se la tout espwa: there is hope

i was in jamaica when the earthquake hit haiti. we crowded around a tiny tv set to watch the news stories unfold. images appeared and numbers rose; it felt so surreal. jamaica and haiti are almost sisters. histories of colonization, weather patterns, lush green land disrupted by poverty. i felt like i'd been there. like i knew their stories. i could've loved them the same; i could've felt the earth shake, too.

i'm sure i cried.
i'm sure i felt helpless
privileged
paralyzed.
i always do.

until i processed and sorted and stored away that trip, and haiti along with it.
beyond occasional reminders or heart tugs or books on the topic (i recommend following jesus through the eye of the needle and mountains beyond mountains), i'm not sure that haiti was much on my mind during the last fourteen months. it was replaced, i'm sure, with other worthy causes.

it is now april 14 and haiti is back with immediacy.
my church is raising $100,000 for a project with eternal significance, that aligns with God's heart for the widow and the orphan, the poor and the vulnerable. we have three more days.
so here we are, approaching easter, in the midst of haiti fundraiser after haiti fundraiser, in the midst of planning my own. i'm running through hypotheticals and making checklists: tables, signs, soundboards, lights, videos, cupcakes.
i've never done anything like this before.

out of everything, what stands out to me most:
you can learn a lot about the heart of God by planning a concert.

seriously.

try planning a last-minute benefit concert with very-talented-but-relatively-unknown-artists for a crisis that you can never really understand and you'll learn a lesson or two in
prayer
provision
thankfulness
empathy
community
dependence
purpose.


if you're lucky, you'll see His bigger story being told.
i guess i got lucky...





se la tout espwa pou Ayiti: there is hope for haiti
se la tout espwa pou imanite: there is hope for humanity

we are a part of it. we are hands and feet to His work of redemption and restoration
He is using His gifts in us and His passions in us
He is using our small voices to sing the song of His love for Haiti

we are joining in His resurrection story
Haiti, Branches, Nicole Vaughn, Claire de Lune, missiongathering, Flood, Children of the Nations, friends and strangers:
we are joining in His resurrection story, singing His resurrection song

in that, se la tout espwa: there is hope

*If you're available, we'd love for you to join!

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 :)

love notes

the best love note i've ever received

i'd like to see somebody try to top it :)

from Sanka

Jamaica, 2011

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. :)

obsessed

(how many posts about jamaica is too many posts about jamaica??)

by now, i'm sure that you know that i'm obsessed with jamaica. (if you don't, my apologies: i obviously haven't articulated myself well enough.) if i'm not in jamaica, i'm wishing and hoping and planning ways to get back. 20 of the 28 pictures on my wall were taken in jamaica to remind me of jamaica. (as if i need reminding...) if i'm not talking or blogging about jamaica, i'm thinking about it. i can bring it up in any conversation, with any group of people, and relate it to almost any circumstance. it's almost like i'm in love.

the person makes you forget about your ex. could losing a passport with the stamp of every other explored country be any more symbolic?

always remembering the person. see above paragraph.

always showing concern. read the news/pray. daily.

a characteristic about that person attracts you. uninhibited joy, simplicity, wisdom, strength, dance, fresh fruit, community...to name a few...

go well together. if not, we probably would've ended things by now...

loyal to only each other. weelll....this one gets a little complicated. we're currently in a long-distance relationship and i currently live in america...

sharing special moments. so many. just trust me on this one.

learning to compromise. compromise? eh...i'll take what jamaica gives me

prioritizing importance. i have yet to turn it down...

thinking about the future. currently researching travel costs, non-profits, living expenses. i think me and jamaica are in this for the long haul :)

(obviously more about jamaica to come)

*all credit goes to Ezine Articles for an (almost?) exhaustive and (almost?) accurate list of the signs of being in love.

jolene

"I want to side with defiant hope. I want to hope and build in this place, in Haiti--right here--because I want desperately for people here to be buying and selling land, working good jobs, building their own solid homes and a better country. I want to believe that God will ensure--in whatever inscrutable ways--that this happens. "Nothing is too hard for you," Jeremiah prays after taking the deed [for uninhabitable and undesirable land]. I want to echo that prayer in the face of all the evidence."

