dreams, be dreams

Blog Challenge #2: A List of Your Hopes and Dreams

I'm running slightly behind on this whole "blog challenge" thing. I hope you'll forgive me because, as we all know, you just can't rush a dream (or even a whole list of them).

Here it is. A non-exhaustive list of the longings of my heart at any given moment. Some have been with me a lifetime, some are just making themselves at home. I have dreams for other people and dreams about justice and dreams on a global scale, but this? This list is mine. My hopes for me, for the woman I am becoming, the story I hope to tell with my life.

May these dreams be so much more than dreams.



**Don't forget to check out my challenger's lists here and here.

whole.

"In this life, traces of [separation from God] are still with us. We are inseparably linked to our unredeemed flesh. Our bodies are mortal. Not just the bones and muscles, glands and senses, but mind and emotion as well. That vast, unbelievably intricate, electronic, chemical complex which is culturally, genetically, diabolically (at times), geographically, and pathologically-influenced mortality."                                          --James Bryan Smith//The Good and Beautiful God

via

Probably the most important lesson that I continue to learn with anxiety is that there is a distinction between wholeness and healing. It is subtle, yes, but hugely important: the difference between an attitude of thanksgiving versus resentment, understanding versus confusion, freedom versus shame. I willed healing for my anxiety by the mantra: "God is a healer, thus God wants me healed." I started with scripture about God's ability to heal things crazy enough as demon possession and blindness and even raising life from the dead, then added my own deductions about God's vision of restoration and his love for me personally only to find myself with a sense of entitlement for God's healing and a shame that it had not yet happened. Then, the tension of evaluating what healing really means for us now.

My first understanding of healing was created in utero. Before I was even born, I was the granddaughter-great granddaughter-niece-cousin-second cousin-third cousin of a doctor. A very intelligent man or woman trained to fix our broken bodies. Any sickness, an antibiotic. Anything broken, reset. We never stayed sick because we always had the resources, the intelligence and the sense of self-worth to fix our broken selves. With my anxiety, resources, intelligence and self-worth were called into question--God was the only solution.

Is it just me or do we have a tendency to approach God as if He is the man in a white coat with prescription pad waiting? Whatever works, I'll take it. 14 days, twice a day until--ta da!--you're healed, good as new. When my anxiety hit, my first response was to pray to this highly trained doctor-God. Pray that God would take it away, pray that God would heal my mind and adjust my neural pathways, giving me new chemicals and new brain cells. I was asking and hoping for a miracle. At times, it was so severe that I would sleep with my bible under my pillow, to rest my head on scripture, hoping that healing would come through osmosis. It was a theologically incorrect act of desperation, as many of us will take when living in pain, shame or isolation due to illness.

The theology of healing is complex, but when we see God as only the keeper of the means for physical healing, we miss a beautiful opportunity to expand our definition of "healer" and see a bigger picture for our lives. 

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."     -Psalms 147:3

Anybody who has dealt with any kind of chronic illness--physical or mental--longs to know God as a healer. Tangible healing. But sometimes, God chooses not to use your body for a miracle. Sometimes, you are not the woman whose bleeding is stopped or the man whose sight is restored. Sometimes, your body continues its natural progression toward death. When our desired definition of healing doesn't come, we have to ask--"What does healing mean?" It just might be a question of semantics for our scientific world.

Enter: wholeness versus healing.

Heal: the act or process of becoming well; the state of your physical body

Whole: unbroken, not damaged; an indicator of your identity in Christ

Biblically speaking, healing always carries with it the idea of "wholeness." That is to say, wholeness is a crucial part of healing. When Jesus heals, He always restores. With every healing act, we are given a tangible sign of eternity. He reverses the pull of death for just a moment and we see fullness of life restored. Souls feel their worth and lives are brought back into relationship, brought out of isolation.

• The Woman with the Flow of Blood (Mark 5)
• Blind Man Receives His Sight (Mark 10)
• A Woman Has Seven Demons Cast Out (Mark 16)

via

But, healing is not a crucial part of wholeness. Our bodies are in a state of decay--it's undeniable. We were never promised to live with these bones forever. And yet, one can be made whole even as bodies decay, even with a chemical imbalance or bodily malfunction. One can still be restored in the eyes of God and community without being physically healed. More often than not in our world, this is the case. Illness of any kind can leave us with a sense of being broken, ashamed, isolated--little thieves of abundant lives. But Jesus came for abundant life and wholeness is a byproduct of knowing Him. His life reverses the death in us. Wholeness from Him tells us who we are, binds up our broken hearts, removes shame and graces us with relationship with Him. 

