something new

We walked through the night, with no destination but somehow with purpose. We were there because neither of us thought we could be anywhere else. It was a night of introversion, I guess. And yet, the cool, summer air was too sweet and too compelling to keep us inside.

So we wandered until we found ourselves among some trees and enough grass to sprawl out in. And when we got there, that's what we did.

We threw our phones, wallets, and keys to the side and flopped down onto the grass. We looked at the stars that were still visible. The ones that were bright enough to not be erased by the light pollution of the city. We breathed slowly, allowing ourselves to really feel the grass between our fingers and our toes.

I tried to let that sensation and the sweet smell of the cut grass to carry me far away.

I tried to let it change me. To recreate me.

And when that seemed to fail, I tried to let it transform me back into who I used to be.

Who I used to be when?

I don't know. It didn't really matter. Just someone from before.

I think I just wanted to be reminded that some things can change us. And I wanted it to be something as simple as feeling the grass on my barefeet. I wanted that to be enough.

Because I know that people change. But I wonder if it's possible for me to be a dynamic character in my own life story without leaving the country or going through other huge life changes.

I remember a time when it was little things, like freshly mown grass, that would make me feel completely new, completely different.

So we spent some time trying to cartwheel. We caught a few lightning bugs. And we tried climbing lots of trees before finally succeeding.

And then we sat. Our feet sometimes dangling, sometimes resting against the dry, rough bark.

And for a few moments that night I thought we had succeeded.

I thought we had disappeared.

We were without phones, keys, money.

For a moment we were free again.

We were children again.

The sharp contrast under our feet--from the cool, soft grass to the dry, rough bark--was enough to make us feel alive.

And it all felt like enough. It was enough just to be alive, free and together.

Last week I went with a group on a missions trip to Haiti. This a short reflection written on the plane on our way back to the United States. 

The lines of the hills
remind me of the lines of 
my grandmother's face.
And that makes me recall how very deep our 
connection to the earth really is.
Time affects the land
and time affects our bodies.
And that is terrifying.
And that is beautiful.

And I see, then, the roads and houses.
Creations of man.
And I think about the garbage lining the streets.
And I think about the trees that were slaughtered
for the sake of "development."
And I wonder what God thinks about that word:
"Development"

Are we developing?
Are our creations--
our roads and our buildings
and our vehicles--
the definition of development?

Something in me is refusing to say
"Yes."

When I look at the land--
at the mountains and trees
and the oceans surrounding them--
my heart hurts.
Why does beauty break our hearts?

I wish I could ask God:
"Why did you create human beings?
And how are we so complex?"
Because when I think about humanity
I am dumbfounded.

How beautiful it is that beings capable of such deep love,
beings able to communicate
and empathize and be full of compassion,
how beautiful it is that such beings exist.

But then I look back at the earth.
And I see the folds in the mountains
And am reminded again
of my grandmother's wrinkles.
And then of all the wrinkles of all the aged.
And I see the roads and the houses
and I realize that this can't be development.
It's destruction.
And in the same way that humankind
has claimed authority over the land--
or rather has abused his authority--
he has also claimed and abused authority over his fellow man.

Her fellow woman.

And I wonder how we got here. 

Not just here on the earth.
But to this moment in time.
To a point where we are 
more concerned about hoarding 
as many objects and as much money as we can
than we are about another person's suffering.

How did we get here?

To a point where we can look at another human being
and somehow see less than that.

Today is Wednesday

Hi. Today is Wednesday. Tomorrow is Thursday and then it's Friday and then it's Saturday. That's how days work.

January happened. And then February. And then March and then April. Now it's May. That's how months work.

And on this coming Saturday in May my life is about to change...again. That's how life works.

The past four months, the past 109 days, I have spent living in Central America. I anticipated this semester changing me. But I didn't anticipate this. I didn't know my body, my heart, to be so expansive. I didn't know I could feel so much. I didn't know, before this semester, how distant I once was, and still must be, from my own fellow beings. Or from the dust from which I was first formed. I had seen beauty and I had known pain. But never had I seen such beauty as I saw in Sontule or at Atitlan. Never had I felt such pain as I did when I listened to Rogelio's testimony. I feel more alive that I ever have. This is what it means to be human.

Sometimes I feel really nervous about going home. Sometimes I get sad thinking that I am on the greatest adventure I will ever know. But the adventure doesn't end in three days with the conclusion of this program.

This semester has just been one chapter of my adventure. It will remain a part of me for the rest of my life. It will continue to shape me. The stories, the faces, the histories have become a part of me. I cannot be separated from this experience. I cannot be separated from my families in Central America. I cannot be separated from those who learned and grew with me. From those who taught me and led me. They are a part of who I have become. And though, throughout my life, I will inevitably change some more, still this experience will remain inextricable from my being. And for that I give thanks.

