When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, “Why are you untying it?” just say this: “The Lord needs it.” ’ So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, ‘Why are you untying the colt?’ They said, ‘The Lord needs it.’ Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,
‘Blessed is the king
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!’
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’ He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.’
As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.’
Then he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling things there; and he said, ‘It is written,
“My house shall be a house of prayer”;
but you have made it a den of robbers.’
Every day he was teaching in the temple. The chief priests, the scribes, and the leaders of the people kept looking for a way to kill him; but they did not find anything they could do, for all the people were spellbound by what they heard.
Luke 19:29-48
Out of all of the activities that I had over Holy Week here in Misiones, Argentina, what stands out most to me is the Bible Study I was a part of in Olas Petri, the Lutheran church in Oberá (where I worship when I don’t have activities in San Martin or Caa-Yari) the Tuesday before Palm Sunday. We read the text of Luke 19:29-48, the text always read during Palm Sunday. Except we read further than I have ever heard the text read in the Presbyterian churches in the U.S.A.
Why did I not remember that after Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, Jesus cleanses the temple? All of the people were in the streets, shouting Hosanna, asking Jesus to save them. Yet, where were they just a while later when Jesus cleansed the temple? Were the people really ready to do what needed to be done to be saved and to save others? We, the people of God, look to our Messiah to save us, but are we ready to do the actions needed in order for us to have world peace and God’s kingdom on earth? Are we ready to make the necessary changes? Or, would we prefer to point the finger at the one who tells us what actions need to be changed and say, “Crucify him!”? Are we ready to make personal choices that can create peace and justice?
As world citizens and Christians, with all kinds of power, including consumer power, are we ready to make choices that affect the world? Are we ready to make choices and actions that create the world we want to live in?
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
March Newsletter - Laura in India
"Doris the Dell"
I had debated on bringing Doris to India. She's been a loyal friend;
logging in many late nights in college with papers and exams, staying
awake with me while I plugged away at emails, and with only a stubborn
'm' key, she's never given me trouble. For being a five-year old,
simple laptop, I can only give Doris, my Dell computer, praise. She's
a trooper, but, could she make the journey to India? Even more,
should she? I spent many pre-India hours debating the issue. I was
coming to India to live simply; I have voiced with my friends our need
to live in solidarity with the poor. Would bringing Doris only
contradict this mission? Would my voice of solidarity be frosted with
hypocracy if Doris was strapped under my arm?
After advice from friends and previous volunteers, they all encouraged
Doris' trek. She would be helpful, they insisted, in pre-writing
emails and newsletters and she'd provide music of home to ward off
homesickness. So, finally, I folded. The selling point was a
friend's observation: keep Doris in my room, not advertise that I had
a computer, and remember she was there for convenience, not necessity.
Ah, Doris' journey was justified.
The first months were successful in keeping Doris' presence unknown.
At night, we'd jam out to tunes, upload pictures and enjoy one
another's company. During the day, she'd sit idly in my room, waiting
for my return. I kept her sleeping as much as possible, to remember
the simplicity I had promised myself, and felt quite pleased with her
private existence.
That was until a friend was preparing a presentation, but the DVD she
needed refused to play on any of the machines. She was stressed, and
running out of options. I immediately thought of Doris. But, I
hesitated. If I expose her, then what? Will my ideals of simplicity
be simply blown away? Would the guilt I was trying to justify finally
surface? Would I become that fancy-dancy American, feeling good with
her charity work while basking in the glories of expensive luxuries?
But, my friend was stressed, and I knew I could help. I took a deep
breath, and mentioned Doris.
"Really??!?!!"
She was overjoyed. I brought the laptop to her office and we tried
the DVD. Pure success. (Like I had any doubts...come on, it's Doris)
That Saturday, I brought the laptop to the community hall and showed
a room full of underprivileged children a movie. Throughout the film
I felt encouraged by Doris' new role. Perhaps she could be a
technological tool: I could use her to assist in events and lectures,
ones that needed the convenience and flexibility a laptop can bring.
What I didn't realize was while I was justifying Doris' use, word was
spreading quickly of her presence.
Not too many days later, a few wardens approached me in hopes to
borrow the computer to transfer music onto their cellphones. I felt
trapped. They knew Doris existed. They knew of her capabilities.
They knew I had no excuse.
"Suuuuuuuuurrrrrrrre," I drawled out. "That'd be ffffffiiiiinnnnne, I
guesssssss," hoping that my hesitation would drop a hint.
Nope. No hint caught. So, I let Doris go for the evening. Her first
sleepover. It would be lie to say I was not lonely that night.
But, she came back in good spirits the next morning, and I was feeling
better and better about her open and known existence. The wardens
were comfortable and respectful in asking to borrow her and my friend
requested Doris' presence at other community functions. I've even
watched the confidence in the girls rise, the more I give them Doris.
They know how to start movies, open various documents and music, and
we've even begun typing lessons. I've learned a lot about sharing
this year, so Doris' active involvement in our community, I thought,
was becoming a symbol of this new learning.
Then it hit.
I didn't expect it. I didn't even see it coming. It just hit.
My true nature.
It snuck up on me, and hit me. Hard.
Doris was being passed from one person to the next. I don't think she
came home for almost a week straight. She was with the wardens, then
with the girls. Back and forth, back and forth she went. Getting
tired of this shenanagens and wanting her home for some R&R, I had
left her with the girls one afternoon, and told them I'd pick her up
by night. So, as I walked up the stairs, I was not surprised to see
the back of 11 heads huddled around a desk. They were watching
another movie. Doris was doing what she does best, and the girls took
full advantage of it. I stopped midway up, though, and snapped:
What is this?, I thought. Another movie? Are you kidding me? Here I
openly give them Doris to use, and they just milk it for all its
worth. I can't believe this! She's mine. I have not had Doris for
days, and here they are using her again. I know sharing is a
beautiful thing of God, but come on. Really. She's mine. I paid for
her. I counted bugs and delivered newspapers for a summer so I could
buy her. I've done the hard work. She's mine. Not yours....
And as quickly as my tantrum came, I realized who was talking. My
greed. My selfishness. My jealousy. My life of power and privilege,
my real understanding of sharing, was coming to the surface. When I
have something to give, I'll give it, until I want to stop. I'll
share, but I'll keep the power of that sharing. I'll stay in power
and keep the freedom to exercise that power when and how I want. And
you. You will learn to be grateful for my generosity.
I was drenched in "I"s and "me"s.
And I was ashamed.
I paused long enough to see the beauty and richness of the scene in
front of me. 11 girls, who, with Doris, have the freedom to watch a
movie when they want. 11 girls who are learning to be self-sufficient
with a computer. 11 girls who live in a world of technology, yet do
not have daily access to exercise their technological knowledge. But,
at least with Doris, they were getting a taste. And best of all, they
were treating Doris as if she was their own. As it should be. What
is mine is yours. Openly and Freely.
So, it dawned on me, what if I had not brought Doris? What if Doris
stayed at home? I remembered what almost kept Doris in America was my
search of solidarity; my need for simplicity. But the actualization
of what I considered 'simple' was a denying of what I actually had:
great access and great freedom to share. Not out of boast or charity,
but from simple understanding and responsibility to get to my
neighbors what is theirs.
There is truth, honor and a desperate need to walk the footsteps of
our fellow man. To try and understand the life lived by others. But
living in solidarity does not mean negating the fact that you've been
given privilege; it's not about denying your circumstance. It's about
mutual enrichment: uplifting those under society's pressure and
degrading atmospheres, while realizing the equalization of the human
race.
I may have worked that summer for Doris, but it was not for myself.
It was so she could be in the hands of all her rightful owners.
I had debated on bringing Doris to India. She's been a loyal friend;
logging in many late nights in college with papers and exams, staying
awake with me while I plugged away at emails, and with only a stubborn
'm' key, she's never given me trouble. For being a five-year old,
simple laptop, I can only give Doris, my Dell computer, praise. She's
a trooper, but, could she make the journey to India? Even more,
should she? I spent many pre-India hours debating the issue. I was
coming to India to live simply; I have voiced with my friends our need
to live in solidarity with the poor. Would bringing Doris only
contradict this mission? Would my voice of solidarity be frosted with
hypocracy if Doris was strapped under my arm?
After advice from friends and previous volunteers, they all encouraged
Doris' trek. She would be helpful, they insisted, in pre-writing
emails and newsletters and she'd provide music of home to ward off
homesickness. So, finally, I folded. The selling point was a
friend's observation: keep Doris in my room, not advertise that I had
a computer, and remember she was there for convenience, not necessity.
Ah, Doris' journey was justified.
The first months were successful in keeping Doris' presence unknown.
At night, we'd jam out to tunes, upload pictures and enjoy one
another's company. During the day, she'd sit idly in my room, waiting
for my return. I kept her sleeping as much as possible, to remember
the simplicity I had promised myself, and felt quite pleased with her
private existence.
That was until a friend was preparing a presentation, but the DVD she
needed refused to play on any of the machines. She was stressed, and
running out of options. I immediately thought of Doris. But, I
hesitated. If I expose her, then what? Will my ideals of simplicity
be simply blown away? Would the guilt I was trying to justify finally
surface? Would I become that fancy-dancy American, feeling good with
her charity work while basking in the glories of expensive luxuries?
But, my friend was stressed, and I knew I could help. I took a deep
breath, and mentioned Doris.
"Really??!?!!"
She was overjoyed. I brought the laptop to her office and we tried
the DVD. Pure success. (Like I had any doubts...come on, it's Doris)
That Saturday, I brought the laptop to the community hall and showed
a room full of underprivileged children a movie. Throughout the film
I felt encouraged by Doris' new role. Perhaps she could be a
technological tool: I could use her to assist in events and lectures,
ones that needed the convenience and flexibility a laptop can bring.
What I didn't realize was while I was justifying Doris' use, word was
spreading quickly of her presence.
Not too many days later, a few wardens approached me in hopes to
borrow the computer to transfer music onto their cellphones. I felt
trapped. They knew Doris existed. They knew of her capabilities.
They knew I had no excuse.
"Suuuuuuuuurrrrrrrre," I drawled out. "That'd be ffffffiiiiinnnnne, I
guesssssss," hoping that my hesitation would drop a hint.
Nope. No hint caught. So, I let Doris go for the evening. Her first
sleepover. It would be lie to say I was not lonely that night.
