an unwanted guest.

sometimes you are just sad.

sometimes life is filled with sadness.

sometimes that sadness lasts only a moment, passing through you like an old sojourner traveling from one place to the next.  and sometimes that sadness settles in, unpacks for a while, and makes itself at home inside of you like an unwanted guest oblivious of social cues.

these last months i have been filled with sadness. i am not exactly sure at which hour it settled in. i can’t quite pinpoint the moment it began to unpack and make it’s home in me…but it surely did. and i have fought. i have given it, rather rudely at times, every possible social cue that i would like for it to exit from within me. i have opened the doors to my heart and mind and gestured for it to bid farewell. and yet, it remains. my chest feels heavy and my thoughts burdened. i picture it there, under my chest and in my mind, sprawled out and immobile. its presence seems to have displaced all that was there, or should be there, or i believed could be there.  and all this sadness does is remain and fester like an infected wound…just as ugly, just as painful, just as irritating, just as personal.

and as i have fought, i have written.

i have written of all this sadness. i have written of loneliness and misunderstanding. i have written of the number three and transitions. of a faraway land that seems farther away each passing day. of friends who have hurt me. of silence that rings loudly. i have written of burying the only identity i can remember owning for so long now. i have written of the love i can’t seem to find, or perhaps deserve. of the small hands that once hugged my neck and that i can’t hold right now. of the affirmation i desire. i have written of the longing for someone to ask the simplest of questions, and the anger that follows when the silence continues. i have written of pathetic attempts on my part. of the hungry faces of children i would give anything to mother. of others’ selfishness and my own affluence. i have written of injustices in this world which are beyond my understanding. of apathy. of the deep anger i have felt [and maybe i’m still feeling] towards people i hold dear.  i have written of disconnected community. i have written of cancer and mothers who leave too soon. i have written of broken systems and grieving.

and as i have written, i have fought..

and yet, ignoring all my gesturing, the sadness abides.

tonight i drove north towards home. i was returning from what had been a thoroughly holy evening. but in all its holiness it carried so much sadness. and i realized, as the wipers on my miniature car rhythmically wiped the raindrops off my windshield, that even holiness knows sadness.  and that was more than i could bear. and i began to cry. alone in my car i cried. i wish i could say that all my tears were for others, but they were also for myself. for my sadness. for all of the hurt and darkness that has settled under my chest and in my mind recently. i cried, for a long time, i cried.

a friend asked me a bit later if i wanted a hug. in response, i asked “will it make everything different?” i knew the answer. “might comfort for a split second,” he replied, “but no.” of course i wanted a hug tonight. but i also wanted that hug to make everything different. which wasn’t going to happen. alone in my car tonight i drove north and cried. i didn’t receive a hug from anyone, but something quite similar did  happen. as i drove, and as i cried i also listened. and the words of a song comforted for a split second:

anytime you say it with heart

anytime you’re falling apart

when you’re washing the sheets

any stranger you meet

when there’s somebody waving good-bye

you’re coming home to me, just remember

you’re coming home to me

it’s a world full of bar rooms and alleys

of blue nights and red river valleys

when you feel like a shirt and a tie

or like dirt

or a lion and no one can see

you’re coming home to me, just remember

you’re coming home to me

when you get to that place

that’s just under the stars

hanging over the tree…

…when you get there you’ll know

that’s as far as you go

when you get there you’ll see

you were already free

when you get there you’ll la la la la la

when you’re lost and you’re found

when you’re found and you’re lost

when you’re dancing with no one around

you’re coming home to me, just remember

you’re coming home to me

for a split second they comforted. and i’ll keep fighting. maybe this time by remembering who my home is, and writing of that. perhaps that will be the social cue this sadness will understand. because i’m ready for this guest to leave.

beauty.

how is beauty defined for us?

how do we decide who and what is beautiful and who and what are not?

when do we learn what beautiful means, and who is it that teaches us this?

these questions gripped my thoughts throughout most of my summer in tanzania. so much of my life i have felt unbeautiful, so much of my life i have believed i am unbeautiful simply because some people are and some people aren’t, and i’m one of the latter.  i realize this may be shallow, self-absorbed, and petty but it’s also honest. perhaps this relatively constant theme in my life stems from words spoken to me by boys, images strewn across a magazine cover or women chosen to play the leading lady in major motion pictures. but for whatever reason [or whatever countless reasons], beautiful has never been a word i use to describe myself.