I wrote a letter to my future self for after I return to the States. It ends with the following. Among the memories I want to keep forever, among the knowledge I've gained, I also want to come home with this in mind:
"Don't stop feeling sad if you feel sad. And it's okay if you are happy. Breathe. And be thankful for that air. Breathe. And remember that you're one of many breathers. Breathe. And think about what you can do with your breath. With your life. With your privilege. Remember the kindness shown to you. Remember the love your families here had for you. Love like that.

Remember that you're not alone. That there are others out there crazy enough to want to try to change things. To believe that things can change.

Try not to forget these things. Keep pushing for change. Be foolish in loving people unconditionally.

And know that you're probably going to mess it up. But that's okay too. Every step is the way.

You will not be this person forever. But I hope you will remember this person."

I'm going to try to go home in the same way I came. That is, without expectations. With an open heart and open mind.

But now, also, with a sense of urgency and a sense of empowerment and hope. In each of these countries we have discovered that it has been university students who have been the ones initiating change, revolution. That's me. What am I doing? What structures am I going to challenge? How am I going to let the youth of these countries (past and present) inspire me to love the world, to work for justice, to become a more aware and active global and local citizen?

____________________________________________________________________

"My hope is not based on ideas. It's based on the youth. I know what is inside a young person. I hope that young people will take on the streets again to make history. I may not get to see a new Nicaragua, a new world. But I am certain that it is you who will create that new world even if I never get to see it." -Padre Fernando Cardenal

Carrying the Cross

What does it mean to call ourselves blessed? What do we mean when we consider ourselves to be blessed by God?

I feel blessed to be a part of so many beautiful communities.

I feel blessed to be able to go to school. And not just primary school. But secondary school. And now university.

I feel blessed to have access to food, and clean water, and health care.

I feel blessed to have the opportunity to travel.  To be here right now.

But to call these things blessings from God, I think, creates some kind of dichotomy.

Because how can we have a God who is LOVE but who has chosen to bless some while leaving others without basic necessities: food, water, clothing, housing, community, etc.?

I think that maybe it's time we stop calling our privilege a blessing and start calling it what it really is. Privilege.

I'm afraid that until we are willing to do this, and until we realize that God did not will some to be rich and others poor, we will remain complacent.

When we reject the idea that we have what God wants us to have--that everyone has what God has willed them to have--only then will we be able to truly start loving our neighbors as ourselves. Because only then will we truly grasp the injustice and horror of the inequality that exists in our world. Once we truly understand that the world is far from how it should be, we will be drawn into the mess of it all and we will (hopefully) feel convicted to join Christ in the building of his kingdom here on earth.

Our liberation is tied up with the liberation of every other human being. Until each person is free from oppression, violence, hunger, discrimination, injustice, we will not be free either.

I think that this is what it means to carry the cross of Christ. It means to love the ones society has deemed unlovable. To feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. Visit the imprisoned. But to not leave it at that. It is to deconstruct the power structures that are causing people to live in poverty, that are causing people to be deemed unlovable. It is rejecting our own positions of power, our security, to enter into love.

"When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist." 

-Helder Camara

Little Things

This is going to be a happy post! Because I want everyone to know that while this is really challenging and while I'm struggling a lot in hearing all of these stories, I'm also having fun!

We leave El Salvador on Saturday. That's crazy because that means we've been in Central America for about 9 weeks!

Here are some things that have happened in El Salvador that have been great and that I hope I don't forget about ever:

• I went surfing! We went to the ocean a couple of times and one of those times I got a surfing lesson and so now I've done that. I fell a few times. (Maybe more than a few). But I also rode a few waves in! 
• During one of our weekend trips, I lived in a host home with my friend Sophia and for dinner one night our host mom gave us papusas and chocobananos.  (A papusa is a tortilla filled with something such as beans and cheese, for example. A chocobanano is a chocolate covered banana.) It was probably the best meal ever.
• During that same weekend, I went crazy one night and started reenacting scenes from Forrest Gump, forcing friends in my group to also participate. So that was fun.
• On Sunday when we got back from that weekend trip we watched Forrest Gump together!



There he is!

• One night a man named Guillermo Cuellar, a musician and song writer (look him up! he's great!), came and sang us some really powerful songs. But also he told a lot of really funny stories. I'd share them, but I'd ruin them if I tried. Lo siento.