But, she came back in good spirits the next morning, and I was feeling
better and better about her open and known existence. The wardens
were comfortable and respectful in asking to borrow her and my friend
requested Doris' presence at other community functions. I've even
watched the confidence in the girls rise, the more I give them Doris.
They know how to start movies, open various documents and music, and
we've even begun typing lessons. I've learned a lot about sharing
this year, so Doris' active involvement in our community, I thought,
was becoming a symbol of this new learning.
Then it hit.
I didn't expect it. I didn't even see it coming. It just hit.
My true nature.
It snuck up on me, and hit me. Hard.
Doris was being passed from one person to the next. I don't think she
came home for almost a week straight. She was with the wardens, then
with the girls. Back and forth, back and forth she went. Getting
tired of this shenanagens and wanting her home for some R&R, I had
left her with the girls one afternoon, and told them I'd pick her up
by night. So, as I walked up the stairs, I was not surprised to see
the back of 11 heads huddled around a desk. They were watching
another movie. Doris was doing what she does best, and the girls took
full advantage of it. I stopped midway up, though, and snapped:
What is this?, I thought. Another movie? Are you kidding me? Here I
openly give them Doris to use, and they just milk it for all its
worth. I can't believe this! She's mine. I have not had Doris for
days, and here they are using her again. I know sharing is a
beautiful thing of God, but come on. Really. She's mine. I paid for
her. I counted bugs and delivered newspapers for a summer so I could
buy her. I've done the hard work. She's mine. Not yours....
And as quickly as my tantrum came, I realized who was talking. My
greed. My selfishness. My jealousy. My life of power and privilege,
my real understanding of sharing, was coming to the surface. When I
have something to give, I'll give it, until I want to stop. I'll
share, but I'll keep the power of that sharing. I'll stay in power
and keep the freedom to exercise that power when and how I want. And
you. You will learn to be grateful for my generosity.
I was drenched in "I"s and "me"s.
And I was ashamed.
I paused long enough to see the beauty and richness of the scene in
front of me. 11 girls, who, with Doris, have the freedom to watch a
movie when they want. 11 girls who are learning to be self-sufficient
with a computer. 11 girls who live in a world of technology, yet do
not have daily access to exercise their technological knowledge. But,
at least with Doris, they were getting a taste. And best of all, they
were treating Doris as if she was their own. As it should be. What
is mine is yours. Openly and Freely.
So, it dawned on me, what if I had not brought Doris? What if Doris
stayed at home? I remembered what almost kept Doris in America was my
search of solidarity; my need for simplicity. But the actualization
of what I considered 'simple' was a denying of what I actually had:
great access and great freedom to share. Not out of boast or charity,
but from simple understanding and responsibility to get to my
neighbors what is theirs.
There is truth, honor and a desperate need to walk the footsteps of
our fellow man. To try and understand the life lived by others. But
living in solidarity does not mean negating the fact that you've been
given privilege; it's not about denying your circumstance. It's about
mutual enrichment: uplifting those under society's pressure and
degrading atmospheres, while realizing the equalization of the human
race.
I may have worked that summer for Doris, but it was not for myself.
It was so she could be in the hands of all her rightful owners.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
March Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
The word on the street these days is “leadership.” In the past month, it has come up in scholarship applications, discussions with other volunteers, congregational development projects, and even in my newsletter prompt for the month. It´s a huge theme – really, how does one condense the idea of leadership, even in the specific context of a cross-cultural environment, into a congregation-friendly newsletter essay?
If you´re me, the answer is to talk about work. One of my assorted jobs this year has been assisting, and over the past few months, leading, the Wednesday evening Old Testament Bible Study at the church. I´ve no doubt mentioned the Bible Study, and its distinct tendency towards the less-than-normal, before – this, after all, is the only Bible Study in which I´ve participated that has involved questions about the color of the Holy Spirit, as well as whether or not the creation story in Genesis discusses the seven chakras. As Wilma has said to me on at least one occasion, it doesn´t matter that I haven´t been to seminary when it comes to this Bible study – they just don´t teach classes that prepare you for answering, with a straight face, an honest inquiry as to whether or not the Holy Spirit is a white light or a purple light.
It is, in some ways, impossible to prepare for the study. There is no telling what the participants will bring to the table or, for that matter, who the participants will be. Apart from choosing the text (helped by a guide through the Old Testament) and familiarizing myself with its contents, context, and themes, I can only go in on the proverbial wing and a prayer, ready to be surprised. And I´m the LEADER.
I am finding that the only way to lead a Bible study, and perhaps lead in general, is to engage in dialogue. Without conversation, there is nothing – no safe space is created, nobody shares, nobody grows. It would turn into a monologue as I pour out four years of theological and historical education, and no matter how interesting a monologue it might be, it would nonetheless be just a lecture, a top-down, unilateral exchange of information - Kevin Baker, the learned biblical expert, sharing his knowledge of the Holy Writ. No matter how much I know, I can never know enough to warrant placing myself in that position, especially when it comes to a matter of spirituality. If I were to place myself as the learned master pouring out from the deep well of knowledge for the benefit, then I would do no good to anyone or anything except for my ego.
In my very first month as a student at TLU, I was required to read a selection from Paolo Freire´s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Freire was a Brazilian educator and champion of social justice who devoted much of his life and work to teaching illiterate adults how to read. He identified two models for teaching, learning, and (I´ll make the extension) leadership – the banking model and the dialogical model. In the former, one person gives knowledge, the other receives, and that´s that. Think about your worst class in high school; chances are, the teacher presented material this way. It had nothing to do with your context, interests, or needs; it was just information to be crammed into your head. The dialogical model takes the opposite approach – the teacher is a part of a circle rather than the exalted master, the community takes an active role in its own learning through questions, contextualization, and…dialogue. It is in the talking about what´s being learned – how it relates to people´s lives and needs, what´s easy and what´s hard about it, why they´re learning and wanting to learn – that the true learning takes place…and learning is, after all, transformation.
It´s transformative for the teacher, too. I´m not so arrogant as to view myself as a fabulous example of dialogical leadership, but it´s something I value and strive toward, and I have yet to leave a Bible study here without coming away with new insights and new questions. In fact, I will go on record and say that this is the first Bible study in which I´ve participated in (in the sense of studies with a group, regular meeting time, etc. outside of the confines of an official classroom) which I have not been bored, felt unchallenged, and been attending for strictly social reasons. And it´s all in the conversation.
So, in Bible study, we talk. We talk about how the cleansing of Naaman the leper relates to social class in 21st century Uruguay; we talk about how Elisha and the widow´s oil gives all of us at Nuestro Salvador a model for ministry; we talk about how the sufferings of the Messiah in Isaiah 53 are repeated every day in acts of domestic violence. As we share, we all grow and learn. I can bring to the table what I know from class, other people bring what they know from their own training and work, and we all bring our life experiences. After an hour or better of talking – about history and geography, theology and psychology, last week´s rough times at work and this week´s concerns about sick friends and family, how we´ve seen God in suffering and how we´ve seen God in life´s blessings – we´ve done something far more important than learn about the layers of symbolism in Hosea´s account of his adulterous wife. We´ve formed a community.
I shy away from calling myself the leader of this group. I am a leader in the sense that I do the official planning, but once we all sit down and start reading, I´m just another person in the circle. Maybe this form of leadership hasn´t built empires or Fortune 500 companies, but it´s built faith, and it´s built relationships. At the end of the day, I´ll take faith, relationships, and the little blessings of life over the empires and stock portfolios and never once think twice about the choice.
If you´re me, the answer is to talk about work. One of my assorted jobs this year has been assisting, and over the past few months, leading, the Wednesday evening Old Testament Bible Study at the church. I´ve no doubt mentioned the Bible Study, and its distinct tendency towards the less-than-normal, before – this, after all, is the only Bible Study in which I´ve participated that has involved questions about the color of the Holy Spirit, as well as whether or not the creation story in Genesis discusses the seven chakras. As Wilma has said to me on at least one occasion, it doesn´t matter that I haven´t been to seminary when it comes to this Bible study – they just don´t teach classes that prepare you for answering, with a straight face, an honest inquiry as to whether or not the Holy Spirit is a white light or a purple light.
It is, in some ways, impossible to prepare for the study. There is no telling what the participants will bring to the table or, for that matter, who the participants will be. Apart from choosing the text (helped by a guide through the Old Testament) and familiarizing myself with its contents, context, and themes, I can only go in on the proverbial wing and a prayer, ready to be surprised. And I´m the LEADER.
I am finding that the only way to lead a Bible study, and perhaps lead in general, is to engage in dialogue. Without conversation, there is nothing – no safe space is created, nobody shares, nobody grows. It would turn into a monologue as I pour out four years of theological and historical education, and no matter how interesting a monologue it might be, it would nonetheless be just a lecture, a top-down, unilateral exchange of information - Kevin Baker, the learned biblical expert, sharing his knowledge of the Holy Writ. No matter how much I know, I can never know enough to warrant placing myself in that position, especially when it comes to a matter of spirituality. If I were to place myself as the learned master pouring out from the deep well of knowledge for the benefit, then I would do no good to anyone or anything except for my ego.
In my very first month as a student at TLU, I was required to read a selection from Paolo Freire´s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Freire was a Brazilian educator and champion of social justice who devoted much of his life and work to teaching illiterate adults how to read. He identified two models for teaching, learning, and (I´ll make the extension) leadership – the banking model and the dialogical model. In the former, one person gives knowledge, the other receives, and that´s that. Think about your worst class in high school; chances are, the teacher presented material this way. It had nothing to do with your context, interests, or needs; it was just information to be crammed into your head. The dialogical model takes the opposite approach – the teacher is a part of a circle rather than the exalted master, the community takes an active role in its own learning through questions, contextualization, and…dialogue. It is in the talking about what´s being learned – how it relates to people´s lives and needs, what´s easy and what´s hard about it, why they´re learning and wanting to learn – that the true learning takes place…and learning is, after all, transformation.
It´s transformative for the teacher, too. I´m not so arrogant as to view myself as a fabulous example of dialogical leadership, but it´s something I value and strive toward, and I have yet to leave a Bible study here without coming away with new insights and new questions. In fact, I will go on record and say that this is the first Bible study in which I´ve participated in (in the sense of studies with a group, regular meeting time, etc. outside of the confines of an official classroom) which I have not been bored, felt unchallenged, and been attending for strictly social reasons. And it´s all in the conversation.
