These weekends are rare; I guess that's what makes them so special when they come. It was a completely out-of-the-ordinary set of days, half a world away, in the kind of place that I dream about when I close my eyes and let only my heart speak. Brick buildings and horse pastures and summer thunder storms with liquid sunshine. We honored a love story and danced in the rain; I ate pancakes bigger than my head and slept in fluffy white sheets at a fancy-shmancy hotel where shoes are always required. I took it all in. It was the most beautiful sight you ever did see.

travel socks

a dream

high school weddings

Now, I'm searching for more perfect weekends. Saving for red-eye flights across the country, stealing moments with the dreams that California can't offer. 

On my list: 

Chicago, Boston (kicking myself for canceling last year's weekend get-away), Nashville, New Orleans, Charleston, and more.

america the beautiful

semantics (work + justice + change)

There is nothing predictable about the job that I do. Every single day, a new story is graciously revealed to me so that I can begin the slow work of piecing together all that encompasses the body before me. It is an honor because I love these kids, so stinkin' much. Every day, I see the scars left by a tragic childhood and I see, in some, resilience and hope rising. I see moments of success, effort and struggle, and for some, defeat. Some days are more difficult than others--some stories follow me home. There are lessons in them, teachable moments, every experience a metaphor or an arrow to some greater reality. In everything, joy and sorrow stand in opposition.

Some weeks are more unpredictable than others. On a very unique (and hopefully rare) Monday, the news waiting in my inbox was this: a potentially gang-related homicide in the neighborhood, the very same block, that my students live. They heard the gun shots and saw the blood on the pavement. He, the 17 year old victim, was their friend--their homie. Whatever they discover about the potential gang ties in this case, he was the kid that sold ice cream on the block, a valuable member of their community, a friend and brother to many. My students came to school with burdened hearts, the weight more than they were ever meant to carry. There are not enough words to do the devastation justice and, not ironically, justice is what is needed.

It is not the first time we've broached the topic of justice. It always comes up when we talk about truth in some capacity--true strength, true peace, right responses to suffering felt. Justice, mercy, retaliation, revenge, remorse, forgiveness, anger. The words are all wrapped up together. Justice is what we want, even when our experiences have warped its meaning. I know it as well as anybody. Our human nature says "grace for me, justice for them" and we respond accordingly. We are blind to our own errors, our own hatred, the hardness in our own hearts, but we see the faults of others with crystal-like clarity. Unforgiveness builds itself a home in our hearts, devastating what is left of our common humanity. Unforgiveness--anti-grace and its fruits (acts of violence, relational aggression, resentment, angry hearts)--is risky for all of us, but the material risk is elevated and the pull much greater in low-income, gang neighborhoods where the rules of the street trump all and where retaliation is to be expected.

These are the days that I bring home with me. These are the days that leave me frustrated, heartbroken, sometimes hopeless. It's a battle that cannot be fought with words (reason rarely works) and should not be fought with violence (violence begets violence). How do we change? How do we come to know what justice is, how grace works, and the power of forgiveness? How does a heart soften enough to be transformed? How do gang neighborhoods become places of peace? What of my own heart--can it be a place of peace?

If only we'd all been taught grace from the beginning and each of us was fueled by humility and reconciliation. If only we had the eyes to see cycles of violence for the messengers of suffering and devastation that they are. If only we'd all been taught that cycles don't end unless you have the strength and integrity to step outside of it and write your own story. If only we'd learned that justice does not mean one-for-one and strength is not equivalent to the hardness showing across your face, but in your capacity to understand, to grieve, to walk away and change.

I think about this concept often: the difficulty of "change"--it tempts us and draws us in, offering us hope of a life or a character or a story that we don't have. But it can be so illusive. A favorite voice of mine, Father Greg Boyle, lends comfort in this slow work:

"There is nothing 'once and for all' in any decision to change. Each day brings a new embarking. It's always a recalibration and a reassessing of attitude and the old, tired ways of proceeding, which are hard to shake for any of us." 

Every opportunity to move in the direction of change (and there are infinitely many, especially in my classroom, especially with Jesus) is countered by a pull back into our old selves--our previous failures, our destructive habits. Into the families we were born into and the ways of thinking that have guided us this far. Not just gang kids. All of us. For some, an innate distrust of the people around us. For others, the allure of following a few hardened men into retaliation. Instead of grace, a skewed version of justice, meted out inconsistently and, ironically, unjustly.

It's all just semantics until you decide for yourself. Justice. Grace. Truth. Forgiveness. Resilience. Reconciliation. Just words until you decide that you want them defined and active in your own life, part of your own story. The decision brings with it hard work--we are promised that. Forgiveness is always harder than hardening your heart or painting hardness across your face. Grace is always harder than anger. Humility is always harder than pride. But it's the way to stop cycles of violence and undo the work of tragic childhoods. It's the way of justice and peace, and it's what we need for our hearts to survive.