Kent Annan//Following Jesus Through the Eye of the Needle

You haven't lived until you've experienced the moment, the look on a Jamaican girl's face, when she realizes that maybe her dreams can come true.

(Oh, you haven't experienced that? You should probably consider going to Jamaica...)

I met Jolene by chance, walking from the ocean to my home for the night: a hut on the top of a cliff. She swung on a hammock and made friends with anybody who passed by. Oh, she had lots to say. She lived there, on the compound, the only kid amidst dozens of sunburned and mosquito-bitten tourists. Yes, she was having fun. Just home from school. Only seven. Grade two, but looking forward to grade three. (She should be excited, I told her: grade three was my favorite!) She has trophies for spelling contests and reading awards. She pointed out her hut and showed me how fast she could race to the top. She took the stairs two at a time, then raced back down. She likes to bead, and that is how the story begins.

We met at her hut after dinner and carefully carried a box full of beads and fishing line and hook-eyes to the lounge. I was mostly there to keep her company--my fingers could hardly grab those little beads, and I had trouble distinguishing silver from pearl from translucent pink. I just sat and listened and talked and listened as she told me story after story, as she shared with me her dreams.

She'll call her business, "The Lovely Necklaces." No, no. She'll call it "The Lovely Jewelry," because some people will want bracelets, or anklets, or earrings. She'll save her money to buy gifts for her family and school supplies, and to help her mom when her boss refuses to pay. Someday.

She had her very first customers that night. Two custom orders from two USD students, and a total of $1500 J (curious? 1 US=86 J).

Oh, the joy on Jolene's face was like nothing I have ever seen. Her eyes went wide as she smiled and ran to her mom, holding up dollar bills, showing off the money she made and shouting plans for expansion. More beads and new clasps and employees enough to make a living. To survive. To see her dream come true.

So, against stories of families separated out of necessity for years at a time and incomplete school projects or poor grades because of lacking resources, against stories of inconsistent work and unpaid salaries, I choose defiant hope. I choose to believe in her dream, for her and with her, because it can be true. I choose to believe in making dreams become reality.

jamaica, a preview

for the first time in three weeks, i'm not sweating. it is, i know, not very ladylike to talk about sweat, so you can imagine my relief that it is no longer a part of my daily existence. neither is mosquito repellent. ptl. my arms and legs are covered with the marks of a three-week battle with the most annoying insect on the planet, and they still itch, just to remind me of what i've left behind and do not miss.

everything else, though, i'd take back in a heartbeat. because after only twenty-seven hours of not being in jamaica, i'm already homesick and aching to be back in the place that shows me so much of life. already, i've looked through my pictures at least twenty-six times. i scroll through them, as if looking long enough will put me back in that place, with that sweet girl sleeping on my chest, or that funny girl challenging me to a dance off, or those beautiful girls playing in the ocean for the first time in years.

i wasn't sure, yesterday, if i should hurry out of customs so that i could journal and cry in privacy, or stay as long as possible at the baggage claim, standing with the last (and few) jamaicans that i'll see in who knows how long. i just wanted to stay and let their accents linger in my ears before being drowned out by the sound of my life in america.

i'm hesitant to post pictures to facebook or update my blog and, with the click of the "submit" button, officially end the trip. friends and family can read lots of words and scroll through lots of pictures to look at three weeks of my life, as if it can be reduced to one hundred and ninety one photos contained in one album with brief captions, as if, even the third time around, the impact of this place is not so much more profound.

not to worry: the pictures will be posted, just not yet. i so want to share the place that brings me so much joy and life, but for right now, i'm savoring these memories for myself, protecting them in my heart. the stories and lessons will come, i promise, but slowly.

a preview of stories to expect:

• jolene, the aspiring jeweler
• my aversion to goodbyes
• potlucks and babies and fruit straight from the trees
• listening and talking and how i feel about both

and of course, summer updates, reading lists, recipes, etc etc are all in the near future as well!

wants.

i could stay in bed all day
lie under piles of fleece and cotton
ignore my mostly-green door
(a portal to an outside world, to which i owe a fragmented existence.
i am no longer fully here.)

i am struggling to stay afloat
in a sea of wealth and privilege
in a place i have chosen
a life i have chosen
a life that has been given to me

if i get out of bed:
i will begin my mental list of today's wants
words on lined paper, awaiting the strike of ink
to smother them into black
what i want:
a new journal
new toms (to replace my slippers. defeating the purpose. yet, the want remains)
a new book (but, to my right sits a bookshelf filled from edge to edge with ink filled pages so far unread)


so i can stay in bed all day
turning pages to wash me of the guilt
of even the luxury of books
fifteen books

and if i read, then maybe,
just maybe,
there will be no space in
my mind or
my heart or
my schedule for

the longing to hear kids singing michael jackson at the top of their lungs

or

the aching to sit and listen to the story of a heartbroken and forgotten girl.
and i could sit and offer ears for hours, until the sun hides behind blue mountains, not understanding the point of her suffering or my privilege.

and i won't have time to listen to our soundtrack--call on me, or a thousand miles away--i won't be able to think about the boys who taught us to dance, or the people we now call family.

or

maybe. i'll forget the moment, driving through pot-hole ridden streets in a place so green that new life is all i can see, and i'm sitting in a van, surrounded by beautiful people on every side, hearing pieces of wisdom, stories of Jamaican experience, with Bob Marley playing in the background.

because if i remember, my heart hurts all the more
and i start crying all over again
celebrating what is such a beautiful new home
grieving what feels like such a profound loss
but i don't want to forget the contentment of that moment,
even in discomfort.

discomfort as we drive past
tin-roof houses and
piles of corregated steel;
goats collecting trash in road-side ditches and
uniformed children begging for a meal
(a meal. i eat three of those a day.)

and all these images are flashing by
and the last week is replaying in my head
and all i hear is music drowning out the noise

redemption song. a song of freedom.
as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end.

but then there's the earthquake
and i can't make sense of it.
the news reports
and the thousands dead.
millions affected.
and jesus is suffering with them
while i stay bundled up in my cozy layers
in my cozy house on the beach
with the iPod that i should have left behind
in the country that i can't wait to escape

and my mom--she sponsors a haitian girl
so i guess that makes her my sister
and they're not sure if she is dead or alive
she could be burried under piles of rubble
or crying in the streets

and here i am, planning out the next three years
moving in a way that feels directed by God

and in the back of my mind comes that nagging voice:
"law school" "intellect" "use your brain"

i want to shut the voices down.
i want to hear utter silence.

what i want to do:
be in jamaica.
play with sanka.
dance with kids to michael jackson songs for hours.
listen to taxa talk.
play whatever games they want to play, for as long as they want to play them.
adopt. now.
hold orphans and cook dinner for the poor and
dig through piles of rubble to find that one.
that one dearly beloved child of God.
give away everything, without the want to gain it all back again.

and my wants can only be fulfilled because i swim in a sea of wealth and privilege.

so what am i to do?

simon.

three years had shaped them by the soles of my feet
and had bound them to every journey
across state borders and through customs inspections
and they, my constant companions, had collected soil from four five six seven countries
across one two three oceans

shoes of privilege, they were: bound to feet of privilege, tied to a world of privilege

yet, with worn edges and paint stains, they remained what they were: slippers

but to watch him hesitantly slip his feet in and out
as they sat, vacant on the doorstep
to admire the perfect fit
with excited eyes, to imagine the adventures he could take and the games he could play


i would trade every pair
over and over and over and over
until kingdom come
for the sweetest hug and the simplest whisper:
"thank you, kara"
of the boy to whom they now belong




it was what i could do
and not nearly enough
but, what was required of me

as if these shoes, and these soles, and these feet
arms, hands and body
and everything it possesses
were mine to begin with

is it possible?
it must be possible
that these slippers,
given by God,
now find a home on the feet of Jesus

and now a simple question resounds in my ears and in my eyes and in my heart:
what else needs a new home?

it's beginning to come together

(it's long, i know...)