So, in Bible study, we talk. We talk about how the cleansing of Naaman the leper relates to social class in 21st century Uruguay; we talk about how Elisha and the widow´s oil gives all of us at Nuestro Salvador a model for ministry; we talk about how the sufferings of the Messiah in Isaiah 53 are repeated every day in acts of domestic violence. As we share, we all grow and learn. I can bring to the table what I know from class, other people bring what they know from their own training and work, and we all bring our life experiences. After an hour or better of talking – about history and geography, theology and psychology, last week´s rough times at work and this week´s concerns about sick friends and family, how we´ve seen God in suffering and how we´ve seen God in life´s blessings – we´ve done something far more important than learn about the layers of symbolism in Hosea´s account of his adulterous wife. We´ve formed a community.
I shy away from calling myself the leader of this group. I am a leader in the sense that I do the official planning, but once we all sit down and start reading, I´m just another person in the circle. Maybe this form of leadership hasn´t built empires or Fortune 500 companies, but it´s built faith, and it´s built relationships. At the end of the day, I´ll take faith, relationships, and the little blessings of life over the empires and stock portfolios and never once think twice about the choice.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Acting 4 England Midwinter Newsletter - Kristin in the UK
Breaking Down the Barriers
"Well, I don't think he's a converted Christian," she said as she poured me a cup of tea.
The statement took me by surprise, especially since it was made by someone who considers herself a Christian leader in our community. It was also hurtful because the person she was talking about is someone who is very dear to me, and has shown me great kindness and hospitality. I really couldn't think of anything to say but "Oh-right," and simply nod my head.
I walked away from that evening puzzled and very upset. How can we really say who is and who is not a Christian? Is it because one has not given a particular kind of public testimony? Is it because one has not claimed to have 'accepted Jesus as one's personal Lord and Savior,' as others have?
The 'unconverted Christian' is one of the kindest people I have met in England. He may not be particularly vocal about his faith but he attends worship every Sunday and is a strong financial contributor to the church.
The word 'Christian' is a very popular word for those who associate with the church and declare themselves Christians in the UK. I have heard numerous people use this word in their vocabulary, "He's not a Christian," "When I became a Christian…," "I don't think we should go because it's not Christian" Every time I hear these comments, I want to say "SO? Why does it matter if they are Christian or not?"
When I first arrived in England, many people asked me "When did you become a Christian?" and my common response has always been "22 years ago when I was baptized as a Child of God."
After living here for six months, I have realized that the use of the word "Christian" is sometimes used as much to divide and condemn, as it is to proclaim good news and bring healing. While much of England's history is associated with the Church, it is not surprising, given this judgmental version of Christianity, that a great majority of people in the UK have no connection with any religion or the Church.
This term, Act 4 is going into schools teaching children the importance of breaking down barriers and communicating with those who are different than you. Working with an organization called Through the Roof, which works with disabled people; we tell the story of the two friends who take the paralyzed man to see Jesus. Our message during the assembly is to make sure that we do not build walls to condemn others or divide ourselves from them, and if those barriers arise that we do all we can to knock them down.
As I read the Gospel, Jesus often had words of judgment for people who were pious and ready to condemn others, and, more often than not, He built bridges of love and acceptance to people perceived as sinners and the unconverted.
I have a diverse group of friends whom I love and absolutely adore. Some of them are affiliated with a church or religion and many of them do not associate themselves with any sort of religion.
It seems that some Christians who talk the talk, don't always walk the walk, even as those who are not particularly vocal about their faith or claim any faith sometimes act more Godly and Christ-like. Maybe St. Francis said it best, "Preach Good News all the time. When you need to, use words.
Love, Peace & Cheers!
Kristin
Meet Luisa Gorry: Act 4 Administrator
How did you get involved with Act 4?
I knew Sam from my last job with Hertsmere CVS which Act 4 is a member of and was interested when I heard they were looking to grow their team.
What do you do for the charity?
I am responsible for the day to day running of the office. From booking all the assemblies and keeping track of events in the diary, to getting in touch with church representatives and other supporters of Act 4. I also help the Act 4 team and Sam with any projects or upcoming events. Basically, I am the first point of contact for any general questions regarding Act 4.
What do you enjoy best about working with Act 4?
Act 4 is doing something that I feel really strongly about and it seems to fit in well with my lifestyle. I love the role I play in the charity and the people I come in contact with each day.
My Sense of England
I saw the green countryside of Wales in January. During the cold and wet weather, 150 Time for God volunteers gathered for a mid winter conference to reflect on our journey here in the UK. This event was a great opportunity to catch up with other YAGM volunteers and meet other international volunteers who are also serving in the UK.
I heard the screams and fireworks on New Years Eve in downtown London. I have never had a New Years quite like this one! After a fun dinner party, five YAGM volunteers and I traveled downtown to be with a crowd of 400,000 people to welcome in the New Year. It was a very memorable New Years celebration!
I smelled the farm when my friend Anna and I went to visit fellow YAGM volunteer Kelly in Weald, Kent. She lives on a dairy farm in a beautiful house that is 400 years old! We went on lots of country walks and even visited the milking parlor. It was wonderful to see a different part of England and to see a good friend!
I tasted hot cross buns, my new favorite pastry. I love hot cross buns and every time I eat them I always sing the nursery rhyme. Trisha, my host mum, has been buying lots of them recently and they are very tasty.
I touched daffodils in February! I went into London one Sunday to hang out with Maren, Anthony, Amy and her family and there were beautiful daffodils in St. James Park. The weather was gorgeous and it really felt like spring!
~Kristin
"Well, I don't think he's a converted Christian," she said as she poured me a cup of tea.
The statement took me by surprise, especially since it was made by someone who considers herself a Christian leader in our community. It was also hurtful because the person she was talking about is someone who is very dear to me, and has shown me great kindness and hospitality. I really couldn't think of anything to say but "Oh-right," and simply nod my head.
I walked away from that evening puzzled and very upset. How can we really say who is and who is not a Christian? Is it because one has not given a particular kind of public testimony? Is it because one has not claimed to have 'accepted Jesus as one's personal Lord and Savior,' as others have?
The 'unconverted Christian' is one of the kindest people I have met in England. He may not be particularly vocal about his faith but he attends worship every Sunday and is a strong financial contributor to the church.
The word 'Christian' is a very popular word for those who associate with the church and declare themselves Christians in the UK. I have heard numerous people use this word in their vocabulary, "He's not a Christian," "When I became a Christian…," "I don't think we should go because it's not Christian" Every time I hear these comments, I want to say "SO? Why does it matter if they are Christian or not?"
When I first arrived in England, many people asked me "When did you become a Christian?" and my common response has always been "22 years ago when I was baptized as a Child of God."
After living here for six months, I have realized that the use of the word "Christian" is sometimes used as much to divide and condemn, as it is to proclaim good news and bring healing. While much of England's history is associated with the Church, it is not surprising, given this judgmental version of Christianity, that a great majority of people in the UK have no connection with any religion or the Church.
This term, Act 4 is going into schools teaching children the importance of breaking down barriers and communicating with those who are different than you. Working with an organization called Through the Roof, which works with disabled people; we tell the story of the two friends who take the paralyzed man to see Jesus. Our message during the assembly is to make sure that we do not build walls to condemn others or divide ourselves from them, and if those barriers arise that we do all we can to knock them down.
As I read the Gospel, Jesus often had words of judgment for people who were pious and ready to condemn others, and, more often than not, He built bridges of love and acceptance to people perceived as sinners and the unconverted.
I have a diverse group of friends whom I love and absolutely adore. Some of them are affiliated with a church or religion and many of them do not associate themselves with any sort of religion.
It seems that some Christians who talk the talk, don't always walk the walk, even as those who are not particularly vocal about their faith or claim any faith sometimes act more Godly and Christ-like. Maybe St. Francis said it best, "Preach Good News all the time. When you need to, use words.
Love, Peace & Cheers!
Kristin
Meet Luisa Gorry: Act 4 Administrator
How did you get involved with Act 4?
I knew Sam from my last job with Hertsmere CVS which Act 4 is a member of and was interested when I heard they were looking to grow their team.
What do you do for the charity?
I am responsible for the day to day running of the office. From booking all the assemblies and keeping track of events in the diary, to getting in touch with church representatives and other supporters of Act 4. I also help the Act 4 team and Sam with any projects or upcoming events. Basically, I am the first point of contact for any general questions regarding Act 4.
What do you enjoy best about working with Act 4?
Act 4 is doing something that I feel really strongly about and it seems to fit in well with my lifestyle. I love the role I play in the charity and the people I come in contact with each day.
My Sense of England
I saw the green countryside of Wales in January. During the cold and wet weather, 150 Time for God volunteers gathered for a mid winter conference to reflect on our journey here in the UK. This event was a great opportunity to catch up with other YAGM volunteers and meet other international volunteers who are also serving in the UK.
I heard the screams and fireworks on New Years Eve in downtown London. I have never had a New Years quite like this one! After a fun dinner party, five YAGM volunteers and I traveled downtown to be with a crowd of 400,000 people to welcome in the New Year. It was a very memorable New Years celebration!
I smelled the farm when my friend Anna and I went to visit fellow YAGM volunteer Kelly in Weald, Kent. She lives on a dairy farm in a beautiful house that is 400 years old! We went on lots of country walks and even visited the milking parlor. It was wonderful to see a different part of England and to see a good friend!
I tasted hot cross buns, my new favorite pastry. I love hot cross buns and every time I eat them I always sing the nursery rhyme. Trisha, my host mum, has been buying lots of them recently and they are very tasty.
I touched daffodils in February! I went into London one Sunday to hang out with Maren, Anthony, Amy and her family and there were beautiful daffodils in St. James Park. The weather was gorgeous and it really felt like spring!
~Kristin
Thursday, March 20, 2008
February Newsletter - Ashley in Slovakia
FEBRUARY NEWSLETTER
Hello everybody! Wow, the month of February was a busy one, it flew by really quickly!! It was another month of adjustments for me, almost like another September, getting familiar with all of the new wonderful people in my life at my new placement. I’ve been really blessed here in Hybe, and am thankful for everyone and for all of the new adventures I’ve had this month.