on a warm july evening this summer i found myself, once again, at Kool Bar, our favorite spot for tanzanian nightlife. i was there with the usual group of friends, and after we’d all been dancing for a long chunk of time, i decided to take a break and sat down at our table, next to richard. as we sat there a group of  four tanzanian women out on the dance floor caught my eye. they were incredible dancers, moving their bodies in ways i’m quite sure my body could never move. they moved perfectly to the beat, jumping and traveling across the dance floor with such delight. in those moments i watched them their faces were lit up with laughter and they seemed so full of perfect merriment. i turned to richard and said, “tanzanian women are so beautiful.” he sort of laughed at my unexpected comment and replied, “yes, lisa, but they are crazy!” as i watched these women dancing i answered, “they might be, but they are beautiful, absolutely beautiful. look at them richard, those women are undeniably beautiful.”

earlier that day i had been sitting on a daladala, a 15-passenger van used for public transportation [usually stuffed to double capacity]. i had arrived while the bus was mostly empty, and so i had grabbed a seat in my favorite spot on the bus, and waited for it to fill so we could be on our way. i had forgotten a book that morning, so rather than reading as i waited i watched the people climbing into the bus. there seemed to be a number of women traveling that day, women of all ages.  first, a maasai woman entered the bus, she must have been about 75-years-old. a most intricate system of wrinkles made their way across her face. they creased every which way, disclosing every shape her face had ever made. when i looked closely, i could see the laughter lines deeply drawn on either side of her mouth. lines of concern formed rows on her forehead. her earlobes were stretched long and hung heavy with the weight of large colorful beads. her eyes seemed deep, as if they were a bottomless well filled with pictures of the life this woman had witnessed. when my eyes met hers it was if they shared with me, in the briefest of moments, all the joy and pain she had known…and i could feel it all washing over me.  after her a younger woman, probably 18-years-old, stepped onto the bus. she was dressed in simple clothing. her nose was pierced with a single, gold stud. her features were striking – dark eyebrows drawing intense curves on her face, long eyelashes stretching out, and her eyes were the deepest, richest brown imaginable. her head was covered with a simple black scarf, and her slender fingers were wrapped around a basket of avocados sitting on her lap. the next woman to climb onto the daladala was about my age. she carried, on her back, a small baby wrapped in brightly colored fabric, and at her side was a young boy – perhaps three or four-years-old. as the woman went to sit she swung the baby around to her front, and pulled the toddler between her legs. next, as we all sat and waited for the bus to begin moving, this woman bared her breast and began feeding her youngest child. as she did she looked down lovingly at the child suckling while intermittently looking up at the older child and engaging in a conversation with him. her hands were strong, her smile bold, and her voice steady and calming. sitting on the daladala that morning, watching these women, i thought of mama change [ch-ahn-gay], the woman who’s home i was living in. i thought of mama’s stocky build, her neck and arms thick with physical strength, her muscular hands that could wring every last drop of water out of the heaviest pair of jeans. I thought of her washing her floors by hand, bent in half at the waist and wiping a rag across the floor, mopping every inch of it. i thought of mama working late into the night, retiring to bed only after all the clothes had been laundered and all the family had eaten. i thought of her rising early each morning to tend to the chickens, go to market, and maintain the grounds. i could hear her singing and see her dancing and laughing as she did every day.

richard and i left Kool Bar and that night as i was getting ready for bed, familiar questions swam through my mind: “why are these women so beautiful to me?” “why am I so enthralled by them?” “what about these women, young and old, mesmerizes me?” “why do they catch my eye and why are these humans some of the most beautiful people i have every seen?”

it’s their story.

it’s the story of each woman i met, each woman i spent time with, each woman i watched.

it’s the story of struggle and fight and determination and hope in each one of them.

it’s the story i saw in the eyes of the maasai woman. a story of countless miles tread by her two feet, a story of giving birth in a dark, small home constructed of mud and cow dung, by the light of a smoky fire. it’s the story i saw in her eyes of seven decades battling malaria and watching loved ones struggle. it’s the story i saw in each line creasing its way across her face…a map of the joys and pains she’s known.

it’s the story i saw in the young muslim woman. it is the story of a deep faith, which has shaped each decision she’s ever made. it’s the story of incredible discipline and it’s the story of deep mystery. it’s the story of a woman living her life in honor of the god she worships. it’s the story of the weight she’s carried around on her head and in her heart. it’s the story of the peace inside her, the great reward for such obedience. it’s the story of loneliness that often fills her. it’s the story of all the prayers spoken from her lips.