• I got a package from Jenny Brockman (who is so great) and it had peanut butter in it!! 
• During our first weekend that we stayed with a family (when I was in the San Antonio Abad community) Leah and I were listening to some sisters in our host family tell us about the war and about family members they lost and then all of a sudden one of the sisters said something really quickly (in Spanish, obviously) and then turned and walked away. So we thought we were supposed to follow her but then the other sisters chased us and told us that she needed to use the bathroom. So that was funny. And embarrassing. 
• I kicked my surfing instructor in the face a couple of times. Oops. Waves are stronger than me.
• As I was writing this, Jillian called my name from outside and so I went to the window and let down my long hair. Actually I just talked to her, but while I was doing that, my friend Julie quietly opened the door and then said my name in a creepy voice and then I was really afraid and I screamed. (She claims she knocked and said my name louder, but I'm skeptical.) Then Jillian came back upstairs and she and Julie started singing "I Like Big Butts." 



Alien.

• One night our room was invaded by "aliens." The aliens happened to be our friends who went crazy and put cups in their hair to make it really tall and said funny things in weird voices. 
•    I ate sugar cane.

See?

•  We went to a soccer game and had a photo shoot instead of watching. Oops. YOLO. (be my friend still, please.) 

 It looks like we were paying attention, but it was totally staged.
We're really funny.

There are other things I'm sure I'm leaving out. But these are some notable moments of joy. I'm thankful to be with a group of people who can be silly but who also enjoy talking about justice and how we can change things. That brings me joy too. They bring me joy.

"So much has been destroyed"

"...My heart is moved by all I cannot save;

so much has been destroyed

I have to cast my lot with those

who age after age, perversely,

with no extraordinary power,

reconstitute the world."

-Adrienne Rich

I think all of the doubts and questions and frustrations that I’ve been wrestling with all month finally boiled over on Saturday while we listened to a man named Rogelio share his testimony about a massacre that he survived which happened near his village in 1983.  He was nine years old at the time and he shared with us multiple stories about his time in the hands of the military.  He talked about how mothers who had their babies with them didn’t have food to give them and so their babies would cry.  The soldiers would tell the mothers to keep their kids quiet or else they would kill them and so many mothers put cloths in the mouths of their babies to try to quiet them, but by doing so ended up suffocating their own children.  He told us that one day the soldiers came in the room and asked the people if they were hungry and when they responded yes the soldiers took a bag of bread out of their backpacks to show the people in the room and then leave without giving them any so that they could go eat it.  Then they came back and asked if they were hungry again and again the people responded yes.  Rogelio and one other child were given permission to find some leaves for the people in the room to eat but because the people had not eaten in so long the leaves caused them all to vomit.  Then the soldiers laughed at them and told them, “You’re going to die of hunger because we’re not going to give you any food.”  Rogelio told us that a few days later he found his sister and aunt and their first thought was, “If they’re going to kill us, at least they’ll kill us together." But then his aunt and his sister were killed and Rogelio was alone again. 

As I listened to his story I just began weeping. I wondered what kind of God would create a world in which these kinds of things could happen.  I started thinking about how life often feels like some kind of sick game where some are winning, some are dying and the rest of us are caught in between.  Are we being tested? Does suffering exist as a test to see if we’ll respond?  When will this test end because I think we proved a long time ago that we fail?  How many more people are going to have to die? 

 Because while so many of the things we are hearing are stories of the past, there are still people dying from hunger and from diseases of all sorts. There are people still being tortured and killed.  Innocent civilians being caught in the crossfire of wars between nations.  And I thought about how I don’t know if it would be worse for there to be no God at all—for this whole world to be an accident.  Or for there to be a God who isn’t weeping at the condition of the world.  A passive God who is sitting in the clouds watching all of this pan out.  And finally I wondered about the faith and unconditional love of the people here. Rogelio told us about one man in the military who gave him a plastic bag and a water bottle and in that moment Rogelio realized that maybe there were good men there too. Even after seeing the horrific deeds done by this man, Rogelio was able to still see his humanity. After Rogelio’s testimony, Mercedes, a woman from the community, had us all stand together in a circle and pray.  How do they still pray? How do they still believe that there is a God and that he is good?

It’s sometimes embarrassing to identify myself as a Christian because so much of what Christianity has been is a justification for oppression and violence and discrimination.  And before this class I often attributed these things to the work of humans, the work of the Church.  But this class has challenged that in multiple ways, specifically through our reading of Native American interpretations of the Bible.  In one article  that we read titled, “Canaanites, Cowboys, and Indians,” the author talks about “God the conqueror.”  He writes, “As long as people believe in the Yahweh of deliverance, the world will not be safe from Yahweh the conqueror."  How can we reconcile the God of the Exodus, the God who commands the Israelites to “mercilessly annihilate the indigenous population” with the God who is Love, with the suffering, persecuted Christ?  The day we discussed this in class, we also discussed that because of this, the Native Americans cannot accept the same liberation theology.  And I started wondering if we all have our own theologies and if that’s okay.  Am I creating my own version of God that makes me happy?  Is God thus becoming an idol of some sort for me?  But then I thought about how I don’t know if I want to believe in a God who conquers.  A God who glorifies some and destroys others.  Maybe I'm picking and choosing. Maybe that's dangerous. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I hope I'm just not getting something. 