To kick off the month, I was formally invited to “Ples rodicov a priatelov Zakladnej skoly v Hybiach”, also known to everyone in the community as simply “Ples.” This is the formal dinner and dance party held every year for friends and family members of the Hybe School. My first few weeks helping with English at the school went well, and the teachers warmed up to me quite quickly! They invited me to Ples during my second week of teaching, and I accepted (not really knowing what it was). When I told me host family later that evening, they shrieked in excitement and my sister Katka ran to get her ball gown. I didn’t realize the event was formal (dress/suit and tie formal). When the night of the ball came, my host mom and sisters were CRAZY excited to dress me up. I was their Barbie doll for the evening. They ran around the house, yelling “SHE NEEDS A PURSE! SHE NEEDS EARRINGS! WHERE IS THE GOOD PERFUME?!?” My host sister did my hair and put me in her formal graduation party dress and pointy white dress shoes (both of which I would never wear at home). It was the first time in my life I’ve carried a glittery purse, worn a shiny pink shawl, and worn so much make-up that I could’ve scraped it off in layers, but it was a really fun bonding experience for me with my host mom and sisters. The ball was a really fun time! It was fun to see everyone all dressed up. The oldest students from the Hybe School wore matching dresses and suit/tie combos, and performed a few dance numbers to open the ball. After that, the dancing and celebrating began! At midnight they served cabbage soup, as they traditionally do every year. Enjoyable night for all!
Another highlight for the month was the youth group’s trip to Orava (a little city in the mountains, about 70 kilometers from Hybe). We (myself and 11 others) went up to stay in Adrianka’s (pastor’s wife) brother’s cabin in the woods. The scenery there was beautiful, and the cabin was secluded and quiet. It was a bit insane at times, spending four days in a little cabin with 11 teenagers who don’t speak a lot of English, but it was a great experience all in all. I ended up connecting with some of the kids more, so I’m thankful for that time. Some of the things we did: Had worship, played guitar and sang, cooked soup, made snowmen, read and relaxed, played games, had theme discussions on youth in pubs/disco clubs, homosexuality, love and relationships, and the Holocaust (they were roughly translated for me later, so I got something out of them), and watched movies. We watched some movies in the Czech language (because Slovak subtitles on films are rarely available, and the Czech language is so similar to Slovak that all of the Slovak people can understand Czech). We even watched a movie in English, and I tried to translate for them! Ha! That wasn’t a booming success, but I did get a few things across and it was pretty exciting when they understood.
In the middle of the month, the other volunteers and I decided that we wanted to plan a weekend to get together and visit each other’s placements (since I am not terribly far away from two of the other volunteers). We met together on a Friday in Velky Slavkov (a small village about 30 kilometers from Hybe, where we had our language training classes back in September) to visit Kristen and Jessica at their placement. They work at a center for gypsy boys (around the ages of 18-24) planning activities, helping in the center’s kitchen, teaching English and swimming, running Bible studies, and more. We even got to get in on an English lesson on Friday evening when we were there and hang out with some of the boys a bit. I’m really enjoying seeing the other volunteers’ placements and getting to experience them a bit first-hand. I’m glad we all think it’s important to visit each other during the year and get a feel for what each other’s lives are like. On Saturday I took the volunteers back here to Hybe to have dinner and sleep over at my host family’s house. My host family was REALLY excited to have 5 Americans visiting, and they learned the names of places of the home states of all of the volunteers. They also came with me to church the next morning. We went up in front during the service and introduced ourselves, and where we were staying for the year! The pastor was excited that everyone was in Hybe together and requested that we sing a song during church, so we sang, “Open the Eyes of My Heart Lord.” I thought it would be a good choice because the youth group in Hybe also sings the song (in Slovak and English), so they knew it and could follow along with it. It was a really great weekend, and as always I enjoyed spending time with my fellow YAGM’s.
While the month was full of great events, it was a challenging month for me as well. After becoming familiar and independent after four months in my old placement, it was difficult to go back to square one, new cities and villages, new bus and train routes and schedules, new methods of doing things, new lifestyles, and more. The transition, from living practically alone to living with a host family, has been intense at times because I’m confronted with the language barrier all day and every day. Also, this is the halfway point for my year and the realities of life after my year of service have started to hit me. What will I do next year? Where will I find a job? How will I deal with readjustment back in the U.S.? How will I process this year of volunteer experience after it’s finished? God only knows. For now I’m just trying to live life day-by-day here (which has proved to be challenging at times), trying to stay in the moment. Dealing with these challenges has helped me to become a more patient and tolerant person, and for that I am grateful.
So the question to address for this month’s newsletter was a bit overwhelming, so I thought I would choose small pieces of the questions to reflect on a bit.
“Theologian Kathryn Tanner argues that Christians form a ‘separate’ group within the wider culture by virtue of how we see ourselves in an intimate relationship with God. But, God’s grace finds us as no more deserving than others outside the Christian community, she says. While Christian identity can lead to lives of peace and love; and we believe that the power of the grace of Christ transforms human lives; can we really congratulate ourselves on the possession of some unique perfection?”
I think this is a really good point, and was glad to see such an important reflection question pop up in my newsletter email. I think the answer to the question is no, that we can’t congratulate ourselves on some unique perfection, because we are in no way perfect. We are all human, and we are sinful. Some of the best friends I’ve had in my life have been Christian. And some of the best friends in my life have not been Christian. I don’t feel that I am any more deserving, or any better than them. I think we all struggle in life, and everyone is at different stages in their faith walks (or not on faith walks at all), and it is reality. I think that people understand things differently. They understand the idea of a family differently. They understand other parts of the world differently. They understand societal duties differently. They understand God differently. God made us all to be different. Christians come in all shapes and sizes, different bodies, minds, gifts and abilities. I believe that my job as a Christian is to love and accept all of them to the best of my ability, regardless of their ideas or beliefs.
This leads into another question asked, “Is there or should there be a distinct Christian ‘culture’ vis-à-vis the world around us?” I believe the answer is no. If God made us all to be different, and put us in different parts of the world with different beliefs and/or ideas, I don’t see how it’s possible for one distinct Christian ‘culture’ to exist. I say accept differences, and embrace them, because differences are what make God’s world and people interesting. What should be the basic common thread amongst Christians? LOVE God. LOVE each other.
And another question, “Where do we as a church stand in our societies?” I believe that the purpose of the church, of God’s house, is not to seclude ourselves into a ‘separate’ group, but to create a foundation. This foundation is solidity and comfort fellow Christians seek, in order to meet fellow Christians and find more inspiration needed to go out and live their lives in the way God intended, and to shine as His examples. The purpose of the church is to invite and to welcome, not to seclude.
These questions are important, and a lot to think about! Hopefully you followed my thoughts alright, they were a bit difficult to organize with all of the questions to ponder. Ok, thank you VERY much for reading, for checking out my blog, for all of your support!! I appreciate it more than I can express!
Until next time,
Ashley
*To read more about my experiences, please check out my blog online at: www.ashleyrenslovak.blogspot.com
Hello everybody! Wow, the month of February was a busy one, it flew by really quickly!! It was another month of adjustments for me, almost like another September, getting familiar with all of the new wonderful people in my life at my new placement. I’ve been really blessed here in Hybe, and am thankful for everyone and for all of the new adventures I’ve had this month.
To kick off the month, I was formally invited to “Ples rodicov a priatelov Zakladnej skoly v Hybiach”, also known to everyone in the community as simply “Ples.” This is the formal dinner and dance party held every year for friends and family members of the Hybe School. My first few weeks helping with English at the school went well, and the teachers warmed up to me quite quickly! They invited me to Ples during my second week of teaching, and I accepted (not really knowing what it was). When I told me host family later that evening, they shrieked in excitement and my sister Katka ran to get her ball gown. I didn’t realize the event was formal (dress/suit and tie formal). When the night of the ball came, my host mom and sisters were CRAZY excited to dress me up. I was their Barbie doll for the evening. They ran around the house, yelling “SHE NEEDS A PURSE! SHE NEEDS EARRINGS! WHERE IS THE GOOD PERFUME?!?” My host sister did my hair and put me in her formal graduation party dress and pointy white dress shoes (both of which I would never wear at home). It was the first time in my life I’ve carried a glittery purse, worn a shiny pink shawl, and worn so much make-up that I could’ve scraped it off in layers, but it was a really fun bonding experience for me with my host mom and sisters. The ball was a really fun time! It was fun to see everyone all dressed up. The oldest students from the Hybe School wore matching dresses and suit/tie combos, and performed a few dance numbers to open the ball. After that, the dancing and celebrating began! At midnight they served cabbage soup, as they traditionally do every year. Enjoyable night for all!
Another highlight for the month was the youth group’s trip to Orava (a little city in the mountains, about 70 kilometers from Hybe). We (myself and 11 others) went up to stay in Adrianka’s (pastor’s wife) brother’s cabin in the woods. The scenery there was beautiful, and the cabin was secluded and quiet. It was a bit insane at times, spending four days in a little cabin with 11 teenagers who don’t speak a lot of English, but it was a great experience all in all. I ended up connecting with some of the kids more, so I’m thankful for that time. Some of the things we did: Had worship, played guitar and sang, cooked soup, made snowmen, read and relaxed, played games, had theme discussions on youth in pubs/disco clubs, homosexuality, love and relationships, and the Holocaust (they were roughly translated for me later, so I got something out of them), and watched movies. We watched some movies in the Czech language (because Slovak subtitles on films are rarely available, and the Czech language is so similar to Slovak that all of the Slovak people can understand Czech). We even watched a movie in English, and I tried to translate for them! Ha! That wasn’t a booming success, but I did get a few things across and it was pretty exciting when they understood.
In the middle of the month, the other volunteers and I decided that we wanted to plan a weekend to get together and visit each other’s placements (since I am not terribly far away from two of the other volunteers). We met together on a Friday in Velky Slavkov (a small village about 30 kilometers from Hybe, where we had our language training classes back in September) to visit Kristen and Jessica at their placement. They work at a center for gypsy boys (around the ages of 18-24) planning activities, helping in the center’s kitchen, teaching English and swimming, running Bible studies, and more. We even got to get in on an English lesson on Friday evening when we were there and hang out with some of the boys a bit. I’m really enjoying seeing the other volunteers’ placements and getting to experience them a bit first-hand. I’m glad we all think it’s important to visit each other during the year and get a feel for what each other’s lives are like. On Saturday I took the volunteers back here to Hybe to have dinner and sleep over at my host family’s house. My host family was REALLY excited to have 5 Americans visiting, and they learned the names of places of the home states of all of the volunteers. They also came with me to church the next morning. We went up in front during the service and introduced ourselves, and where we were staying for the year! The pastor was excited that everyone was in Hybe together and requested that we sing a song during church, so we sang, “Open the Eyes of My Heart Lord.” I thought it would be a good choice because the youth group in Hybe also sings the song (in Slovak and English), so they knew it and could follow along with it. It was a really great weekend, and as always I enjoyed spending time with my fellow YAGM’s.