it’s the story of the young mother feeding her child with milk from her breast. it is the story of the laughter she’s shared with her young son. it’s the story of her back being strengthened each day as she carries her child around while completing the chores that must be done. it’s the story of working to earn enough money to send those children to school some day so they might have the opportunities she doesn’t. it’s the story of this woman loving them more than she loves herself. it’s the story of the bitterness that sometimes creeps into her heart.

its’ the story of mama change choosing to be strong for her family. it’s the story of mama choosing to model strength and independence for her grandchildren. it is the story of mama loving her children without abandon, and the story of the pride revealed in her face each time she looks at them. it’s the story of mama’s hands creating innumerable meals shared around her table. it’s the story of mama falling in love with a  man and having to share that great love with three other women.

and it’s the story of those women dancing at Kool Bar. it’s the story of them growing up in a new world, one different than their mothers’. it’s their story of wading through the messages of their culture colliding with messages from the dominating western world. it’s the story of them dating men who cheat on them and laughing despite it. it’s the story of them loving their bodies not for what they look like but for what they offer and the strength they contain. it’s the story of the expressions they make out on the dance floor.

what makes these women so beautiful is their collective story, which they so freely share with others. it’s the story their bodies, faces and voices tell of the life they know. what illuminates the beauty that these women possess is the honesty and candidness with which they share their story. they ask for no pity, they offer no excuses, they place little blame…they simply tell the only story they know to tell: their own.

and it is incredibly refreshing to see beauty not found in body shape or clothing. it is so moving to find beauty not defined by media or measurements. it is unbelievably freeing to discover beauty through the telling of that being’s story. i saw beautiful women, beautiful humans, and their beauty was defined differently than all the definitions i was familiar with.

and what if this is true for me? what if my beauty is found not in the shape of my body or the clothing that covers me? what if my beauty is not defined by media or measurements. what if my beauty is found in the story of who i am. what if my beauty is seen in the story of a woman whose life has not gone as expected? what if  my beauty is seen in the story of a woman who deeply treasures the people in her life and desires to love without abandon? what if my beauty is found in the story of a woman who messes up, hurts others, and sometimes feels frightened? what if my beauty is seen in the story of a woman who searches for hope?

what if this is what defines beauty in all of us?

this seems theologically sound. God’s beauty is found in his story. beauty is found in the story of a creator having its heart broken by its very creation. beauty is found in the story of a God loving his children without abandon. beauty can be seen in the story of a perfect being wanting to make perfect again all that has fallen. beauty is witnessed in the story of a father sacrificing his only son so that all others may know life. and beauty is certainly found in the story of death being defeated. God’s beauty is found in his story.  as beings created in his image, it seems that beauty is also found in our stories.

the world i’ve grown up in didn’t define beauty this way. in the world i live in most months out of the year we aren’t taught to look for the story behind each face, within each body. that takes time, and so we simplified things. we developed more timely ways to define beauty: body shapes, bone structure, measurements and skin type. maybe by this definition i’m not beautiful, but i am beginning to wonder whether i want my beauty to be defined like that anyway. because i think i’d rather be found beautiful as God is found beautiful. i think i would rather others find me beautiful because they have heard the story behind the face and within the body. i think i would prefer to surround myself with the types of people that look for beauty and find beauty and define beauty not as this world we’ve grown up in has taught us, but  within the stories of struggle and fight and determination and hope and redemption in each one of us.  and i want to remember to keep looking and listening for the story in people, and continue to be amazed at how beautiful humanity is.

God spoke to me of beauty this summer. he showed me the stories of the people around me, and i heard his story within them. he taught me that beauty is found in the story, beauty is so much more than all we’ve been told it is. it took sitting in a bar in tanzania for me to begin believing that i, too, am beautiful.

tension.

in seventeen days i get to board a plane and fly across the world and into another hemisphere. the truth of that makes my heart ache a little. the idea of returning to that beautiful, dusty place where the air seems to swallow me up creates within me a deep sense of eagerness. my arms yearn to be filled with those lovely souls who walked into my heart just as surely as i walked into thier world. i am hopeful that my hands and feet will serve well. i am confident that my spirit will be inexplicably filled. there is a figurative family awaiting me…one that has loved me so well and one i sincerely pray i, in return, am able to to offer even a portion of that love. a gladness rests within me.