There are experiences in life that rip you wide open, making you hypersensitive to colors and tastes and sounds, allowing you to see beauty and suffering coexisting in a way that you’ve not yet seen. Jamaica was that experience. Jamaica was the place where I noticed every flavor, every song, every flower; Jamaica was the place where I cried over the collision of injustice and beautiful expression, where I have never seen so clearly the effects of both slavery and freedom; Jamaica was the place that ruined me to anything but Jamaica.

It made me want to shout at the top of my lungs, from the highest mountaintop, two very different messages:

Hello, world. There is something horribly wrong with you. Then,
Hello, world. You are so wonderful.

I was at a loss for words my first day back in America (a home that suddenly seemed to be lacking, neutral, bland…)—one word answers, sentences marked by vagueness, protective of the depths of my experience. Conversations were brief and, even with those closest to me, slightly awkward.

How was Jamaica? It was…intense…(the only word that came to mind that could do my three week stay in Jamaica any form of justice)…Oh, well…you look tan…Thanks (end scene.)

There was a song that I found before leaving for Jamaica that gave me the slightest hint at what my experience would look like. I listened to it on repeat, added it to iPod playlists, fell asleep with its rhythm and lyrics flooding into my ears:

Say the world is spinning around
Everything is upside down
They show no love for the people
Say the world is spinning around
Everything is upside down
Oh, I can hear the trumpet sound

This was the story that Jamaica began to tell me—one story with an abundance of plot lines; a story that, unless you’ve seen Jamaica, felt Jamaica, touched Jamaica, makes no sense. A story whose characters fought for my attention, fought to be told. It is a story of Jamaica then and Jamaica now, a story of desperation and of hope—inseparable, as each part has been so entangled in each other.

Jamaica then: slavery, oppression, exploitation, perverted religion, greed; beauty
Jamaica now: tourism, cultural exploitation, the continuation of a master-servant relationship; still, beauty, freedom
Desperation: poverty, violence, struggle
Hope: community, children, laughter, church, music, art, rhythm, culture

I can only assume that the intensity of their freedom and hope flows directly from the intensity of their enslavement and desperation.

We learned about the slave trade in elementary school, I’m sure, glossing over facts, minimizing the horrors so that our young brains would not be damaged by such harsh truth. We spent very little time learning about the ships and the diseases, about the punishment; we moved quickly into the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, emancipation, freedom. Oh, to be an American fighting for the cause of justice…

Any notion of past/present/future responsibility, global connectedness, collaboration was effectively silenced. The slave trade that formed Jamaica confronted me, though, in a different way, telling me a different story. Perhaps it was the detail of the readings or the tours of the Great Houses; perhaps it was seeing the imprint of hundreds of years of slavery so clearly stamped on today’s Jamaica. Perhaps I was a naïve little girl suddenly awakened to the reality of an unjust society, an unjust world, a brokenness in our humanity.

I struggled with the idea of collaboration. I imagined myself a young girl in England, circa 1720, eating my favorite: a chocolate cake. I imagined indulging in each sweet bite, licking the frosting off of my fingers, then running off carefree to join my family in church, completely unaware that I had just collaborated with the greatest system of injustice in human history. I had eaten chocolate cake, made from sugar cultivated by slave labor, in a country where my “people” (that is, white folk) did not belong, using my religion and our “progressive weapons” as their oppressive tools. In feeding myself, I had fed the machine. I had essentially affirmed colonial action in the West Indies, the dehumanization of an entire people group, racism and bondage. What did that make me? What did that make my nation, the motherland? How could I identify with people who valued money and power over human life? I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, I don’t. Oh, but how easy to fall into the trap of chocolate cake, the enslavement of a continent.