[re]considering beauty

"The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It's the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows and the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years."

--Audrey Hepburn

I have nothing new to say about beauty, only what I've experienced. Nothing I say will be all that special and certainly many women have overcome far more than I. I don't have a story about learning to love myself despite missing limbs or an eating disorder that took hold of my life or any other heart-wrenching story about being at odds with the cultural values of beauty. I only have my experience and my belief that a conversation about beauty is a conversation worth having.

March, 2009: Very short hair

In January of 2009, I chopped off 13 inches of hair. It was an odd decision, considering that I was always told, "Long hair is pretty hair." I believed it too. But, in January of 2009, I was not quite myself. In January of 2009, I described myself frequently as a "ball of mess." In that ball was wrapped up joylessness, darkness, fears of failure and feelings of unworthiness and a complete inability to see God as Himself, or myself as the woman I was. I felt ugly, body and soul, and I hated the way I defined myself. IAll this coming from a girl who received compliments, whose parents lavished praise, who had good eyebrows and a body that was just the right size. My insecurities were normal and because of that, they were normalized. But I hated that I felt the need for hair--dead follicles--to make me feel beautiful. I cut it all off, wondering and hoping if a detachment from what the world said I should be would make me feel more like the me that I wanted to be. I felt empowered, holding years worth of growing and striving in my hands. I saw it as a distinguishing moment, a fresh start, as if I was cutting off all that was dead within me. 

With a set of scissors, I transformed from a cultural image of femininity to an undefined woman. There was struggle that came along with it. One moment, confident in all that I was without hair, the next, trying to convince the world that I was still what they wanted: beautiful, worthy, valuable, feminine, a woman. Particularly helpful were comments from the people in my life, openly showing their disapproval: "Don't you miss it?," "I just like long hair so much better," or, my personal favorite: "Just don't become a lesbian, okay?"

In those moments, I was sad. I was sad for the urge that we all feel to look like the girls in magazines; sad for the urge to adjust our own temple of expression to the idea of beauty that the world holds. I was sad that having short hair took "bravery," that we were all admitting to hiding behind pretty and long locks. I was sad for the ease with which I let statements like that make me feel ugly (or for feeling ugly independent of statements of disapproval), for wondering if a man would ever pay attention to me (especially on a college campus), sad that sexuality was wrapped up in "beauty," sad for feeling like something was missing that went beyond thirteen inches of hair.

But in that time, on days when I struggled with bobby-pins or my anxiety-induced weight fluctuation, when I compared myself to the "perfect" girl to my left in Calculus or when I cried because I looked like a boy, all that was dead within me was brought back to life. Probably not because I cut off my hair, but because I admitted defeat and gave up control. It was a fast of sorts: I gave up trying and striving, and my attention was lovingly refocused on more important things. During that time, I found myself belonging to community, being accepted for what my heart could bring, discovering that I enjoyed making art, learning to love, traveling to Jamaica, finding healing from anxiety, finally being honest with myself. During that time, I became who I wanted to be, even without hair. That fact alone made me feel more beautiful than any curls or extra inches ever could.

I say all of this to let you know that I understand the struggle to feel beautiful. I understand that the issue of beauty has more wrapped up inside of it: self-expression, acceptance, worthiness, security; at the same time, it brings us to striving, to wasted time in front of a mirror, time that could be spent doing anything else. I understand the tension and allure of being beautiful. Beauty is a gift from God, but perfectionism is not. Beauty is a gift from God, but He cares more about what you're doing to bring life to the world than what shirt you're wearing. Beauty is a gift from God, but He'd rather see you learn how to love than learn how to apply eye make-up perfectly. He'd rather you grow your wisdom and knowledge of Him than your hair and He has a greater purpose for your life than trying to meet an impossible standard of beauty. And even knowing this and finding relief in the truth of it, I still find myself saying, "I just want to look cute today and I don't think that God finds it wrong." I really, truly don't. The issue of beauty is complex. 

magik Beauty Store

Over three years, my hair has grown back. It's long and healthy and I can curl it whenever I want. I love that. Occasionally, I find myself looking to it for affirmation. There is a deeper concern, though, because not everybody struggles with the tension of beauty. Not everybody believes in a God who redefines it; they simply accept what the world says as ultimate truth. I work with young men and women who already have their own ideas of beauty, and it doesn't stop with thirteen year olds. Girls want the perfect eyebrow shape, dark hair and light eyes. [In very uncomfortable interactions, they tell me each day that they'd trade their dark and "boring" eyes for my light eyes. They don't know that I once, in a very awkward time in life, hated my eye color and wore blue contacts because blue eyes were "prettier."] Girls will let no emotion show on their faces because they don't want the laugh or worry lines, or they will spend an entire day at school with a mirror hidden in their purse, applying and reapplying mascara. And boys want the typical "hot girl," a look that no thirteen year old girl (or any-age girl) can ever achieve (nor should they feel forced to spend their time trying). These cultural ideals are passed along through generations so that we learn to strive after them, but we are forgetting to train our kids, or retrain ourselves, to care about what beauty truly is.