While the month was full of great events, it was a challenging month for me as well. After becoming familiar and independent after four months in my old placement, it was difficult to go back to square one, new cities and villages, new bus and train routes and schedules, new methods of doing things, new lifestyles, and more. The transition, from living practically alone to living with a host family, has been intense at times because I’m confronted with the language barrier all day and every day. Also, this is the halfway point for my year and the realities of life after my year of service have started to hit me. What will I do next year? Where will I find a job? How will I deal with readjustment back in the U.S.? How will I process this year of volunteer experience after it’s finished? God only knows. For now I’m just trying to live life day-by-day here (which has proved to be challenging at times), trying to stay in the moment. Dealing with these challenges has helped me to become a more patient and tolerant person, and for that I am grateful.
So the question to address for this month’s newsletter was a bit overwhelming, so I thought I would choose small pieces of the questions to reflect on a bit.
“Theologian Kathryn Tanner argues that Christians form a ‘separate’ group within the wider culture by virtue of how we see ourselves in an intimate relationship with God. But, God’s grace finds us as no more deserving than others outside the Christian community, she says. While Christian identity can lead to lives of peace and love; and we believe that the power of the grace of Christ transforms human lives; can we really congratulate ourselves on the possession of some unique perfection?”
I think this is a really good point, and was glad to see such an important reflection question pop up in my newsletter email. I think the answer to the question is no, that we can’t congratulate ourselves on some unique perfection, because we are in no way perfect. We are all human, and we are sinful. Some of the best friends I’ve had in my life have been Christian. And some of the best friends in my life have not been Christian. I don’t feel that I am any more deserving, or any better than them. I think we all struggle in life, and everyone is at different stages in their faith walks (or not on faith walks at all), and it is reality. I think that people understand things differently. They understand the idea of a family differently. They understand other parts of the world differently. They understand societal duties differently. They understand God differently. God made us all to be different. Christians come in all shapes and sizes, different bodies, minds, gifts and abilities. I believe that my job as a Christian is to love and accept all of them to the best of my ability, regardless of their ideas or beliefs.
This leads into another question asked, “Is there or should there be a distinct Christian ‘culture’ vis-à-vis the world around us?” I believe the answer is no. If God made us all to be different, and put us in different parts of the world with different beliefs and/or ideas, I don’t see how it’s possible for one distinct Christian ‘culture’ to exist. I say accept differences, and embrace them, because differences are what make God’s world and people interesting. What should be the basic common thread amongst Christians? LOVE God. LOVE each other.
And another question, “Where do we as a church stand in our societies?” I believe that the purpose of the church, of God’s house, is not to seclude ourselves into a ‘separate’ group, but to create a foundation. This foundation is solidity and comfort fellow Christians seek, in order to meet fellow Christians and find more inspiration needed to go out and live their lives in the way God intended, and to shine as His examples. The purpose of the church is to invite and to welcome, not to seclude.
These questions are important, and a lot to think about! Hopefully you followed my thoughts alright, they were a bit difficult to organize with all of the questions to ponder. Ok, thank you VERY much for reading, for checking out my blog, for all of your support!! I appreciate it more than I can express!
Until next time,
Ashley
*To read more about my experiences, please check out my blog online at: www.ashleyrenslovak.blogspot.com
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
February Newsletter - Laura in India
"Just Float"
Out of India we went. Our visas were no longer valid. Each year the
volunteers leave the country after six months in order to reenter and
stay for the next 180-day span. The last week of February signified
the halfway mark for our year; our week away was an essential time to
regroup, rejuvenate and refocus. Past volunteers have spent their
'visa-renewal-getaway' in Sri Lanka, but with the rising violence and
after several anxious parental emails to Achen, we spent our week in
Maldives, a small country south of India.
Quick facts about Maldives: it is 100% Muslim, there are over 1000
islands that form the country, and being a tropical paradise, most
islands are converted into resorts, thus making it Tourism-Central.
Thus, a piece of bologna costs $10. On sale. Thus, our first episode
of "Maldives on a Dime" will be airing soon.
Nevertheless, the country is breathtaking with its white beaches, its
clear, bright ocean, and its salty breeze, both warm and relaxing.
Stepping off the plane was like stepping into a postcard: a picture
perfect paradise that you try to capture on film, but the best shot
remains the one in your memory.
Throughout the week we found plenty of adventures: local shops to
investigate, restaurants to try, a new culture and religion to
understand, and an ocean to soak up. Yet, one of our favorite
adventures was spent snorkeling over a coral reef.
After much investigation, we finally landed a spot on a local
outfitter that suits up scuba divers and snorkelers. With great
excitement and anticipation at what lay ahead, we eagerly loaded the
ferry that carried a dozen other snorkelers, as well as a dozen scuba
divers, most of whom were other tourists. During the boat ride to the
dive in point, I became quite aware that my inexperience and complete
lack of knowledge of snorkeling might be a rare commodity; everyone on
that boat released an air of confidence saying that diving into the
depths of the ocean goes next to brushing one's teeth on the day's
to-do list. I tried my best to air a confidence, but the thousand
questions I was asking Rob and Beth, the ones with previous snorkeling
experience, may have blown my breeze.
What if my goggles fog?
Rob, my goggles are fogging now.
They'll get fogged in the ocean, won't they?
That can't be good.
Rob.
Oh my, Rob. I can't see a thing.
My goggles are fogged. How will I see the fish?
Oh, what if the goggles are full of water?
What then? How will I see the fish?
Rob, what if this tubey-thingy gets full of water?
How will I breathe?
How will I see the fish if I can't breathe?
His patience and understanding with us was incredible. Though the
boat was trolling around, waiting for us to jump in, Rob ran over the
essentials, checked us over, and we dove in. What we missed in our
'Snorkeling: a Cliff Note Basics' speech, was to be soon learned.
When I first entered the water, the beauty was breathtaking. The
vastness of the ocean and the oneness I felt with creation was enough
to want to stay bobbing up and down in its waves all day.
But, then, I realized I was bobbing up and down.
The boat pulled away, and I saw the vastness of the ocean. Its real
vastness. Its hugeness. Its incredibly, huge, real vastness. And I
remembered I was only a little head, bobbing up and down.
Trying not to think of my insignificant, bobbing head, I tried to
refocus my attention. I jammed my goggles down, shoved the breathing
tube between my teeth and dropped my head down. Perhaps if I focus on
this whole snorkeling thing, I justified, I will forget that I'm
floating in the Indian Ocean.
First breath.
Mouth full of salt water. I jerked my head to the surface, half
swallowing half spitting all that I had inhaled. Trying to regain my
breath, which was becoming more and more needed as the sea-tredding
was becoming tiring, I found myself panicking further as my goggles
kept my nose plugged and the waves kept crashing over the tube,
filling it with water. I had one last resort. Rob.
Rob!Rob!OhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodnessThisIsn'tWorkingICan'tBreatheThereAreNoFishBecauseICan'tSeeAThingBecauseICan'tBreatheOhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodness...
As he swam by, he turned his head, and simply said, "Just float.
Relax. Put your face in. And just float."
Easier said then done, but it was my only option. I had to relax.
And I had to float. I had to stop resisting the ocean's waves, and
let myself be taken by them. There was no other way. My tredding
water, my need to want to control the sea, was only causing me to sink
further into unjustified anxiety and fear. I had to let go. And
float.
I held my breath. Put my face under the surface, and felt my body
rise to the top. At this, I exhaled from the tube and sucked in. No
water. Just air. As my body rose and sank in rhythm with the waves,
so did my breathing. Ah, I could breathe. So I opened my eyes.
No peptalk or preparation could have prepared me for all that lay underneath.
Fish, brightly speckled with oranges, yellows and blues. Coral
covering the entire seabed, and hiding the thousands of creatures that
call it home. Fish as big as my turso swimming about, not noticing
me, the intruder, on top.
It was a sacred moment. I was watching a part of creation from a
distance, yet I felt a part of it simply by observing. The sealife
kept on with its routines, its comings and goings, not in the least
disturbed by my watching. Yet, I was witnessing a part of God's
creation I never knew existed in such a capacity. Its beauty,
strength, majesty, its complexity, yet simplicity, was captivating.
I soon forgot about my bobbing head anxiety, as the mystery of what
lay below the surface was more important than the worries that
remained on the surface. The unknown danger of the ocean quickly
decimated with the awesomeness of all that was unknown and unseen
within it.
And to think, I would have missed it if I had refused to just float.
Out of India we went. Our visas were no longer valid. Each year the
volunteers leave the country after six months in order to reenter and
stay for the next 180-day span. The last week of February signified
the halfway mark for our year; our week away was an essential time to
regroup, rejuvenate and refocus. Past volunteers have spent their
'visa-renewal-getaway' in Sri Lanka, but with the rising violence and
after several anxious parental emails to Achen, we spent our week in
Maldives, a small country south of India.
Quick facts about Maldives: it is 100% Muslim, there are over 1000
islands that form the country, and being a tropical paradise, most
islands are converted into resorts, thus making it Tourism-Central.
Thus, a piece of bologna costs $10. On sale. Thus, our first episode
of "Maldives on a Dime" will be airing soon.
Nevertheless, the country is breathtaking with its white beaches, its
clear, bright ocean, and its salty breeze, both warm and relaxing.
Stepping off the plane was like stepping into a postcard: a picture
perfect paradise that you try to capture on film, but the best shot
remains the one in your memory.
Throughout the week we found plenty of adventures: local shops to
investigate, restaurants to try, a new culture and religion to
understand, and an ocean to soak up. Yet, one of our favorite
adventures was spent snorkeling over a coral reef.