While I’ve been wrestling with all of these things, I’ve also experienced a lot of hope and a lot of resurrection.  I think that’s one of the beautiful things about liberation theology—it is painful and challenging but it’s only in embracing death that we are able to experience resurrection.  Another article we read titled, "Women and the Theology of Liberation” reminded me that though I cannot understand the God of the Old Testament, I can look at the example of Jesus.  As I struggle with the oppression of women in society, I find hope in the reminder that “Jesus’ attitude toward women was never discriminatory, however radical a break with the traditions of his time he saw this to be."  And again, “Those Jesus calls to build his reign are in the first instance the disinherited, the marginalized, the excluded.  Among them are women, children, pagans, and sinners.  Jesus prefers hem because he discovers unknown, neglected values in them. It is a simple fact, attested by all four gospels, that the good news of Jesus includes women in the community called to build his reign."  And so I have also been affirmed in my understanding of Jesus as a loving, radical human being who came not just to die but to show us how to live.

I worship a suffering God.  A God who was thrown on the cross because of his commitment to love and justice and equality.  This class has challenged this belief while also affirming it and in the midst of my doubts and questions, I’m discovering what it means and looks like to be actively broken-hearted. 

The Chains of Injustice

This weekend we all paired up and went into different base church communities throughout El Salvador. My site ended up being San Antonio Abad which is located in San Salvador, so I didn't have to travel too far. We were kind of just dropped off at our host home without too much knowledge about what we were supposed to be doing or expecting this weekend. The weekend proved to be challenging for a variety of reasons.

The first was that although we spent four weeks taking one-on-one, five hour a day Spanish classes, the language barrier still exists. The accent here is incredibly different than what we heard in Guatemala and our host family was convinced that we were fluent, I think.

This obviously presented some issues. Mostly, I think Lia and I were just frustrated with ourselves. The family we stayed with is so beautiful and they were so generous and hospitable and open. It was really difficult to realize that these women were sharing things that are really, really close to their hearts with us. They were telling us about the deaths of their parents and their brothers. They were telling us about the fear that they lived with as children, simply because their families were involved in the church. Or as our professor put it, “These people didn't have weapons in their pockets, but they had ideas in their heads.”  These women poured out their hearts to us and we were able to pick up some things, but we missed so much and had to just nod our heads and pretend that we understood their stories.

Today we came back to the guest house that we’re all staying in together and we shared our experiences with everyone else. The stories everywhere were so similar. I’m realizing that nearly (if not every) person we've met or are meeting has lost someone due to the internal conflicts of their countries. Every person.

Communities that had populations of 12,000 people now have populations of 3,000.

Families are spread out across the world because people were so unsafe that they had to leave the country.

Nearly 3 million Salvadorans live outside of the country.

I realized, today, how much I've been hardening my heart to the stories and the people.  I've been justifying that by saying that it’s necessary because otherwise I’ll be crying all of the time.

And I think that’s probably still kind of reasonable because I’m not going to be able to do anything if I’m just crying.

But maybe right now, while I’m here to just learn and listen, maybe I should be crying all of the time. Maybe I should be sitting in the ashes, weeping, crying out to God with these people who are teaching me, sharing with me.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just saying this because I want to feel like there is something I can do.

 And believe me, I can cry.

I don’t know. It’s really, really difficult to try to process all of these stories. I feel heavy. And I’m afraid I’m becoming calloused. And while I’m afraid of that, I kind of desire it. Because it hurts to hear these people tell me about their families and friends who have been murdered.

I guess I’m trying to find hope in the fact that these communities still believe that there is a God and that He is good. I’m trying to find hope in the fact that the people who were murdered in the conflict are not being forgotten but are being raised up as martyrs to inspire communities to continue the fight for justice and change. I’m trying to find hope in the fact that even though the weapons used to kill their family members were very likely paid for by my government, they still are sharing their lives with me.

I’m trying to find hope in the fact that these are the words of my God:

Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen:

to loose the chains of injustice

and untie the cords of the yoke,

to set the oppressed free

and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—

when you see the naked to clothe them, and not turn away from your own flesh and blood?

--Isaiah 58:6-7