Maybe because we still don't know. 

We are forgetting to tell ourselves that an unforgiving heart is uglier than any set of bushy eyebrows.

We refuse to accept that hatred shows itself on a person's face and it is not a wonderful thing to behold.

That a mouth full of criticism is more unattractive than laugh lines or cellulite. 

That short hair, even a pixie cut, is more attractive than a mean spirit on any day of the week. 

That clothes, hair and makeup are accessories (fun ones at that!), but never the defining feature of a person.

No one tells us that unique self-expression is beautiful. Very few people grow up aware of the freedom  and beauty of being different, living to different standards.

We forget that by the standards of models or magazines, you could be completely perfect, but if you lack love, 

you are nothing. 

The mentor in me comes out to say this:

Many old, wise people have said "there is more to beauty than what meets the eye." It's true, and I want the world to believe it. So strive for beauty, look cute doing it, but please, I'm begging you, do it in the ways that matter. Don't lose sight of your value, your true identity, or the person that you want to be at the end of the day or the end of your life. The world is an ugly enough place on its own. 

Take care of the dead inside of you to find yourself as an embodiment of what is truly beautiful.

For further reading about beauty:

Good Women Project

The Resurgence: What is Beautiful?

Wonderfully Made

"Sometimes, people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are."

--Marcus Zuzak

room for hope

"Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments — but all of this is transitory it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.”          --Paulo Coelho

There are a few things that I've learned from my job thus far:

1. Carpool naps make me a better person.
2. Every student needs to be celebrated.
3. The depth of a person's story, especially their heartache, will make me cry every time.
4. There is almost nothing more necessary than hope. 

hope (noun)

a feeling of desire for something and confidence in the possibility of its fulfillment 

disappoint (verb)

to fail to fulfill the expectations or wishes of

 I went into this job knowing my tendency to over-invest, to take too much responsibility and to feel the burden of other's circumstances.  In an attempt to protect myself from the emotional weight of 50 hours of this each week, I told myself to hold loosely to hope, to not put too much hope in one particular student, to not let one good day get my hopes up for lasting transformation. Still believe,  always believe, but possibly from a distance.

hope --> expectation --> disappointment

hope --> expectation --> transformation

Disappointment and transformation are bound together, with hope at their center. Without it, neither can occur. If I seal myself off from hope in an effort to protect myself from the sting of disappointment, I am working my way fearfully through my days, afraid of the power of hope, afraid to be wrapped up in it with my 30 students, carrying their stories, hoping for them when they cannot hope for themselves. Without it, and without the potential for disappointment, I am not doing my job.

The potential for disappointment is always there. It always will be. At the end of any day, I've likely experienced it. In the sweet kid who visited D3 at every break and ate lunch with me and talked about his desire for change but ended up with a suspension by 8th period. In the girl who shared her heart with me then manipulated me minutes later. In the smart boy who refused to do his math homework. In the kids who seemed genuinely excited about progress, yet find themselves in the principal's office for something so preventable.

They say that adolescents have a limited perspective on time and responsibility. They don't see cause and effect, they don't see the end of the road. Their brains are still developing; their mindsets are short-sighted, unaware of the potential of the future. I suppose that's my job. To help them see; to help them change their own minds, to see beyond the routine of junior high and neighborhood activity and to hope for something more.

My only words for them are, over and over again, "Baby steps. I want something better for you. I believe in something better for you. We will get there." And I say it to myself, too, because despite long and hard days, despite tears of sadness and frustration, this is my job. This is my work and my ministry.  Until June by contract, and beyond. Because tangled up in hope and expectation and disappointment and possibly transformation, is love. And that's what I have for them. And it's in the disappointments I feel it most, when a new day comes and there is infinitely more room for hope.

roots, indefinitely

Today was the day that I was supposed to move to Boston. Boston had it's own category in my Google Calendar and I'd been planning on it for months:

August 30: Fly to Boston

August 31: Move in Day

September 1-5: Orientation

September 6: Classes begin

[Essentially: August 30, a new life begins]

It feels a bit strange to be approaching this day with an entirely new set of plans, and stranger still to feel so much contentment and joy in all of it. I expected a stronger desire to grieve the loss of this graduate school dream--a new city and open doors and every opportunity under the sun. I expected to feel suffocated by a closed door, fearful of my inability to freely pack up and change my life. But there is a strange freedom that comes from committing to put down roots. 

 

I grew up between two different homes, switching weekly, packing bags and visiting parents and whatnot. I guess I grew accustomed to movement. I thought it defined me. There may be some truth in that: I am an explorer, I am curious, I crave adventure. If I'm being honest, there is an element of escapism trapped in there. Constant movement means I never have to do the hard work of long-term relationships, vulnerability, depth, despite my desire for that type of connectedness. Of course, all of this is relative. I've been in San Diego for almost six years now and there is so much depth to my existence here. But something changes when you decide to make a place home. 