After much investigation, we finally landed a spot on a local
outfitter that suits up scuba divers and snorkelers. With great
excitement and anticipation at what lay ahead, we eagerly loaded the
ferry that carried a dozen other snorkelers, as well as a dozen scuba
divers, most of whom were other tourists. During the boat ride to the
dive in point, I became quite aware that my inexperience and complete
lack of knowledge of snorkeling might be a rare commodity; everyone on
that boat released an air of confidence saying that diving into the
depths of the ocean goes next to brushing one's teeth on the day's
to-do list. I tried my best to air a confidence, but the thousand
questions I was asking Rob and Beth, the ones with previous snorkeling
experience, may have blown my breeze.
What if my goggles fog?
Rob, my goggles are fogging now.
They'll get fogged in the ocean, won't they?
That can't be good.
Rob.
Oh my, Rob. I can't see a thing.
My goggles are fogged. How will I see the fish?
Oh, what if the goggles are full of water?
What then? How will I see the fish?
Rob, what if this tubey-thingy gets full of water?
How will I breathe?
How will I see the fish if I can't breathe?
His patience and understanding with us was incredible. Though the
boat was trolling around, waiting for us to jump in, Rob ran over the
essentials, checked us over, and we dove in. What we missed in our
'Snorkeling: a Cliff Note Basics' speech, was to be soon learned.
When I first entered the water, the beauty was breathtaking. The
vastness of the ocean and the oneness I felt with creation was enough
to want to stay bobbing up and down in its waves all day.
But, then, I realized I was bobbing up and down.
The boat pulled away, and I saw the vastness of the ocean. Its real
vastness. Its hugeness. Its incredibly, huge, real vastness. And I
remembered I was only a little head, bobbing up and down.
Trying not to think of my insignificant, bobbing head, I tried to
refocus my attention. I jammed my goggles down, shoved the breathing
tube between my teeth and dropped my head down. Perhaps if I focus on
this whole snorkeling thing, I justified, I will forget that I'm
floating in the Indian Ocean.
First breath.
Mouth full of salt water. I jerked my head to the surface, half
swallowing half spitting all that I had inhaled. Trying to regain my
breath, which was becoming more and more needed as the sea-tredding
was becoming tiring, I found myself panicking further as my goggles
kept my nose plugged and the waves kept crashing over the tube,
filling it with water. I had one last resort. Rob.
Rob!Rob!OhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodnessThisIsn'tWorkingICan'tBreatheThereAreNoFishBecauseICan'tSeeAThingBecauseICan'tBreatheOhMyGoodnessOhMyGoodness...
As he swam by, he turned his head, and simply said, "Just float.
Relax. Put your face in. And just float."
Easier said then done, but it was my only option. I had to relax.
And I had to float. I had to stop resisting the ocean's waves, and
let myself be taken by them. There was no other way. My tredding
water, my need to want to control the sea, was only causing me to sink
further into unjustified anxiety and fear. I had to let go. And
float.
I held my breath. Put my face under the surface, and felt my body
rise to the top. At this, I exhaled from the tube and sucked in. No
water. Just air. As my body rose and sank in rhythm with the waves,
so did my breathing. Ah, I could breathe. So I opened my eyes.
No peptalk or preparation could have prepared me for all that lay underneath.
Fish, brightly speckled with oranges, yellows and blues. Coral
covering the entire seabed, and hiding the thousands of creatures that
call it home. Fish as big as my turso swimming about, not noticing
me, the intruder, on top.
It was a sacred moment. I was watching a part of creation from a
distance, yet I felt a part of it simply by observing. The sealife
kept on with its routines, its comings and goings, not in the least
disturbed by my watching. Yet, I was witnessing a part of God's
creation I never knew existed in such a capacity. Its beauty,
strength, majesty, its complexity, yet simplicity, was captivating.
I soon forgot about my bobbing head anxiety, as the mystery of what
lay below the surface was more important than the worries that
remained on the surface. The unknown danger of the ocean quickly
decimated with the awesomeness of all that was unknown and unseen
within it.
And to think, I would have missed it if I had refused to just float.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Febrero despues de esta volveran a ser normales- Februrary after this one they'll go back to being normal - Kristina in Argentina
Con Febrero llego la lluvia, la cuaresma, un tiempo de preparación, el fin de algunas cosas y el comienzo de otras. Trae arrastrado con el seis meses de andar diferente abriendo mi caja de memoria colectiva pero esta vez miro para sacar recuerdos específicos de un tiempo específico. Para esto mi gente necesito entrar en mi cajita por que aya dentro existe un jardín lleno de árboles de distintos altos y anchos sembrado por personas distintas a lo largo de mi vida.
En febrero visité dos árboles cuyas raíces se extendían profundamente en mi pasado. El primero es de cuando tenía diez años; escrita sobre ella estaban las canciones que aprendí en el campamento de verano en Maguayo cuando recién nos habíamos mudado de vuelta a puerto rico. Estas canciones daban vuelta a un grupo de nombres que estaba escrito en su centro entre estos estaba, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Mary Lisa, Lisa Mari, Rafú, Chachie, Harrybel…
Juntos ellos sembraron la semilla que se convirtió en aquel gran árbol y mientras me senté a sus raíces recordando esos tiempos me dio las herramientas y la valentía para compartir eso con los niños en el campamento de escuela bíblica en Montevideo. Sin embargo ese mismo día cuando me sentía muy preparada recibí una carta Harrybel había partido ese mismo día a morar con el señor. Tropecé cayendo hacia atrás entre dos árboles aun mas viejos que el que me había acordado a Harrybel. Me agarre del mas cerca mirando hacia arriba buscando no se que mas aya de sus ramas. Este árbol era el árbol de Margarita ella había fallecido apenas el año pasado durante la época de pascua.
Mi corazon se lleno de angustia pero su nombre se encendió sobre el tronco y ahí escrito palabras de ellas:
“Todo lo que necesitas para salir de este lugar de dolor esta dentro de ti” Estas fueron sus palabras para mi en otro momento de mi vida y eran recordadas y aplicables en este momento también. Sus palabras se encendieron más brillantes que su nombre antes de convertirse en ceniza pintando mis manos tan negro como cuando ayude a preparar las cenizas para el miércoles de cenizas. Pero aun así sus palabras no quedan como polvo que se lava sino más bien como una marca en mi corazón, visible sobre mis manos marcando a todo aquel que yo toque. No soy quien era cuando se sembraron aquellos árboles mis ojos están abiertos a un mundo que amenaza con caer sobre mi cabeza. Hasta mi manera de hablar ha cambiado, se ha transformado la forma en que me expreso hasta el punto de volverse un hibrido extraño entre puertorriqueñismos y argentinismos que por el momento tienen sentido; ¿pero lo tendrán cuando vuelva a casa? Jeje será interesante ver pero si te animas podrías llamarme y verlo por tu propia cuenta: 54-221-452-5206 me encantaría saber como le van las cosas por aya.
Otros árboles se encienden con palabras que me recuerdan que desde el momento en que empezaron a crecer aquellos árboles ya yo era diferente ya había cambiado. Estas palabras nuevas me doy cuenta son lecciones que surgen al oírlas repetidas por los compañeros que me rodean.
Por ejemplo mi amiga Kim estaba compartiendo conmigo y con los demás voluntarios la historia de los niños con los cual trabaja en San Martín. Son todos niños pero a pesar de que son nuevos en el mundo están aprendiendo cosas claves como lo es el compartir no tan solo cuando tenemos poco sino también cuando tenemos mucho. Aprendiendo que no es necesario lanzarse con un puño para agarrar mas cantidad de galletitas en la merienda, que es mejor cuando tomamos nuestro tiempo agarrando uno solo a la vez para darnos cuenta de que todos podremos comer. Recuerdo cuando niña el haber aprendido esta lección y ahora como joven adulto tiene aun mas significado cuando miro al estado del mundo en que vivimos.
También recordé otra lección de mi infancia al salir de entre los árboles mientras otro amigo voluntario mío James compartía sobre parte de sus experiencias. Hablaba de cuando se sentaba a tomar mate y compartir algunas galletitas con una compañera de trabajo. A pesar de que para el lo que tenían era suficiente para compartir entre ellos ella llamaba a todo aquel que estaba cerca para compartir, para que comieran de su mesita. Supongo que los discípulos de cristo se habrán sentido igual en aquella tarde después de la predicación de Jesús al ver que la multitud seguía cerca pero en vez de enviarlos a buscar en donde dormir y comer por que se hacia tarde les llamo y dijo vengan tenemos pan tenemos pescado cortémoslo con amor y compartamos vengan todos tomen su porción hagamos una ronda y tomemos mate.
Es posible que se hayan sentido igual que todas las personas de mi familia ahora en el pasado y lo mas seguro en el futuro cada vez que adoptábamos a un extraño a la familia expandiendo nuestra mesa.
Al terminar de escuchar su relato el viento se comenzó a levantar y mis compañeros voluntarios ya se estaban preparando para partir a sus respectivos hogares luego de un tiempo compartido y mientras esperábamos bajo un cielo nublado observe mi reflexión en un charquito de agua. Podía ver como caían las semillas a todo mi alrededor llevados por un viento que los regaba desde mi jardín al de mis compañeros y viceversa. Mi cuerpo entero estaba cubierto de ceniza y las hojas de los árboles empezaron a caer también en aquel proceso de renovación, pero cuando me mire de nuevo con mas intención me di cuenta de algo muy particular y muy importante. La ceniza que había caído sobre mí en aquel momento era más que ceniza era palabra viva también y en esa palabra viva leí todo sus nombres.
Gracias
No hay nada como el regresar a un lugar que se ha mantenido igual, para poder ver las maneras en que tu mismo has sido cambiado.