tonight, at a backyard barbeque, i sat quietly. watching people i knew. i watched and i saw them laughing with one another, i saw them cramming hot dogs cradled in bread and smothered with mustard into their mouths, i saw them peeling labels off beer bottles and playfully throwing a small girl into the air. i watched as they met neighbors and talked to dogs. as i watched tonight i heard people talking about weddings and mexican vacations, i heard people talking about the weather and riding bikes. i saw friends and lovers. an ordinary night, for sure. tonight, at a backyard barbeque, i saw a figurative family christen a new picnic table. a sadness grew within me.

now i am sitting alone in my bedroom, puzzled. why does it seem safer to walk into another world than into a backyard? why have i chosen the role of a distant cousin in the figurative family? at what point did i decide it was better for this world if i chose to play small? when did i begin to believe that fading away is what others want me to do?

in seventeen days i get to board a plane and fly across the world and into another hemisphere. why is it that the girl i will be as i step off that plane is the girl i want to be here?

tonight i am regretful and deeply grateful. lonely and yet never alone. belonging and yet not fitting.

i wonder if this will always be me.

a muzzled me.

i have a list. a list of moments, people, feelings, and thoughts that i would like to write about. my mind is full of beautiful images. my heart is full of painful realities.  there are things inside of me that i am trying to understand. at least understand enough to get outside of me. alone at night, in the darkness of my room i lie on my back and wonder what it is that i want to say. i have been quiet for a long time. the silence has been necessary perhaps [although annoying, i'm well aware, to the reading type], but it has not been comfortable. i am comfortable when i speak. i am comfortable when words are loyal and i can properly arrange them. writing and share and creating with words gives me something to offer…and i want so badly to offer something. and lately i have offered nothing, it seems. i feel defeated and tired.

i feel defeated and tired, but i haven’t fought back. these past few months, in many ways, i have simply given up. i sit down, jot a few words, and feeling completely uncreative, i quit. i walk away.

this morning i battled. this morning i have sat for hours working persistently at writing something out. and it’s awful. it says nothing that i want to say. yet. it conjures up no image. so far. it’s a poor reflection of what’s inside of me. right now. but i’m encouraged. because somewhere inside of me i have become sick of it. sick of not knowing how to say anything. i’m ready to fight. to struggle. and i can’t wait to offer it.

soon.

soon my words will be here again. soon…

it probably is.

it’s on nights like tonight that i find myself dreaming. it’s as if i don’t really have much control over it – the dreaming – on nights like tonight. the wind is twirling around the house, so much so that the walls seem to be creaking in defense. the rain is hammering down, large raindrops splattering against the window leaving thick wide trails as they travel down the pane. the fire is dancing and crackling, creating a room filled with warmth and comfort. steam rises from my mug, sending autumnal scents wafting through the air. and on nights like tonight my mind floats into a dreamy place saturated with storybook images and romanticized notions. it probably is girlish and silly but i don’t care. i like nights like tonight. and even though it almost seems cruel, i like the intense sense of longing these nights create deep inside me…

on nights like tonight i picture myself in a big ol’ farmhouse, built hundreds of years ago. the house is quiet, and dark. only a few lights are lit throughout it, casting shadows and filling everything with coziness. there is a fire in the woodstove – a real one of sticks and logs and newspaper – and its heat radiates throughout. i’m curled up on the couch, smothered in a blanket. i’m probably writing or reading or simply staring at the flames flicker behind the small square window on the stove. with me in the room is the love of my life. whom i imagine i met later in life…when simplicity had become all i wanted. he smells the way the wind does when it comes rushing through the door on a cool winter morning. the dishwasher drums on quietly in the kitchen, reminding both of us of a meal just shared. we are quiet together, speaking only occasionally of the rain or the wind or the need to chop more firewood soon.

on nights like tonight i imagine myself walking, in warm wool socks, down a hallway of hard wood floors. i stop in a doorway to silently peek into a room lit softly by a half-moon nightlight. i hear the heavy breathing of a small child, and see the outline of her small body under a heavy quilt. the room is warm with her sleep and i tip-toe closer to her bedside. a small stuffed monkey [tattered and worn] lies on the floor. i pick it up and tuck it close by her side.