There is no threat of moving boxes or looming goodbyes. There is no need to self-protect, only the freedom to grow deeply here. To put roots into the earth (or, even better, the San Diego sand)--to nurture and learn and invest in difficult but beautiful things. And that is what this summer has been for me. An invitation to put down roots.  To make this my real life: not just college, not just my transition years, but my reality. There's a lot wrapped up in this new(ish) life.

It started with a little form required by the DMV. Change of permanent address. For the first time in my life, "permanent address" does not mean the place where my mom or my dad live. Home is San Diego, and the State of California knows it. For the first time in my life, everything is in one place. All of my clothes, all of my books, everything that makes my space mine. No more split time or doubles of everything. [This is a joy unique to a kid who had shared custody...and it's a beautiful, beautiful thing and I am celebrating.] I can hardly believe it: I am settling, in the best possible way. 

Beyond that, there are a billion little plans to make this place my home, and I am genuinely happy about all of them. Painted walls. Fire pits. The sharing of spare keys. Theodyssey. A new job. Hopes for intentional relationships that are edifying and encouraging and prayerful. Women Mondays. And on and on and on.  

Have you heard that common phrase, "I will go wherever the wind carries me." It sounds ever-so romantic, and once upon a time, my idealism would've clung to it. For now, though, the wind has calmed and roots are growing deep--indefinitely.  

anam cara, my soul friend

I told myself that tonight was reserved for one episode of Arrested Development, writing one little letter, and sleeping early to get myself back to being rested and happy. But then I got to thinkin' about souls and friends and this crazy little concept of anam cara, a soul friend.

"In the Celtic tradition, there is a beautiful understanding of love and friendship...the old Gaelic term for this is anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend: "soul friend." With the anam cara you could share your inner-most self, your mind and your heart. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging, a joining in an ancient and eternal way with the "friend of your soul." In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of social acquaintance fall away, you can be as you really are. The anam cara is God's gift."

Anam Cara, A Book of Celtic Wisdom//John O'Donohue

[Before continuing, I feel the need to share my joy that cara is pronounced Kara, which, yes, is my name. How sweet is that??]

The theory says that everybody has an anam cara, but not everybody knows it. My thought is that, regardless of haves or have nots, everybody needs a friend to their soul.

We throw around the term soulmate too easily--this is more than that. It's more, even, than a best friend. This is more than a list of things in common or shared music taste and it goes far beyond girl talk. This is a person who knows you at the deepest levels, who challenges you, disagrees with you, forces you to see a new and better perspective. She can debate you in politics or talk theology for hours. She can predict what you'll say, how you'll respond and she knows the meaning behind every facial expression. She knows the challenges you face, your moments of selfishness, your short-sightedness. She knows the fears that keep you from action, the things that keep you from loving freely. She can sense your anxiety and she can speak truth into it, only because she is trusted with your story. And she knows more stories than most: she knows the responsibility of holding your joys and your heartaches. She prays with you and for you; there is a humility, a deep gratitude and a mutuality to this relationship.
You attempt the same for her.

And there is so much laughter. So many moments that would be embarrassing if there was a fly on the wall. So much quirkiness, so much ridiculousness. So many sleepovers. This friend, this anam cara, is a treasure.

I am so lucky to have found mine.





I'm reminded on nights like tonight...
after detailed accounts of our days and descriptions of every person and place
after encouraging text messages and calming phone conversations
after reminiscing through pictures and talking in circles about the fears in my heart
after sharing wisdom and reflecting on the parallels of our lives
after cursing the 1,615 miles between San Diego and Omaha
...what a gift it is to have a soul friend.

A soul friend and an internet connection. I'm forever grateful.

*I'm no expert on this whole soul friend thing, but I'm reserving the right to add one more soul friend into my life at some point. Not just anybody--he'll have to come with a ring and some pretty serious vows. I'll choose wisely.

a roadtrip, an escape

There is something so perfectly American (and yes, perfectly symbolic and cliche) about a summer road trip with my iPod on shuffle through 372 country songs. Summer was made for country music. The open road is in front of me (metaphorically speaking: in reality, we're driving through Los Angeles traffic, which is actually the opposite of "open road.") I somehow feel content with my sudden lack of plans, with uncharted territory.

A road trip seems made for escaping. For itching-to-go-adventure. For packing up and leaving it all behind. It's romantic and dramatic and exactly my plan: a new city, a fresh start, with only a dream to live by.

But this road trip is different. This road trip is my goodbye to that dream, a coming-home road trip, a drive that will let me settle fully into this place, where I already have roots. Where I already have hopes and people and all things life-giving. And it just might feel new, too. That other dream was a child's and it was fueled by impatience, like only a child's would be. And many, many other things. (Ask me about it some time, I'd live to share.)