Of course I, Kara Lee Kimball, born in California in 1988, can not be held responsible for British colonization and slavery; but collaboration does not end on August 1, Emancipation Day. Americans were once Europeans, and Europeans were once (twice, infinity times) dominators. Jamaicans are still living inside of the web of conquest and oppression that was spun before them; I am still reaping the benefits. Had we gotten here by collaboration?

Had I, by traveling to Jamaica, collaborated in the Tourism Board’s scheme to increase travel and lessen cultural authenticity?
Had I, by staying at Silver Sands, by enjoying the presence (and the food) of my house moms at Valhalla, collaborated in the continuation of a master-servant relationship, so prevalent on the island of Jamaica?
Had I, by purchasing a pair of underpriced jeans three months ago, collaborated in a trading “free zone,” where Jamaican women are exploited for cheap labor in order to survive?
Is collaboration the default human response?

It has never been clearer that history is not stagnant—the way that greed is still dictating international policy, economic policy, human interaction. It is now so clear that even the most evil of schemes are not out of reach for those “civilized” persons who seek personal gain and survival. Yes, Richie Spice was correct when he said that the world is spinning around, upside down. The Great Houses had on display “man traps” for catching and mutilating runaway slaves; Spice sings of nuclear weapons destroying the population. We are not so far from the days of slavery.

All of these things—the value of human life (or lack thereof), religion, culture—propagated by White men, backed by Western power—are upside down. In slave ships, humans were positioned in a way that they were not able to stand, fully erect, as humans. To force slaves into submission and obedience, masters used a cat-o’-nine tails—a horrendous torture tool. Of course, when I think of the cat-o’-nine tails, I immediately think back to the narrative of the brutal crucifixion of Jesus Christ in the Gospels, during which the cat-o’-nine tails was employed. What an ironic parallel, I thought, that “Christian” masters were acting as the Romans, beating their slaves as they had beaten their Messiah. Now, the name of Jesus was being perverted for the sake of capitalism, monetary gain, pleasures that would not and could not last.

I felt sick, thinking of how many had allowed this to happen, turning their backs and closing their mouths, protecting their own interests. I wondered, how was it ethically sound to take a journey that kept slaves in such awful conditions that nearly one half died before reaching their destination? How was such loss of life justified? (Not to mention, how was this practice economically beneficial for slave traders, though I could really care less about their financial prosperity.) I wondered so many things about the so obvious presence of evil. Justifications were offered, decisions were explained, and yet, I could not wrap my mind around it.

Hence, my silent return to America. I was too angry to speak, too nervous that others wouldn’t understand, too busy sorting through the constant battle of good vs. evil. I felt responsible, if not for the slave trade itself, then for future generations. As a human being. Because I’m alive. Because I recognize how easy it is to slip into patterns of injustice. I came to a conclusion: collaboration, even unconscious collaboration with evil must come to an end in order for humanity to survive. We cannot survive another slave trade, another genocide, more racism and greed, else the foundation of humanity, of community, will crumble beneath us.

Of course, Jamaica is not all slavery and oppression and poverty—not by a long shot. Jamaica is defined by resistance to the West that sought to confine it—music used to express their sorrows and concerns; dance, because they’ve got rhythm; colors so vibrant, standing in direct opposition to the neutral colors filling my suburban America; food so full of flavor, people so full of life, churches full of praise. “Full,” it seems, is an apt description of what Jamaica is. This “fullness” tells the story of their emancipation; I hope that by experiencing, engaging, learning the culture, we have participated in the only acceptable form of collaboration—that is, collaborating with freedom.

Music was a form of resistance. In buying a Bob Marley CD or T-shirt, we collaborated in spreading his (and Jamaicans as a whole) concerns for social justice and change throughout the world.

Religion, disguised as oppressive, was in fact, a form of resistance—affirming a heavenly reality far better than the earthly reality that slaves were accustomed to. In attending a church service, we collaborated in a genuine faith experience, one not used to oppress, not used as an opiate for the masses. Instead, the Jamaican faith has been birthed out of a truly biblical resistance to oppression and a Jesus who is not poised for a portrait, sitting meek and mild, covered in white skin.