-Nelson Mandela.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
February brings fall rain, lent, preparation the end of some things the beginning of others. It brings six months of walking differently opening my box of collective memory but this time to pull out specific thoughts from a specific time. But for that my friends I had to step inside the box because inside is a garden full of trees of different widths and heights planted at different times in life by different people. In February I visited two trees whose roots extended deep into my past. One from when I was ten; written all over its trunk were songs from that first summer camp after moving back to Puerto Rico. Many names are on the bottom of that trunk, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Marylisa, Lismari, Rafú, Chachie y Harrybel…
Together they all planted that seed and as I sat remembering that time it gave me tools and courage to share with the kids in Montevideo the things that I had learned. Then I received a letter Harrybel had passed away that same day. I stumbled backward falling in between to trees older than the one I had been looking at before. I held on to one looking up in to its branches. This was Margarita’s tree she had passed away only last Easter. My heart was filled with anguished but her name burned brightly on the trunk and there written were words:
“All you need to come out of this place of pain is inside you.” These were words she had said to me at another time they were words remembered now. They burned and then were dust the ashes painting my hands black as when I helped prepare the ashes for ash Wednesday, but her words are not dust they are a mark on my heart. It is on my hands marking everything and every one I touch. I’m not who I was when these trees were planted my eyes are open to a world that threatens to collapse upon my head. Even the way I speak has changed transforming the way my expressions to the point that my speech becomes some sort of strange hybrid between puertoricanisms and argentinaisms that makes sense now but will it make sense when I get home. Hehe I wonder. Other trees ignite other words burning bright reminding me that from the moment of their germination I was already different all ready changed. Their words burned bright as well repeating lessons learned by those who surround me during this walk.
For example my friend Kim was sharing a story with me and the other volunteers about her “kids” ( the ones she works with) in San Martin they are children but all though they are new they are still learning what it means to share not only when there is little but also when there is more than enough. That it isn’t necessary to grab fist first into the bowl of cookies to have more if we each take one at a time we can all eat. I remember learning this lesson too as a child as a young adult it means so much more when looking at the world.
I was reminded of another childhood lesson while coming out of the forest at last by another friend James as he talked about sitting down to drink mate and eat cookies with a fellow worker in the barrio and how she would call out to the others around them to come in and share what he had seen as enough for just the two. I can only image that the disciples must of felt the same way when the crowd had gathered and the day was coming to an end and instead of sending on their way to find food and housing he called them in instead saying we got fish we got bread come in take a piece drink some mate.
The same way generations have felt with in my family as we adopt members expanding our table.
By this time the wind had picked up my fellow volunteers were getting ready to part ways after a time of meeting and as we waited under a clouded sky I looked at my reflection in a puddle. I could see new seeds falling all around me carried away from my own garden and into theirs and from theirs into my own. My whole self was covered in ash and the leaves upon the trees were renewing themselves, but as I took a closer look I saw that the ash that had fallen upon me was not just dust no, upon taking a more intentional look I could see that the ash was word too and in that word I read all of your names.
Thank you
There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged, to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.
-Nelson Mandela.
En febrero visité dos árboles cuyas raíces se extendían profundamente en mi pasado. El primero es de cuando tenía diez años; escrita sobre ella estaban las canciones que aprendí en el campamento de verano en Maguayo cuando recién nos habíamos mudado de vuelta a puerto rico. Estas canciones daban vuelta a un grupo de nombres que estaba escrito en su centro entre estos estaba, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Mary Lisa, Lisa Mari, Rafú, Chachie, Harrybel…
Juntos ellos sembraron la semilla que se convirtió en aquel gran árbol y mientras me senté a sus raíces recordando esos tiempos me dio las herramientas y la valentía para compartir eso con los niños en el campamento de escuela bíblica en Montevideo. Sin embargo ese mismo día cuando me sentía muy preparada recibí una carta Harrybel había partido ese mismo día a morar con el señor. Tropecé cayendo hacia atrás entre dos árboles aun mas viejos que el que me había acordado a Harrybel. Me agarre del mas cerca mirando hacia arriba buscando no se que mas aya de sus ramas. Este árbol era el árbol de Margarita ella había fallecido apenas el año pasado durante la época de pascua.
Mi corazon se lleno de angustia pero su nombre se encendió sobre el tronco y ahí escrito palabras de ellas:
“Todo lo que necesitas para salir de este lugar de dolor esta dentro de ti” Estas fueron sus palabras para mi en otro momento de mi vida y eran recordadas y aplicables en este momento también. Sus palabras se encendieron más brillantes que su nombre antes de convertirse en ceniza pintando mis manos tan negro como cuando ayude a preparar las cenizas para el miércoles de cenizas. Pero aun así sus palabras no quedan como polvo que se lava sino más bien como una marca en mi corazón, visible sobre mis manos marcando a todo aquel que yo toque. No soy quien era cuando se sembraron aquellos árboles mis ojos están abiertos a un mundo que amenaza con caer sobre mi cabeza. Hasta mi manera de hablar ha cambiado, se ha transformado la forma en que me expreso hasta el punto de volverse un hibrido extraño entre puertorriqueñismos y argentinismos que por el momento tienen sentido; ¿pero lo tendrán cuando vuelva a casa? Jeje será interesante ver pero si te animas podrías llamarme y verlo por tu propia cuenta: 54-221-452-5206 me encantaría saber como le van las cosas por aya.
Otros árboles se encienden con palabras que me recuerdan que desde el momento en que empezaron a crecer aquellos árboles ya yo era diferente ya había cambiado. Estas palabras nuevas me doy cuenta son lecciones que surgen al oírlas repetidas por los compañeros que me rodean.
Por ejemplo mi amiga Kim estaba compartiendo conmigo y con los demás voluntarios la historia de los niños con los cual trabaja en San Martín. Son todos niños pero a pesar de que son nuevos en el mundo están aprendiendo cosas claves como lo es el compartir no tan solo cuando tenemos poco sino también cuando tenemos mucho. Aprendiendo que no es necesario lanzarse con un puño para agarrar mas cantidad de galletitas en la merienda, que es mejor cuando tomamos nuestro tiempo agarrando uno solo a la vez para darnos cuenta de que todos podremos comer. Recuerdo cuando niña el haber aprendido esta lección y ahora como joven adulto tiene aun mas significado cuando miro al estado del mundo en que vivimos.
También recordé otra lección de mi infancia al salir de entre los árboles mientras otro amigo voluntario mío James compartía sobre parte de sus experiencias. Hablaba de cuando se sentaba a tomar mate y compartir algunas galletitas con una compañera de trabajo. A pesar de que para el lo que tenían era suficiente para compartir entre ellos ella llamaba a todo aquel que estaba cerca para compartir, para que comieran de su mesita. Supongo que los discípulos de cristo se habrán sentido igual en aquella tarde después de la predicación de Jesús al ver que la multitud seguía cerca pero en vez de enviarlos a buscar en donde dormir y comer por que se hacia tarde les llamo y dijo vengan tenemos pan tenemos pescado cortémoslo con amor y compartamos vengan todos tomen su porción hagamos una ronda y tomemos mate.
Es posible que se hayan sentido igual que todas las personas de mi familia ahora en el pasado y lo mas seguro en el futuro cada vez que adoptábamos a un extraño a la familia expandiendo nuestra mesa.
Al terminar de escuchar su relato el viento se comenzó a levantar y mis compañeros voluntarios ya se estaban preparando para partir a sus respectivos hogares luego de un tiempo compartido y mientras esperábamos bajo un cielo nublado observe mi reflexión en un charquito de agua. Podía ver como caían las semillas a todo mi alrededor llevados por un viento que los regaba desde mi jardín al de mis compañeros y viceversa. Mi cuerpo entero estaba cubierto de ceniza y las hojas de los árboles empezaron a caer también en aquel proceso de renovación, pero cuando me mire de nuevo con mas intención me di cuenta de algo muy particular y muy importante. La ceniza que había caído sobre mí en aquel momento era más que ceniza era palabra viva también y en esa palabra viva leí todo sus nombres.
Gracias
No hay nada como el regresar a un lugar que se ha mantenido igual, para poder ver las maneras en que tu mismo has sido cambiado.
-Nelson Mandela.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
February brings fall rain, lent, preparation the end of some things the beginning of others. It brings six months of walking differently opening my box of collective memory but this time to pull out specific thoughts from a specific time. But for that my friends I had to step inside the box because inside is a garden full of trees of different widths and heights planted at different times in life by different people. In February I visited two trees whose roots extended deep into my past. One from when I was ten; written all over its trunk were songs from that first summer camp after moving back to Puerto Rico. Many names are on the bottom of that trunk, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Marylisa, Lismari, Rafú, Chachie y Harrybel…
Together they all planted that seed and as I sat remembering that time it gave me tools and courage to share with the kids in Montevideo the things that I had learned. Then I received a letter Harrybel had passed away that same day. I stumbled backward falling in between to trees older than the one I had been looking at before. I held on to one looking up in to its branches. This was Margarita’s tree she had passed away only last Easter. My heart was filled with anguished but her name burned brightly on the trunk and there written were words:
“All you need to come out of this place of pain is inside you.” These were words she had said to me at another time they were words remembered now. They burned and then were dust the ashes painting my hands black as when I helped prepare the ashes for ash Wednesday, but her words are not dust they are a mark on my heart. It is on my hands marking everything and every one I touch. I’m not who I was when these trees were planted my eyes are open to a world that threatens to collapse upon my head. Even the way I speak has changed transforming the way my expressions to the point that my speech becomes some sort of strange hybrid between puertoricanisms and argentinaisms that makes sense now but will it make sense when I get home. Hehe I wonder. Other trees ignite other words burning bright reminding me that from the moment of their germination I was already different all ready changed. Their words burned bright as well repeating lessons learned by those who surround me during this walk.
For example my friend Kim was sharing a story with me and the other volunteers about her “kids” ( the ones she works with) in San Martin they are children but all though they are new they are still learning what it means to share not only when there is little but also when there is more than enough. That it isn’t necessary to grab fist first into the bowl of cookies to have more if we each take one at a time we can all eat. I remember learning this lesson too as a child as a young adult it means so much more when looking at the world.
I was reminded of another childhood lesson while coming out of the forest at last by another friend James as he talked about sitting down to drink mate and eat cookies with a fellow worker in the barrio and how she would call out to the others around them to come in and share what he had seen as enough for just the two. I can only image that the disciples must of felt the same way when the crowd had gathered and the day was coming to an end and instead of sending on their way to find food and housing he called them in instead saying we got fish we got bread come in take a piece drink some mate.
The same way generations have felt with in my family as we adopt members expanding our table.
By this time the wind had picked up my fellow volunteers were getting ready to part ways after a time of meeting and as we waited under a clouded sky I looked at my reflection in a puddle. I could see new seeds falling all around me carried away from my own garden and into theirs and from theirs into my own. My whole self was covered in ash and the leaves upon the trees were renewing themselves, but as I took a closer look I saw that the ash that had fallen upon me was not just dust no, upon taking a more intentional look I could see that the ash was word too and in that word I read all of your names.