So this road trip is an escape, yes, but of a different kind. An escape into something, if that's possible. And that something is beautiful and promising, if that's possible. That something looks a little like the open road: no street signs and no way to know exactly where I'm going. But here I am, ready for the journey.


"...right now I'm right where I wanna be...
Never felt so loved, so peaceful and so free...
There ain't no doubt that God's been good to me"

God's Been Good To Me//Keith Urban

happy birthday, mama!

I could tell you a billion things about my mama, and I'll start with a few:

She makes the best egg salad in town. My love of pancakes comes straight from her kitchen, and she made them perfectly golden and perfectly fluffy, every time. I'm hoping for her frame when I'm her age. She can do anything a guy can do, maybe better. Her house is immaculate and her constant request that I make my bed finally paid off.

The Friday song was our thing and it still brings me joy.

"Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite day.
Monday is a bummer, Tuesday's only fair.
Wednesday's getting better, Thursday's almost there.
But Friday, Friday, Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite...
Friday is my favorite daaaaayyyyy."

She woke me up with it every Friday morning, and I wouldn't get out of bed until we had perfectly harmonized (but what does an 11 year old know about perfect harmonies??...I'm sure it sounded awful) that last "day." Then I could wake up and start my day, and maybe even let her French braid my hair and crimp the bottoms.


She had this beautiful blue dress that I always asked her to wear. On Mother's Day, on her birthday, on my birthday, to my graduation. It was beautiful and she was beautiful in it. If she still had it, I'd ask her to wear it today.

But many things have changed between now and then.
I will say, in all honesty, that more than a billion wonderful memories, my favorite thing about my mama is who she is today. I've learned lessons in the last five years that were lost in translation when I lived down the hall. Now, she teaches me across state lines, on our Saturday morning phone calls or in forwarded emails, and through plenty of heartache. Lessons about generosity and love like only a mama can give. And it is a beautiful thing, a gift, to follow in her legacy of grace, to see what happens when a woman's heart is touched by God and a life is transformed. It was a beautiful thing to watch her bring our family back together and get the story she dreamed of.



Now, she is the consistent advocate for my heart and I could appreciate nothing more than the unwavering support that she gives, the confidence that she has in me and the love that she shows as we talk through life decisions and tell little stories and remember the past. She chooses encouragement over criticism, forgiveness over frustration, grace and generosity and adventure, over and over and over again.


Saturday morning, she's the first person I call and I hope it stays that way forever.

Happy Birthday Mama!
I love you!

I love my mother as the trees love water and sunshine -
she helps me grow, prosper, and reach great heights.

--Terri Guillemets

eternity in our hearts

he has made everything beautiful in its time. he has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

ecclesiastes 3:11

i had eternity in my heart before i had any idea what that meant

it was always easy to hope for

in my mind, it was renewal and restoration and the Lord's beautiful and intentional shaping of lives and hearts

in reality, it wasn't always easy to see and much less easy to grasp

sometimes all you get is a glimpse...

in a conversation

or Easter dinner with your family

or a story of tangible hope

[then you wait]

c.s. lewis calls them "stabs of joy" and that never quite left me

(lord knows i love that man...)

"stabs of joy:" the momentary satisfaction of an eternal heart-longing; glimpses into a sacred plan; opportunities to see even just a fleeting image of what should and will be

they're beautiful moments, really

reminding us of His heart and His hopes for us, if only we'd hope in Him

we get glimpses and wait for His perfect timing

(honestly, though? His timing, in our impatience or our hesitation or in light of our own hopes and plans, feels more painful than perfect)

but He has been dreaming from the beginning and letting us in on His vision

if we'd just have the courage to let Him dream it over us

imagine it for us and with us

then, walk in it confidently

{via}

sometimes, my confidence is shaky

yesterday, in a moment of doubt mixed with fear, i turned to my mentor and said:
"but i can't imagine anything better than this"

read: i'm not sure if that there could be anything else in store for me

her response was perfect (per usual) and much more eloquent and insightful than my paraphrased version:

"you don't need to. He is imagining it for you. this place where you are now is just a glimpse of what is to come."

all i have now is a glimpse

but i can expect good things, eternal things

things that satisfy the heart of God

made beautiful in His time

your laughter

take bread way from me, if you wish

take air away

but do not take from me your laughter

do not take away the rose,

the lance flower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly bursts forth in joy,

the sudden wave of silver born in you

my struggle is harsh and i come back with eyes tired

at times from having seen the unchanging earth,

but when your laughter enters

it rises to the sky seeking me and

it opens for me all the doors of life

my love

in the darkest hour your laughter opens

and if suddenly you see my blood

staining the stones of the street,

laugh

because your laughter will be for my hands like a fresh sword,

next to the sea in the autumn

your laughter must raise its foamy cascade

and in the spring, love,

i want your laughter like the flower i was waiting for,

the blue flower, the rose of my echoing country

laugh at the night

at the day

at the moon

laugh at the twisted streets of the island

laugh at this clumsy [girl] who loves you,

but when i open my eyes and close them,

when my steps go, when my steps return

deny me bread

air

light

spring

but never your laughter

for i would die

{via}

{via}

your laughter

[pablo neruda]

celebrate good times (come on!!)