on nights like tonight i dream of a kitchen noisy with the clanging of pots and the chatter of familiar voices. i imagine a kitchen filled with old friends, the friends we’ve known for what seems like forever. a big ol’ loved dog underfoot. the small children making their way around on the floor serve as delightful entertainment for us, and we could watch them for hours. red wine fills stemless glasses and sloshes as they are picked up and placed down in between laughter. i can smell our meal cooking in the oven.

on nights like tonight i envision us lying in our bed, swallowed up by mounds of covers. breaking the silence, we begin to talk – sleepily and slowly – to one another. the warm summer sun beats down on us through the picture window on the wall, and we talk about what things might be attempted that day. we talk about going to the beach and mowing the lawn. we talk about finally getting those boxes of old stuff out of the garage. we talk about cutting the kids hair and tying up the green bean plants that have gotten out of control in the backyard. we lie there, warm and comfortable, talking about all the ordinary stuff our lives are filled with.

and it probably is silly and girlish, dreaming up these scenes in my mind on nights like this. it seems futile and pathetic to spend time in this fantasy land. but on nights like tonight, i don’t care. alone on evenings like this one i give in to the desire to imagine and hope for imperfectly perfect moments. i cast aside my usual striving to be independent and stoic. for just a moment tonight i allow myself to enter, guilt free, into a world that may or may not exist someday. and i think i have realized that the strongest draw to these thoughts is not their storybook qualities, but rather the small sliver of hope i hold that they could actually be possible.

it probably is girlish and silly…but i honestly don’t care. not on nights like tonight.

mungu ata kusaidia.

i used to love to take long drives. before the oil crisis and its unreasonable gas prices. before my conscious became green and i realized that caring for mother earth required more than a specific bucket for tin cans. before i had a more-than-full-time job. before i entered the glamour-free world of graduate studies. before all of it i used to love to take long drives. it started in high school on the afternoons when i just wasn’t ready to go home quite yet. those days when i needed to be quiet for a bit before i entered another environment which would beg my interaction. those driving times grabbed hold of me like a drug, and i continued the luxury beyond the days of my youth and into the early years of adulthood. i used to find solace in a few hours spent with only my thoughts and my favorite musical companions. alone in that car i was granted the freedom to cry out or just cry, to sing at the top of my lungs or smile at the beauty of the passing scene, to be courageous enough to hope or safe enough to fear. alone in that car i was free to ache without the guilt of how it affected others. those hours, smoothly tracing the county roads, gave room for my emotions to leak out. they gave room for my thoughts to settle and clarity to slide in.

today as i followed the winding path of the mount baker highway, i felt like i used to on my long drives. it was early morning. the dew was still frozen and covering the earth like a silver blanket. the gleaming light of the new sun was simultaneously harsh and gentle as it flooded everything. the colors in the hills tricked my mind into thinking the trees were on fire. the leaves literally danced in the center of the road in front of me. it was almost hypnotizing to watch them. as i looked in my mirror i could see that the passing of my car only sped their dance up. the world, in all its death, was radiating life. the music coming from my speakers was familiar and comforting. heading away from my literal family and towards my figurative family on this sunday morning, i was grateful for the quiet in between. in those forty-five minutes of twisting though the heart of autumn, i found solace in my own thoughts, the courage to hope and the safety to fear, the freedom to ache, and i sung at the top of my lungs.

and i thought about the chalkboard hanging in my bedroom. the chalkboard that i have written different collections of words on over the past year. it’s been used to remind me of questions, truths, and beauty. i thought about the words that have been resting on that chalkboard for the past two months: mungu ata kusaidia. this summer in tanzania there were a small number of volunteers who spent significant amounts of their time making home visits to people who were sick with, or dying of, AIDS. they would sit with them, talk with them, listen to their stories, attempt to comfort or offer temporary relief from their pain, and touch them. sounds basic enough, but in a world where having AIDS propels you into social exclusion – where you are no longer listened to or spoken to, where you are not offered comfort and never touched – these home visits were anything but basic. as the volunteers left each home, they would speak these words: mungu ata kusaidia. it’s the swahili version of God bless you, but literally translated it means God will help you.

my heart is weighted down. not weighted down in the sad, heavy, burdened sense. but rather, it’s weighted down because so much is resting there, in it, right now. last summer changed me. it must have. because i am in a new place. inside of myself i am in a new place. i have returned to a familiar home, but inside i am in a foreign land. seeing new things. feeling in new ways. believing differently. loving strangely. listening distinctively. i seem to be speaking a new language. i am at peace. i am hopeful. i am feeling brave. and my heart is weighted down. most of what’s resting in my heart is beautiful and warm, only small bits are sad. but all of it makes me ache.