That is the gift of wholeness that physical healing alone cannot give. I take great comfort in that as I recognize that anxiety may be a forever-ailment. To live out of my wholeness in the midst of anxiety, knowing that there will come a day when anxiety is put to rest, when my flesh is redeemed. Until then...

I am not healed, but I am whole.

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.

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.  

[junior high diary] why justin jones is great

**Disclaimer: 

Dear Justin Jones, If you are reading this, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I hope you are flattered, not scared. Really, this was 11.5 years ago. Please know that I've moved on. Or have I? Love always, Kara

"I still like Justin, he's so cute!!!! He's also very smart. He got on Gold Honor Roll, just like me. I have an open book test in Social Studies tomorrow. I didn't study. I also have a science test on Wednesday. I hope I do good. Yesterday I went to Nicoles house and worked on a science project. In art I am drawing a puppy. He is so cute! On Saturday, I am going snowboarding for the first time! I'm so excited! I hope I don't hurt myself or fall (to many times). I skipped my piano lesson today because I hadn't practiced at all. Justin Jones is so cute!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hate the group corn (I know thats not how you spell it) and I love Blink 182. I want the C.D.!"

My junior high diary epitomized life as an 11 year old girl and affirmed every stereotype you can think of. Nearly every single entry follows an easy-to-use format.

1.  Begin with important updates: Don't worry, world: Justin is still cute.
2. Clarify to avoid confusion; add self-affirmations if necessary: I'm not only interested in his good looks. He's smart. As smart as me, and we all know how smart I am. Things could definitely work with him. Plus, the presence of Mr. Popular on the Gold Honor Roll lends credibility to my 4.0 GPA.
3. Discuss highlights (and concerns) of next few days: My brother always told me that I had book smarts, not street smarts. It was important for me to maintain this reputation. If I was going to stay on the Gold Honor Roll, I needed to excel in everything, from Social Studies to Science (twice), to art. Somehow, snowboarding got thrown in, too. And piano lessons.
4. Use incorrect grammar, change pens frequently, practice penmanship: Forget apostrophes or the proper uses of "good" and well." English wasn't my thing. I was a science girl (yes, I competed annually in the science fair. See below.) Handwriting didn't much matter, either (though, I must admit, I thought mine was the best.) Pen changes indicate an editing process. Typically, I would read my wise words at a later date and realize that my writing was incomplete, which, conveniently, allowed me to give myself grace.
• Ex: I had an open book test in Social Studies. The addition of "I didn't study" indicates that I probably didn't "do good," but it's okay, because I've given myself an excuse. 
5. Follow up on important points. Use exclamation points for emphasis: "Justin Jones is so cute!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" It was worth noting again.
6.  Disclose dorky information about self: This entire journal entry speaks for itself.
7. Leave the audience with something thought provoking. Make a statement: If there was one thing that I hated in junior high, it was the band Korn. Mostly they scared me. I protested their music in the only way I knew how: misspelling their name (a powerful and effective tool). But, to end on a good note, I loved Blink 182. The evidence? My first screen name: wtpoohntiggertoo182 (Yes, Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too, 182).
8. Use pencil as a protective measure: I had this habit of writing about the boys I liked in pencil. Just in case somebody gained entry into my house, found my journal in its hiding space and broke open the lock, I needed to be ready, at any moment, to erase the evidence of my crushes. Despite being completely illogical, pencil gave me that security.

In summary:

Number of Exclamations Used: 31

Number of Exclamations Used in Reference to Justin Jones: 28

Science Fair, 2000. 

Important Updates (A Preview of the Next Entry): "Justin Jones is so cute! and smart and nice. I love frozen waffles! They are so good."

the thing about malawi...

Malawi is beautiful.

The landscape was quieter than expected--everything seemed so still and peaceful. The image that you have of villagers in colorful skirts walking with buckets of water on their heads? It's reality. People walk out of the woodworks, down every street, at all hours of the day and night. The majority of the population are unemployed (86%...yikes!) and spend their days playing soccer, setting up makeshift food stands or simply sitting, enjoying each other's company.

We spent our first day at Flood Malawi, Flood San Diego's sister church. Flood Malawi is alive--it's vibrant and diverse and such an awesome source of fellowship in Lilongwe. I've been so spoiled by Flood San Diego and having people around me who are truly committed to the challenging and abundant life of the gospel. To see other faith communities flourishing too is an encouragement. To hear the story of how Flood Malawi came to be, the investment that our pastor made in significant places--it makes me proud to call Flood my church and excited to be able to partner with Flood Malawi, even if just for a short term trip. Plus, singing songs in Chichewa was awesome!