march has been a big month

a strange and beautiful month
if i could describe it in one word, i would choose
full
{full: filled to satisfaction}
(thankfully, nobody asked me to describe it in one word and, since it's my blog, i will use as many words as necessary...)





it has been about feasting and discerning and pra(y)sing
in the midst of it:
i've been to concerts and conferences and birthday parties
i've had overwhelming nights and looming decisions
changes of heart and changes back again
moments of utter creativity
laughter and tears
anticipation
joy


march is the halfway point
between october and august
the start and the finish of life as i know it
how dramatic does that sound?
but seriously. that is crazy
five months ago i entered a post-college world outside of my predictions
and bigger, even, than my hopes
i've watched community built up and walls broken down and anxieties pushed aside
for the sake of something bigger


and now, there is something bigger still
the culmination of years of planning and studying and working and dreaming
came in six little words:
"congratulations, you have been accepted into..."

in march, doors opened
...more than doors...
[entire cities, entire worlds]
and in rushed a billion emotions:

excitement, gratitude, pride (quickly followed by humility), humility (quickly followed by pride), fear, more excitement, disbelief, confusion, surprise, sadness, pieces of early-onset grief, euphoria, anxiety, hope, awe, curiosity, happiness...

and somehow, at the end of it, after all of it
there is peace and satisfaction
and it's time to celebrate



{via}

a legacy of grace

it's not very often that i get to sit down and study my bible. reading is one thing. i'm talking three different versions of text, books of commentary, my beloved "dictionary of biblical imagery" (thank you, intervarsity press...) study. it helps that it's gloomy and rainy outside and that i'm sharing the table with my studying roomie. i love these moments, this space, this togetherness. it is far too infrequent and more beautiful than i remember.

i have a lot of reasons to love Jesus and a lot of reasons to be convinced of His goodness.

here's one:

i love to read stories of the example of beautiful, strong, holy women who have come before me: to see the tenderness in their worship, the risks that they take in their adoration of Jesus, their bravery and strength and the grace that covers their lives. i'm thinking of the woman with the alabaster jar (luke 7), the widow offering her livelihood in the temple (mark 12), Ruth, Naomi, Rachel, Sarah; even Rahab, a prostitute and Mary Magdalene, the woman from whom seven demons came out. (common misconception: mary magdalene was not a prostitute and the Church finally apologized for turning her into one...) then, i think, even more immediate: my grandma, my mama, my mentors, my (almost) sisters, my best friends...

we were once broken. we were once prostitutes and adulterers, divorcees and abusers. addicts. skeptics. possessed. selfish perfectionists. our hearts were cold. we were poor and afraid. that was the story we entered into--our legacy and our destiny.

and then, Jesus said, over and over again, "your faith has set you free. go in peace." in front of us is a new legacy. pieces of our hearts (our very feminine and sometimes feminist hearts) come to life as we are no longer prostitutes or adulterers, divorcees or abusers. we're no longer addicts; our hearts are whole and free and rich in love. that is the power of Jesus' grace in abundance and the legacy of strength and grace that we are living in: beautiful, strong and holy women teaching us to live.

p.s. i think this goes without saying, but just in case: men live in Jesus' abundant grace, too. but i'm a woman, and that's the way it goes! :)

love, jamaica

let me start with this:

jamaica was great.

it was everything that i needed it to be: life-giving, joyful, relational, challenging, exhausting, beautiful, no less profound than trips one, two and three.

i have countless stories that i'd love to share, if you'd be willing to ask for them. they'll be accompanied by a billion photos, plenty of babbling and probably a few (happy/homesick) tears. i would tell you about our patchwork mural with my favorite kids in the entire world or early morning conversations on the veranda, slowly picking up phrases of patois, being welcomed into my Jamaican family. then i'd probably tell you about an unavoidable tension between the realities that i find myself in. i'd have to give you a brief history of jamaica and the lessons i've learned over the last two years. i'd probably direct you to previous blogs, one two and three. if you're interested in that, let's chat.

but for now, there are other things on my mind. less tangible experiences. instead: the slow beginnings of my transformation.

it never ceases to amaze me how quickly my heart jumps to love in jamaica. as if every fear never existed and the sting of goodbyes would be dulled. it's not--it never is. leaving always makes my heart ache, the kind of aching that lasts for days and weeks and comes up again months later. i miss it. i miss it because i love it, with the kind of love that my heart has never felt before.

contrary to the usual--i love in jamaica without fear, with abandon. i let the love come in.