In creating real relationships with authentic Jamaicans, we collaborated in the defiance of the “tourist” stereotype and the master-servant relationship.

In painting a mural with the special education students at the Duncans All-Age School, we collaborated in creative expression, in laughter and childish innocence; we collaborated in life and in love.

Richie Spice sings, as his last line, “Oh, I can hear the trumpets sound.” Trumpets. As if ushering in redemption, canceling out the need for retribution. How I would love to be in Jamaica, with Valerie and Deneisa, their kids and grandkids, on August 1, celebrating the story of their freedom and the redemption that has come and will come. Soon come. There is a bond between us, a responsibility among us, not just because of my short stay in Jamaica, but because of our humanity, our hope for the future. Because I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Jamaica ruined me in the best possible way, and now, my world is changing.

Jamaica: a recap

i wrote about everything. i wrote about the class i took, the church i attended, the kids i played with, the daily thunderstorms, our nightly meals...everything.

day one: "I don't know how you go back to America after this and settle back into USD and an American lifestyle of spending and wasting and shutting yourself off from what is truly good and important in life."

day two: "I am being ruined in the best possible way."

"I feel like the world has so much to offer us than what we accept from our culture. We settle for cheap and shallow experiences when we can have deep, rich experiences everywhere we go."

day three: "It's frustrating how we emphasize entertainment and economic prosperity and so many other things over human life...we don't value each other...there have always been issues of exploitation and injustice...our bombs are more sophisticated, but we're still using bombs. Where is the progress?"

day four: "We are so far from the life that the Lord originally intended for us, so I'm stuck between loving being alive and experiencing life here and grieving over the state of our world, longing for the promise of what is to come, what will be fulfilled, and soon!"

day five: "I want to do things that matter. I want to experience life."

day six: "...I'm still working it all out in my head."

day seven: "The Spirit moves as it wills, and that is enough for me."

day eight: "I'm not wasting my breath or my energy. Ever expenditure over the last week and into the next two matters. Every trip to Duncans has engaged me, taught me, expanded me and my ideas and perceptions in a way that is life-giving. This whole process has been so beautifully orchestrated."

day nine: "That bugs me. I see it in myself, too, and that bugs me even more."

day ten: "I'm so human."

day twelve: "I'm not quite sure how I'm feeling about going home yet...not ready to hit the reality of being an American...not sure if I'm ready to resituate myself into living at home again."

day thirteen: "It makes me sad to think that some people use other substances so often that it masks who they really are...like they're no longer real and aren't truly experiencing life because every experience is covered by something else...they eventually become slaves to that substance and lose the freedom to exist well without it."

day fourteen: "It constantly amazes me how unique each person is...how our personalities can blend or clash and how humans are seriously just so weird...how humans usually have some really awesome characteristic that differentiates us but somehow brings us together at the same time. It's cool to be a part of that kind of melding."

day fifteen: "I'm so glad that I am somehow here, at this school, in this country, doing what I'm doing...I feel so so blessed...and also, 10,000% tired, which, I think, is the best way to be."

day sixteen: "I don't understand why the Lord would let the name of Christ, the Messiah, the name of justice and of life, be manipulated in such a horrendous way...I don't understand why humans seem to have so much power even though we misuse it over and over again."

"This is just part of me longing for a heavenly reality that is soon coming, but isn't quite here yet...sometimes that inspires hope and excitement in me; sometimes it depresses me."

"I can do my part."

"I can't describe how good this kind of exhaustion feels--knowing that I've given myself completely...I can feel it in my arms and my legs, the fact that I'm constantly hungry. Every last bit of energy is being used up."

day seventeen: "I am going to significantly simplify my life when I get home."