and today, as i drove, i thought of the words written on my chalkboard, mungu ata kusaidia. in english we say, God bless you, but isn’t the blessing God’s help? God will help you. how nice to say that, to remind someone of that. when you’re grandparents bodies are betraying them and you don’t know how to not be completely sad about it, mungu ata kusaidia. when you feel yourself changing directions, and you’ve lost the map, mungu ata kusaidia. when you discover you might not be in love with someone, mungu ata kusaidia. when your country is in despair, mungu ata kusaidia. when your world is at war, mungu ata kusaidia. when you miss so much you physically hurt, mungu ata kusaidia. when you want desperately to tell the story of redemption to others, or even yourself, mungu ata kusaidia. when you forget, mungu ata kusaidia. when you see something so beautiful you want to remember it forever, mungu ata kusaidia. if you’re not sure you’re doing it right, mungu ata kusaidia. if you wish you loved better, mungu ata kusaidia. if you’re tired and want to quit, mungu ata kusaidia. if you’re full of life and want to keep going strong, mungu ata kusaidia. when you are feeling alone, mungu ata kusaidia. if you are an orphan in tanzania, mungu ata kusaidia. if you are rich, mungu ata kusaidia. if you think you may be falling in love, mungu ata kusaidia.

and I will keep those words on my chalkboard. because i believe they are reminding me of truth. that my God helps. and that is a blessing. and it may seem simple. offensively simple, almost. but i don’t care. as I drove the twisty road, watching the leaves dance and the earth glisten and the trees burn, my thoughts settled and clarity slid in. the place i am navigating these days is foreign because suddenly i am acutely aware of mungu ata kusaidia, God will help you. it’s coloring everything: my vision, my feelings, my words, my love, my beliefs. it’s coloring my peace and hope and courage. and most of it is beautiful and warm, only bits of it are sad.

but all of it makes me ache.

the first bite.

i remember a tuesday evening last winter [or, i suppose, it could have been spring - tuesday nights often get smooshed together in my head] when i sat out on the front steps of first presbyterian church with a friend after i had given a talk to a couple hundred college students. as i often feel on tuesday nights, i was irritated and sad because i hadn’t said what i wanted, or expressed what was inside of me very well. he listened patiently [as he did to many of my post-speaking, self-absorbed debriefings] as i babbled on about how i should probably quit speaking – because i clearly am not able and, quite frankly, i have nothing left to say. when i was done verbally throwing up on the sidewalk of garden street, my friend posed a question – do i really believe i have nothing to say or was there so much inside of me that i didn’t know how to share it? dang it, he was probably right.

for the past two weeks, i haven’t been able to type even one full paragraph before my mind switches tracks, my feelings want to be expressed differenly, and i start all over again: a new paragraph that never gets finished. it’s been frustrating and has left me exhausted, feeling as if perhaps i have nothing to say. i have shut my laptop and walked away numerous times, unsatisfied with my words and annoyed at their limits [or maybe, at my own]. and today, an old question is asking itself – do i really have nothing to say or is there so much inside of me that i don’t know how to share it? dang it, that’s probably it.

so, this afternoon, as the september sun is shining and the sounds of neighborhood children echo in the air, i will sit on my front porch and muster up the courage [and energy] to try. and i choose to be kind to myself today: to take small bites and chew carefully, to not expect myself to be able to say more than i am ready for, to honor the place where God is currently holding me by not forcing it past too quickly.

twenty-two days ago richard dropped me off at the kilmanjaro airport – in the same white van he had first picked mom and me up in two months earlier. i walked up to the ticket counter and through tear-filled eyes and a lumped throat checked myself in. “kuna matatizo gani?” the woman behind the counter asked. she wanted to know what the trouble was. “ninahuzuni,” [i am sad] i replied, “ninakupenda sana, tanzania” [i love tanzania very much]. she smiled and handed me my ticket. i remember wishing that the flight would be cancelled, or overbooked. but my wishes were left ungranted, and two hours later i was on a plane [the first in a very long line of planes] heading back to the world i had come from. a world filled with people i care deeply for, a job that has meant everything to me for nearly a decade, a beautiful home [complete with an adorable pug], and the promises of my favorite season. i am back now. i am sleeping in my own bed, going to the market on saturdays, walking to the grocery store and trying not to cry in front of the cashier, spending time with people i love, reading new books, going to work each day, catching up on political news, forcing myself to go to church [well, most of the time], drinking coffee, going to weddings, taking walks, showering every morning, going to the gym.