(it's the kind of thing that would be much better explained in person, over food, while i blab my heart out. but i've noticed it in myself, had it affirmed in me, and know it to be true.

jamaica (place, people, experiences) has shown me that my heart is capable of deep and freeing love.)

so, my post-jamaica goal: carry that willingness and fearlessness with me across the caribbean sea and 2, 568 miles of land and into my right-here, right-now life. remember that perfect love drives out all fear. start all over again with my congolese refuge family and my biological family and my longford court family; with new friends and new career goals and new crushes and any other place that i can learn to love more freely. invest my heart freely, deeply and purposefully. here we go.

for those of you wanting more, pictures and stories will come soon(ish), promise promise :)

some pre-departure thoughts

Half-packed bags are laying around my room, full of the grungy t-shirts that I can't wait to wear, and endless receipts, binders and important documents (staffing a trip can be a bit stressful!) and I have so many thoughts as I prepare for my fourth trip to Jamaica in the last eighteen months.

Of course--OF COURSE--I'm excited. Counting down the hours (22.7), even. But also, I'm a little hesitant. A little unsure of what to expect this time around, a little uncomfortable (as always), a little of everything.

When I'm in Jamaica, I see Jesus. I see Him in the joy of the neighborhood children dancing and laughing; He fills the mamas mouths with wisdom and grace. And I see Him looking for shelter or asking for food as He walks among the poor. I see Him in the struggle to be freed of a "brickyard in Egypt" type of bondage. That is the beauty of our God embodied.

And I see change. I see the benefit of ten Americans who come to share in the journey. I remember seeing life spring up from nothing and I reflect on the lessons I've learned--I see how my heart and my worldview and my life itself have changed--by sharing in the journey, yes. But by sharing so many other things, too. Sharing of my material belongings, my finances, my comfort, my community, my love...

And yet, I always struggle with Jamaica. Is relationship development and dancing to Michael Jackson songs with 25 Jamaican kids enough? On some levels, yes. It is perfect. But I find myself wanting more out of it. I find myself hoping to see more with each visit--more than a nice visit with friends who have become family, more than the distribution of much-needed technology to the special education students who have, without question, changed my life. Those are good things, but I'm believing for more.

I want to acknowledge that what I'm working for--what I'm hoping and praying and dreaming for--is more than connection or the concept of "change." I'm closing my eyes and holding my breath and wishing for transformation. For my heart, for my family, my community, my workplace and of course, OF COURSE, Jamaica. (It's a natural extension of my heart by this point...)

And not transformed into a Caribbean America. That won't do. There is so much we can take away from unpaved and bumpy roads, cold showers and houses packed full of people. There is something to be said for that sometimes-inconvenient-simplicity that we work so hard to avoid in our everyday American lives. (I can't lie: I'm excited to escape the pressure of American technology and fashion and the need to be showered and done up at all times. I'm looking forward to far fewer showers and outfits and pigtails 24/7, and feeling beautiful just the same.)

What I would like to see is redemption--and not just in a Bob Marley song (though I have to admit, I've listened to it on repeat). I'd like to see the wounds of colonialism and imperialism stop bleeding for long enough to heal. I'd like to see a switch in religious ideology--from the "religion of my oppressors" to the love of a God who gives abundant life and removes the yoke of slavery. I would like to see justification, reconciliation, all of the other -ations that the Lord blesses us with so freely. I want to see the perfect love of God transform us, renew us, save us from the workings of a world bent on destruction.

Tomorrow I board a plane to fly a flight that feels so familiar. I'll get in Taxa's van to drive the familiar road to Logwood Walk. I'll carry my bags up familiar stairs and run to give Sanka a hug. I'll sit on a couch that became my place for naps in a home that became my home too. I'll walk to the school and sit with the special education students. I'll hope they remember my name because I could never forget them. I'll visit churches and break bread and enjoy the gift and the challenge that Jamaica has been to me. I will have my eyes open wide to the work of His hands as He continually seeps into my heart and brings the transformation that I long for in our broken world.

Updates to come. Prayers and encouragements always appreciated. :)

get out of the way

it feels like an eternity since i last wrote anything

my world has inadvertently become about packing boxes and decorating shelves and trips to the doggie doctor

so i haven't had much time to write the hopes of my heart (they are many this time of year) and the observations of time spent people-learning (the sociologist in me)

have you danced recently?

i have

little known fact: every tuesday i strap on practice shoes and learn to dance the tango

tango is all rhythm and invitation

it's a wonderful thing to be a woman on the dance floor

yielding to the volcada or the pasada

trusting your partner and following the movement

as it leads you across crowded floors and between far-more-technical couples

risking stepped-on-toes and dizzy heads for the chance to gancho or boleo

when done correctly,

it is perfect equality and unexplainable beauty

but only if you yield

yield or get out of the way

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this i know for certain:

there is a big picture that we squint to see

it's far away; we can hardly hear the rhythm of its rumbling

it is coming

while we are trying to understand, trying to save ourselves, to be our own shalom

and too often running from the call to live in meekness

(meek: desiring and submitting to the will of God)

we stand in our own way

in our hearts we harbor fear and insecurity and a quest for comfort that fuels selfishness

our desires first

our wants, our needs, our opinions

we cannot, will not, do not yield

even to His perfect intentions

His perfect movement

His perfect invitation.