"I'm in a completely different place than I was a few months ago...I'm a different person...sometimes I barely recognize myself..."

day eighteen: "Tomorrow is going to be a hard day. How do you say goodbye? I'm already so sad."

day twenty: "I'm on the plane right now. This is so so strange. Tonight will be hard."

"This is not Jamaica...everything is different and I'm not really a fan...I'm afraid that people are going to think that Jamaica was just beaches and sunshine and that they won't understand the depth of my experience...how intense it was, why it's so hard to be back."

Jamaica challenged me on every single level imaginable...so let me try to explain...

i'll start here

I have to start with this: the good, the beautiful, the hopeful.
Essentially, I just took a class on oppression and exploitation; I took a class on the ways that the world has failed, that humans have failed, that life has proved itself ugly; I took a class that forces me to doubt the goodness of humanity, that purity of spirit still exists, that God is present.

I have been ripped open, knowing that this is what the Lord wants me to know. I need to respond: I am angry and heartbroken and confused about the broken state of our world; I am scared for future generations; I am distressed.

So let me start with this, because what is good, what is beautiful, what is right in the world seems to poke its head through even the darkest of circumstances.

We painted a mural. We, four white American college students, painted a mural with ten Jamaican special education students, ranging from shy students to severely autistic students to one student with downs syndrome.
They’re kept separate from their peers, isolated behind literal bars, grouped together despite age, grade level, condition. And they’re beautiful. I’ve never seen such beautiful children.


It took more energy than I ever thought possible. I never thought that I would be drawn to such a group of kids, but I found myself wanting to invest myself in those kids so much more than other parts of the trip—more than class, more than down at Fisherman’s Beach. I wanted to be a part of their existence. I wanted this mural project to be meaningful for them.

I’ve never seen freedom in such a pure form. I am rooted in the things of this world, thus, I have, to a certain extent, lost my playful spirit and sense of purity and freedom; they have not lost any of these things.

More than “normal” kids, these special ed kids seemed to be even further removed from the reality of this world, the chains and pain. In some ways, it makes me sad for them, knowing that my brain functioning has allowed me to experience so so many wonderful things; in some ways, I am jealous. If only that innocence could remain, if only we were still filled with wonder at the smallest things, if only we were unattached to meaningless things. They are lucky. They love, and show affection, and show emotion; they are kind, and gentle (most of the time) and focused. In their own ways, they are brilliant.

I am absolutely unqualified to work with special ed students. I was anxious about this job, facilitating this project. But, the first day, I sat between Shevaughn and Oneika, both of whom can’t speak. To try to get inside of their brains was the most interesting and challenging thing I’ve done. They were not afraid of physical touch to show that they needed help, or they were excited, or they wanted me to see what they had drawn. They were quiet, but they knew. There is some sort of disconnect between internal and external functioning, but they are inspired and they are exceptional.

Shevaughn would attempt to write or draw, but somehow, the only thing that came out was the letter “p,” over and over again.
Oneika drew random lines and swirls and attempts at circles—the result was rainbow scribbles. But watching her, interacting with her, seeing her color her reality was incredible, seeing her smile after she finished her drawing, looking for my appreciation of her creation—it was amazing.
Sasha, I think, is autistic. She spoke very little, with a surprisingly high pitched voice; she could draw little images, but she was very good at names. She wrote all of our names over and over again on her piece of paper.
Dante (who may or may not have become my favorite, if that were okay to say…), seemed more shy than anything, though he has a disease which seems to have crippled his right hand.
Aphek, who is wide-eyed and has a sense of wonder, maybe a bit slow. She is content.
Jodiann is beautiful—shy and reserved, but so smiley and so affectionate.
Gary is quiet but totally capable, and a seriously fast runner.
Chayce is artistic and creative and funny. I’m not sure that he belongs behind the special ed bars.

I am fascinated by their brains, by their lives, by the life that they radiate. I keep using the word “beautiful,” because it’s the only word that seems to fit.