and this world isn’t mine anymore, not completely, not like it once was.

tomorrow.

two years ago i ended my year at the inn and i flew to skagway, alaska for the summer. i had signed up for alaska partly because a friend had convinced me, but mostly because i wanted the hell out of my life. i was tired of hurting, tired of regretting, tired of being me. i wanted to be somewhere where few knew me. i wanted to be somewhere that didn’t consantly remind me of the mistakes i had made. i wanted to be away from sadness. i wanted to skip out on the broken mess my life seemed to be. however, when the time came to actually get on the plane i freaked out. i didn’t want to go. i didn’t want to meet anyone new. i dreaded it with every fiber of my being. i was suddenly scared and felt very, very alone. i thought up millions of reasons why it was a bad idea. i wanted to quit before i had even ever left. but i went. i told myself i could always come home [and sort of expected i would], but i went. and something beautiful happened. i had still made mistakes. and i still knew about them. i was still sad, broken, alone, and hurt up there. but during those short ten weeks, from the puddle of shit i was sitting in, i saw redemption. God met me there in a way i had never experienced. surrounded by those snow-capped mountains and majestic glaciers, i breathed new air. i met new people who asked into my life, and slowly [so slowly] i learned to trust…and eventually i found rest in their company. riding my bike down the main street of town, with a six pack of beer under my arm, i felt the freedom of a child. driving up the hills to jump in an ice cold lake with a group of friends stirred in me a playfulness i had long-ago forgotten. sleeping outside under the stars i found quiet that comforted rather than loneliness that hurt. i watched as the hand of God touched each dark part of my life and, although still so messy, made it brilliant. eventually, i came home. and i had been made different. the work that had been done in that little alaskan town continued to touch everything. making it messier…but making it more.

tonight i find myself in a similar place. i have ended another year at the inn and i am about to fly off for the summer. tonight i am hurting. and sad. tonight i know the mistakes i have made. tonight i am broken. tonight i feel alone. and my life is still messy. and like two years ago, i feel a bit scared…mostly that things won’t ever change, that i won’t ever know how to chase the dark stuff away or find the courage to tell myself a new story. but something is very different tonight as well. i am not running. i am not wanting to skip out on my life. in fact, i think tonight i’m walking in the opposite direction. i don’t want to escape, i want to be present. i want to bring it all, and i want to be present.

so, i’ll fly to tanzania tomorrow. as a broken woman i’ll hold kids with broken lives. with a life rich with mistakes, i’ll make some more. as a lonely woman, i’ll play with children who’s families have left them. as someone scared that things won’t ever change, i’ll try to tell a new story. i’ll ask into other’s lives. i will continue to hurt, and i’ll share that with others. and i pray….”Lord, i want to be present.”

 

 

snapshots. [a collection of verbal images]

two months ago i traveled with 33 other people to jamaica…this is a collection of moments that i tried to capture along the way…

i don’t mind it so much here. the incessant beeping of my phone in an attempt to shake me from sleep doesn’t bother me here like it does back home. in fact, i am finding that i don’t even need it. my body seems to be beating the clock by at least five minutes each morning. the room is dark and heavy with warm, sleeping bodies…limbs peeking out from sheets and hanging over the bunks. i quickly shut the beeping off, not wanting to wake those around me…partly because i want to offer them the extra minutes of sleep, but mostly out of selfishness. i want the morning, the first few minutes of day, for myself. i have discovered the beauty in them, those minutes, and i don’t want to share. i sleepily find my towel, and quietly shuffle to the door. my body feels a bit sore, stiff from the mattress. i place my hand on the knob, and as i do my entire body swells with anticipation. my heart has pounded its way into my throat. my mouth strains to smile. my stomach churns and flutters a bit. i open the door and step out. i am enveloped by the glow. pulled into its warmth and comfort and peace. i breathe deeply the muggy air. i stand on the warming concrete and stretch my limbs as far as they can go. i bask in the silence. my eyes take in all the colors around me. the green of the trees, the blue of the sky, the brown dirt near my feet – all more vibrant, all more prickly because of the golden glow. i am in love with this glow. i am in love with this hope. this is the most holy moment of my day.