But there is a dance

and an invitation to join

to yield to Him, to live outside of ourselves

we are members of one another

called to seek unity and ask for justice

to live a life worthy of the calling we have received

despite the sacrifices it requires:

our discomfort, our worldly insignificance

our open-handedness

and sometimes, we just need to get out of the way so that He can move.

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in other news: it's raining and Clive is sleeping with his head on my calf. this couldn't be more perfect unless i had pancakes in front of me :)

(in)adequate

We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words -- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into our selves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

--CS Lewis

blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

(note: this post will be a bit of a downer...read on if you'd like)

"Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings." --Anais Nim

----------------

I grew up at 3024 Cabrillo Avenue, then 221 Oakham Court. My walls were painted pink and purple and I played make believe on the hammock outside my window. We had birthday parties and scavenger hunts and sleepovers and things were simply beautiful. It was before I noticed skeletons creep in to steal life, before insatiable addictions took their grip, before my eyes watched a human life shatter and crumble and dissolve.

There was brokenness, then separateness.

Then attempts at reconciliation.

I called long distance to offer a paradoxical love--it was the absolute most that my heart could give to a good but painfully broken man who (despite divorce and death) will always be family, but it was never never enough. It was stabs of joy, moments of hope, maybe, but I am only human. He was only human, too. It pained me to listen to lonely words, to hear bitter resentment on his lips and to understand the fear of death in his voice. His body slipped slowly beyond restoration, one organ at a time and I held desperately to the hope that there is no such thing as a body too broken for healing.

I can't imagine that it was the life he dreamed for himself. There were years of relational conflict, hospital visits and operations and a loosening grip on health, community and love, and then that was it. I made a choice: That is not the life that I choose to remember of him. I am choosing to remember double-butt man and dancing in the living room; that stupid ugly work van that picked me up from daycare, endless M&Ms; getting my toes cracked before bed, and a hundred other things worth remembering. I am choosing to forget the rest.

There simply wasn't enough love or compassion or grace to hold him here. But blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven; and oh, what a beautiful Kingdom it is--where there is enough love and compassion and grace to satisfy a tired soul for all of eternity, and it is where he rests. I'm absolutely sure of it.

i believe

i believe in broken things made beautiful

i believe in re-identification, re-interpretation, re-demption, re-surrection

i believe in second chances and shifting narratives

chords bound tightly and iron sharpening iron

i believe in slow progressions

i believe that death does not have the final say

that the final say belongs to life and love and peace and joy

yes, i believe

create

it is my very sincere belief that one of the greatest parts of being human
is our ability and desire to create beautiful things
for others and for ourselves
whether it is words, or sounds or images
physical matter or laughter, or, whatever it is...

creation flows from a unique and intimate experience with the Creator
and somehow, if for just a brief moment, we touch heaven

so this is my commitment:
i will constantly challenge, encourage, push others to create
on whatever medium they desire
but create, nonetheless, because it's necessary and beautiful
and as humans, we should gratefully accept this gift
this opportunity to dwell in His presence and to create the sacred space where others can do the same
create beauty from the details of your life

to be a child

the dishes are done and put away
and we're all sitting in the living room
enjoying the cool breeze and the whirring of the fan
after a beautifully hot day
it's blogging time

sorry for the wait
(if you were waiting, that is...)
i just haven't known what to write
because each day is a process
each day unearths something new
and it's hard to put into words
how wonderful it has been

something has been stirring
and i've had a strong sense of hopeful expectation
as if i've been waiting for something
that i would not believe, even if i were told
and it's happened
even still, i don't believe it

i'm rediscovering my childhood
in the most beautiful, organic ways
outside of the reality of the passage of time,
the child in me is waking up

i'm stepping into the deep pools of healing
and from the very very inmost part of me
i want to jump up and down
and twirl around and around, unashamedly
and laugh like i haven't laughed in so long
i'm being invited to dance and play and explore

things that i should've experienced as a child
are mine, now
nothing can keep me from them
so yes, i'll sit on my dad's lap and tell him i love him
and yes, i'll sit on a blanket in the sun and read "The Secret Garden"

i'm listening to the message of Love
and rejoicing in the fact that
life is wonderful
and i'm letting myself be romanced by
the beautiful things in life:
flowers behind my ears
blankets in the sun
letting my imagination run free
childlike vulnerability

it's good
i'm free

it's just such a beautiful form of redemption
that i never saw coming
His love does not know the bounds of time;
His redemption does not know the limits of past, present, future
what i thought He would do, even my wildest dreams
do not compare
to the reality of what He is doing
it's so much sweeter than i could've ever imagined