I was most excited to go into Kudoko Village. After plenty of meetings and preparation days, I needed to meet the people who this conference was for; I needed to know their names and see their smiles (knowing their stories was much more difficult because of the language barrier), to know that this work was meaningful. It should come as no surprise that I was completely taken by the village children. Even with dirt covering their faces and too-big clothes falling off their shoulders, there was so much hope in their eyes. I fumbled through Chichewa phrases attempting to learn about these beautiful kids:

Muli bwanji? Hello, how are you?
Dzina lanu ndani? What is your name?

Most of the time, I ended up repeating what they had asked me. I would smile and wonder why they used so many consonants and envy the way that words rolled off their tongues, while getting jumbled on mine. I quickly turned to the next person to try again; they'd giggle when we tried new sentences or tried to teach them something in English. To Chimwemwe and Victoria, I'd try to communicate how pretty their eyes were. I'd have them repeat after me: "I have pretty eyes. I have pretty eyes. I have pretty eyes." I'm not 100% sure that they understood, but it was still true--their eyes were so kind and full of the hope of the future. Somebody needed to tell them how beautiful they are, no matter how often they heard it! I was glad that even for one day, it could be me. By the end of the day, we resorted to simply making the silliest noises we could--turns out we don't need a universal language, just sound in general.

It was heartbreaking, though, touring the village, seeing the place where the school should be, where the government promised classrooms but then misused the money, leaving the village with just a foundation. Thousands of kids are missing out on an education, the one thing that promises them a future and allows them to dream. The challenge was knowing the reality of the systems surrounding Kudoko Village. There are so many systems in place to keep change from happening. The conference got the community energized around issues of poverty, education and gender violence, but despite the energy, there is a lack of resources that creates real barriers. They want education, but there's still no classrooms and no teachers. Their kids have a right to food, but there is no food to share. Sometimes it is an issue of individuals needing to change themselves; sometimes it is far more complex--systems larger than this community making certain forms of justice an impossibility. The conference was effective in opening the door to justice, but there is still a long way to go, with many tangible needs still yet to be met.

Our team (Americans and Malawians) with the Village Chiefs

This is where our prayers for Kudoko Village become, in some ways, the best thing that we can offer.

There is little that we can do from our American homes, though we are committed to trying. Our team now feels the burdens of this village and is invested in its future. Our trip became sustainable when the Malawian volunteers stepped in. They are now invested in Kudoko and are prepared to go every Friday to help with tutoring and mentoring and encouraging the community to take positive steps toward change. And we are holding onto the truth that God's extension of justice, the wholeness and restoration that He has in mind, reaches even to a village in the warm heart of Africa.

While the conference was in session, small groups of us would sneak out to pray. We'd walk around the village, stopping at fields to pray for agriculture, stopping in front of homes to pray for families--for parents to dream for their kids, for the resources to build up the village, for peace and security in the homes. As we'd walk, kids were curious, surrounding us, holding our hands, sitting on our laps, singing songs in Chichewa. I was in heaven. I scooped the smallest girl onto my lap as we sang "Mwambamo;" she was covered in dust, wearing nothing more than a little blue slip. Her face had sores on it and there was snot running out of her nose. Her belly was distended in hunger. I just sat there with my hand on her stomach, my fingers held so tightly by hers, wanting to weep. Poverty so close to me, literally in my lap, and there is so little that I can do.

Again, prayer was the best thing that I could offer;
I have to trust that God is good--that He has a deep love for this little girl and that He is fighting on her behalf.

That was the reality of village life. So much joy, so much singing, so much vibrancy, so much energy for change, all in the face of so little. I wish I could say that I was horribly surprised by this reality, but I've seen it before. It's never any easier to see, but at least it's easier to process; less paralyzing and more motivating to action. It became my goal, beyond helping with the conference, to affirm their worth, despite what their poverty says. That goal, with only two weeks in the country and a language barrier and a lack of foundational relationship, was a bit difficult to reach, but it was my goal nonetheless. It was probably the most important thing that we could attempt as a team and will be one of the most important things that the Malawian students will continue to do. Affirming their worth, their dignity, their value in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the law, as men, women and children, as leaders and mothers and students with potential and dreams worth fighting for--that will be what brings transformation. That will inspire action and we will be able to see the change that we are hoping for.

So what now?

I'm excited to say that my trip to Malawi was really encouraging in terms of the work that I'll be doing now. Because I've put off my move to Boston (yes, I've put off my move to Boston) and will be staying in San Diego indefinitely, I'm excited to get to work. I'll be working with AmeriCorps at a local junior high, coordinating a mentoring/intervention program for at-risk youth. I'll have about 30 students as my own and will be responsible for a whole host of activities and lessons as part of the program. I'm most excited to build relationships with the kids, to dream with and for them, and to encourage education as the force that will allow them to fulfill those dreams. I start in August and will carry the lessons from Kudoko Village into my classroom and beyond!

And yes, I got my giraffe :)