it’s his smile that captivates me. it seems to set everything right, even though it’s all wrong. we sit together on the floor of the dome. it’s bothering him again, that wound on his palm. i choke back tears as i try to scrub it clean. i’m angry that the first aid kit we brought only holds such limited supplies. i don’t know where the emotion is coming from. i don’t know why i want to hold him and cry. and i can’t, i can’t hold him and cry, and so i clean. and i make jokes. and i try to put a band-aid onto his sweaty little hand, knowing it won’t stay. he smiles at me, and i’m unable to stop it. it gently rolls down my cheek. i hop up, he slides his hand into mine, and we return to the game of cricket. i’m angry that a lousy little band-aid is all i have offer…

i’m glad to be here. i throw the pick over my shoulder and watch as it hits the ground, entering the orange, clay-like earth. i feel each muscle…left unused at home…work and groan as i move. there is honesty in this moment. something about using my hands and body, something about getting dirty and feeling the dryness in my skin, something about the sweat gathering at my hairline, something about the stillness of my thoughts – there’s an honesty in it. the truth flows from toiling and straining. the fibers of my muscles, the ache in my bones, and the weariness of my body can’t lie. there’s an honesty in this work, it’s different than what i’m used to…and i’m glad to be here.

i am grateful that cynicism does not plague me here. we don’t talk much in these moments. moments when time has stopped. hours pass by as we wait, and yet time is standing still. we don’t talk much. we choose, instead, to sing. all of us, loudly and beautifully, we lift our voices in praise. they mix together and i can’t tell one from another. we sing for hours, although time has ceased to exist. cynicism’s absence opens me up to this encounter.

we sit in a goofy looking circle. we gather together in the night air to be with one another. we’re warm and hungry. boxes and bags of snacks are making their way around, stopping in each set of hands, and they seem endless. people find courage during this time. they raise their hands and they offer stories. stories of who they are and where they’ve been. stories of pain and brokenness inside of them and inside this world. stories of healing and sometimes stories of the hope for healing. stories that evoke laughter. some are stories that have never been told, and some are stories that hadn’t been realized. i feel proud of them each. for the bravery they demonstrate as they trust and share, speak and listen. we are offering each other something beautiful here. the power of God in this circle of stories is frightening. the cool evening breeze blows chills through me…

i have been dreading this day. in fact, i wish we didn’t have to do it. i’m the only one who feels this way, though. everyone else is desperate to sink their feet in the sand. everyone else is eager to cast their bodies into the ocean. i have to admit it’s beautiful. tourism has left it untouched. the sand is white and the water is enticing as it laps the shore. they all discard their clothing and run with gusto into the waves. i am left behind battling the demons that seem to have made their home in the places where i store my beliefs. i think it’s been ten years. ten years since i have been in this place. showing so much of myself for all to see. in public. in daylight. i am so aware. i can feel each inch of myself and i want to crawl right out of my skin. i am paralyzed. i want to scream. i want to hide. i want to hate them for not being like me. and i hate myself for not being like them. standing under the shade of the beach hut, i am battling. i don’t know that this fight will ever end. i will swim today. i will walk along the beach and look at local art and clothing. i will lie next to the girls and bathe in the sun. but i will not be comfortable. i will not stop holding my breath. i will not forget. my body will remind me – with each step, each kick, and each brush of the wind – of its ugliness. i don’t know that this fight will ever end. i don’t know that I believe it can. yet.

i sat on the curb and i watched them. i saw them swinging the buckets to one another. i saw them shoveling the dirt and gravel into broken old wheelbarrows. i saw them wipe the sweat off their foreheads. i saw them offer water to each other from dusty old nalgenes. then i put my head into the palms of my hands, and i listened to them. i heard them laughing. i heard them talking. i heard the noise their shoes made as they walked in the dirt and gravel. i heard the girls shriek as the boys hosed them with water. i heard the sound of the buckets hitting their hands. i heard the shovels scraping the concrete. we were building a church. i pictured it, a couple years from now, filled with the people we had met this week: i saw the congregation singing together. i saw the children running around the place. i saw the pastor preaching and i heard the people “amen-ing.” i smelled the food they’d share with each other. we were building a church. and it made me glad to be a part of building that place. where people would grow together. where together they would struggle to figure out faith. where they would pray for one another. where the neighbors would be invited in. but as i watched, and as i listened, i saw and heard something else…i saw God was building his church. in the conversations, in the midst of the work, in the offering of water, in all of it…God was building his church. i suddenly felt very small, and all i could think to say was, “thank you.”