So we painted a mural. It was amazing to watch, and amazing to be a part of. It was amazing to watch Aphek’s eyes light up in wonder, as if to say, “I make a flower?” Of course you can.
• Aphek: Because of you, where there was once only white canvas, now there is a garden.
• Richard: where there was once only white canvas, there is a soccer field, where you can run and play and enjoy your childhood.
• Jodiann: Because of you, we have leaves! Our trees have come to life!
• Sasha: because of you, we have mangoes—we have sweet, sweet food to eat!
• Shevaughn, because of you, we have explosions of color, seemingly meaningless and chaotic, throughout our little canvas world.
• Tahjay—because of you, we have an ocean to play and swim in, where land animals meet marine life.
• Dante: because of you, we have a heart—the universal and eternally powerful symbol of love. We have a Jamaican flag, a Jamaican identity, a community.
• Oneika-you gave us a church, one that goes outside of our idea of what a church should look like.

You’ve expanded our world. It is so easy to love you. And your names are forever branded on this canvas—this wonderful world that your beautiful brains allowed us to create.


The mural is perfect. We went in and finished things, made the mural somewhat cohesive, altered shapes and added colors. It is not without flaws—it is random and chaotic and kind of all over the place, but it is absolutely perfect for this small group of beautiful, beautiful kids. I am so proud of them for creating something so beautiful, creating something that is wholly theirs.

When we revealed the mural to them, they responded almost giddily, with wonder and excitement. It’s their mural, their creation, their space. They pointed out the things that they had painted, their names, what they liked most. They loved it; I loved it; I love them…

Simultaneously, the harsh reality of injustice coexists with something so wholly life-giving and wonderful. So I start here, and use this as my anchor, because Jamaica was so much more than a mural project with my lovely little children.

i'm home

...and i don't know what to say

i want to write about jamaica so that you can understand everything
everything: beautiful, challenging, fun, intense, heartbreaking, incredible, life-giving moments

but i want to write nothing
because words don't seem to do it justice
and i don't want an overflow from my mouth to lessen the value that this experience has had in my life

so right now, i'm not sure what to say
except that i'm here and my heart is there
i'm going back, that is for certain
and in time, i'll find the words

it's been awhile

i know, i know...
it's just that it was pre-finals adventures
then the horror of finals themselves
then home, with friends and sunshine and books
and my thoughts keep coming
but there seems to be a disconnect between my brain and my fingers
and well, writing just hasn't been happening...

it's summer :)
i was not sure how i would feel about this long expanse of time
away from the home that has created itself around me
in a billion different places with a billion different people
i wasn't sure how my anxiety would handle the transition
or that i could stand without my support system

but i'm home, and the support i have here is different,
but just as strong, and just as good
i've been home for a week and in three hours, i'll arrive at SFO to begin my summer adventure
jamaica
JAMAICA!!!! :) :) :)
what?!?
...i'm going there...
it's 2 am right now, and i'm not sleeping tonight because i have to leave my house at 3:30 am and that's hardly enough time to finish all of my last minute things AND sleep
so sleep: i'll see you again in a few hours

there's a billion things i want to write about
all the books that have filled the last few weeks (secret garden, peter pan, love walked in, little bee, extremely loud and incredibly close, and more to come...)
these books make me want to experience the joys of life in a completely new way
to recognize the little parts of life, the seemingly insignificant but incredibly beautiful things that are swirling around me
to let each moment of my life belong to me

and i want to write about this transition--leaving my home to come home
and everything that entails
the fact that i'm a senior in college and holy crap, that is scary
i want to write about this song that has explained my life for the last three months
and it was my anchor in the hard times, and now, we've passed into something so beautiful
and it means something different altogether
i want to write about jamaica and murals and end of the year celebrations
weddings and grandparents and puzzles and vegetarianism

i want to write about it all
but there is no time
it's 2 am and my brain is shut down
my eyes are barely staying open...
i am awake for the sake of being awake

i will write more, soon
(but not that soon...because i'll be out of the country for 3 weeks...scribbling stories and every little detail of my trip into my journal so that it can all explode out of my brain and onto some other medium as soon as i return)

jamaica, here i come :)