Thank you
There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged, to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.
-Nelson Mandela.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
February newsletter, better late than never - Katie in Mexico
Breaking down the border
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
February 2008
By Katie
My experience in Mexico is constantly challenging me to see the familiar through new eyes. From daily interactions with friends and my host family to discussing major socio-economic-political issues with the volunteer group, I am confronting new ways of thinking about the realities of our world while also confronting my own perspectives that I have grown up hearing and believing. As I reflected in one of my previous newsletters, “I am because you are.” Through a daily existence in a country, culture, and people that are different than me, I am more aware of who I am and what advantages I have from being born a white, middle-class, university-educated female in the United States. I am becoming aware of how my comfortable lifestyle is made possible by the working hands of people from every corner of this earth. I am realizing how my way of looking at something is not the only way, nor is it the best way. I am finding an infinite array of shades of gray in a world that sometimes tries to be black and white.
At the end of February, our volunteer group went to the US-Mexican border to learn about immigration, border policies, and to confront new perspectives on this particularly familiar issue. It is a common topic of debate in the United States, one on which almost everyone has a few opinions. Walking into this year in Mexico, I was confronted with an overwhelming amount of new information, stories, and views on immigration… but this time from the other side of the Wall. The perspective that I brought with me to Mexico was shattered. Now I am picking up those pieces and gluing them together with the pieces of my Mexican mentality to find a truth that resonates on both sides of the border within me.
I find that I am struck with a mix of emotions when reflecting on my constantly evolving understanding of immigration. I am frustrated and hopeless with the governments that fail to protect the needs of the people by creating or allowing dangerous policies to pass or by keeping already flawed policies in place. I am in awe of the resilience of the people who live in a system of injustice but fight a daily struggle of survival in jobs that are more strenuous than I can imagine for wages that I am too spoiled to ever consider. I am empathetic to those who are forced to immigrate, the last option to keep their family alive, and I find myself hoping and praying that they will cross safely and find a job. I am outraged by the ineffective waste of money that the US has thrown at “tightening border security” which has done nothing to curb migration but has forced migrants to risk their lives to cross dangerous desert passes resulting in hundreds of deaths every year. I am heartbroken when hearing about families that have suffered the loss of a father or a son or a brother who tried to cross. I was ashamed of my home when a Mexican asked me, “Why do you hate us?”
The migrants searching for work are hungry and have no hope of finding decent wages at home. After exhausting all other options, they have to leave their family and their home to enter into a country that openly discriminates and rejects them – migration isn’t a desirable choice, it is the last choice. Nonetheless, they are willing to risk their life spending several days crossing dangerous parts of the desert to feed themselves and their families. They aren’t criminals; they are victims of flawed trade agreements and government policies. They are in need.
It makes me wonder what role I will have now that my eyes have been opened to a new view of immigration. How will I live into my new understanding of the reality of immigration and what will I do with it? Doing or saying nothing is not an option for me, the call is just to clear to ignore. The call to serve my brothers and sisters transcends borders, racial lines, and language or cultural barriers. How will I follow my faith and the call to serve the “least of these my brothers?” (Matthew 25:40) How will I serve the stranger in the midst from my home in the Midwest?
The past six months, and especially our border trip, have remolded my understanding and my opinions about immigration. It is a situation that is too multi-faceted for me to sum up in a newsletter. Trust me, I tried - it was 5 pages and I could have written more. I have created a few entries in my blog about various aspects of immigration and I passionately invite you to explore some of the information and my reflections there.
Cuernavaca, Mexico Newsletter
February 2008
By Katie
My experience in Mexico is constantly challenging me to see the familiar through new eyes. From daily interactions with friends and my host family to discussing major socio-economic-political issues with the volunteer group, I am confronting new ways of thinking about the realities of our world while also confronting my own perspectives that I have grown up hearing and believing. As I reflected in one of my previous newsletters, “I am because you are.” Through a daily existence in a country, culture, and people that are different than me, I am more aware of who I am and what advantages I have from being born a white, middle-class, university-educated female in the United States. I am becoming aware of how my comfortable lifestyle is made possible by the working hands of people from every corner of this earth. I am realizing how my way of looking at something is not the only way, nor is it the best way. I am finding an infinite array of shades of gray in a world that sometimes tries to be black and white.
At the end of February, our volunteer group went to the US-Mexican border to learn about immigration, border policies, and to confront new perspectives on this particularly familiar issue. It is a common topic of debate in the United States, one on which almost everyone has a few opinions. Walking into this year in Mexico, I was confronted with an overwhelming amount of new information, stories, and views on immigration… but this time from the other side of the Wall. The perspective that I brought with me to Mexico was shattered. Now I am picking up those pieces and gluing them together with the pieces of my Mexican mentality to find a truth that resonates on both sides of the border within me.
I find that I am struck with a mix of emotions when reflecting on my constantly evolving understanding of immigration. I am frustrated and hopeless with the governments that fail to protect the needs of the people by creating or allowing dangerous policies to pass or by keeping already flawed policies in place. I am in awe of the resilience of the people who live in a system of injustice but fight a daily struggle of survival in jobs that are more strenuous than I can imagine for wages that I am too spoiled to ever consider. I am empathetic to those who are forced to immigrate, the last option to keep their family alive, and I find myself hoping and praying that they will cross safely and find a job. I am outraged by the ineffective waste of money that the US has thrown at “tightening border security” which has done nothing to curb migration but has forced migrants to risk their lives to cross dangerous desert passes resulting in hundreds of deaths every year. I am heartbroken when hearing about families that have suffered the loss of a father or a son or a brother who tried to cross. I was ashamed of my home when a Mexican asked me, “Why do you hate us?”
The migrants searching for work are hungry and have no hope of finding decent wages at home. After exhausting all other options, they have to leave their family and their home to enter into a country that openly discriminates and rejects them – migration isn’t a desirable choice, it is the last choice. Nonetheless, they are willing to risk their life spending several days crossing dangerous parts of the desert to feed themselves and their families. They aren’t criminals; they are victims of flawed trade agreements and government policies. They are in need.
It makes me wonder what role I will have now that my eyes have been opened to a new view of immigration. How will I live into my new understanding of the reality of immigration and what will I do with it? Doing or saying nothing is not an option for me, the call is just to clear to ignore. The call to serve my brothers and sisters transcends borders, racial lines, and language or cultural barriers. How will I follow my faith and the call to serve the “least of these my brothers?” (Matthew 25:40) How will I serve the stranger in the midst from my home in the Midwest?
The past six months, and especially our border trip, have remolded my understanding and my opinions about immigration. It is a situation that is too multi-faceted for me to sum up in a newsletter. Trust me, I tried - it was 5 pages and I could have written more. I have created a few entries in my blog about various aspects of immigration and I passionately invite you to explore some of the information and my reflections there.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Amanda in the UK
Dear friends and family,
February was quite an eventful month. I’ve been busy at work trying to fill David’s role, the other gap year volunteer who finished his service in January. I now find myself leading the sessions and realizing how lucky we were to have David around. Furthermore, the schools broke up for half-term in February, and I ended up chaperoning a junior high retreat. And in the midst of all of this, I took a week off to travel to the Holy Land. I am therefore finding it rather difficult to squeeze so much experience into one newsletter! Please forgive me if I get a bit carried away.
The opportunity to visit Jerusalem came up in November, but I actually didn’t purchase my tickets until January. I hesitated, not because I was apprehensive about going, but because my mother was quite worried. It seems as though all we Westerners ever hear about Israel is suicide bombers and terrorist attacks. Even the U.S. State Department highly cautions everyone who is thinking of travelling to Israel. So my mom had reasons to be worried. But being young and reckless, I was still eager to go; and so, after much thought and prayer, I bought my tickets. My friends encouraged me not to pass up such an amazing opportunity.
My friend Eric, another ELCA Young Adults in Global Mission volunteer, has a college friend who is living and working in Jerusalem. Eric had been planning on visiting him and invited me along. We would stay with this friend, Paul, at the Lutheran World Federation headquarters on the Mount of Olives. It was an ideal situation. I had recently been more interested in Israel and Palestine and quite eager to travel there; and now it seemed like my chance had come.
I tried to prepare for my trip by reading memoirs on pilgrimages, as well as familiarizing myself on the history. Nonetheless, I was still unsure what to expect. If I anticipate a spiritual experience, will I be disappointed? Do I instead focus on the historical sites? Is Jerusalem still a “Holy City,” or is it completely corrupted by warfare? My head spinning with such questions, I decided to leave my expectations behind and let God show me what He will.
My first impression, after landing in Tel Aviv, was that this is not a land of fear-stricken people. Israel may suffer from violence, but people also call it home. This is the Israel we don’t see on the media: the ordinary lives of individuals. I guess it’s sort of like when my young people ask me if everyone in America carries a gun. They are always surprised to hear that I don’t know anyone who’s ever been shot. America has a gun problem, but we don’t walk around in constant fear; so why should we expect Israelis to?
The other “Israel” that we don’t often see is that of the ordinary Palestinians, who live under the rule of the Israeli government. The history of the State of Israel is a complicated subject that I don’t think I’ll ever understand. Very simply, the British took control of Palestine from the Ottomans after World War I, and soon opened up the borders for immigration by Jewish people. Jews from all over Europe and beyond relocated in Israel to escape anti-Semitism, as did many Holocaust survivors after World War II. However, native Palestinians had been occupying the land for nearly 2,000 years. The British displaced many of them from their farms and homes to make room for the Jewish settlers. In 1958, the Jewish people declared their independence from British rule and the State of Israel was born.
So right from the start, Israel was an unstable country with conflicts stemming from displacement and religion. Fast forward to the present, and you have a strong Israeli government that not only controls Israel but also occupies the Palestinian territories of the Gaza Strip and West Bank. Israeli citizens live in a Western society of shopping malls and night clubs. Palestinians, however, have limited rights to own land and to move around in their own country. And the ugly truth is that the Israeli government is trying to force even more Palestinians from their homes in the West Bank.
Paul drove us through an Israeli settlement just outside of East Jerusalem. It was a gorgeous oasis in the desert with large homes and palm trees, reminiscent of southern California. Yet its construction meant that many Palestinians lost their homes, as well as access to the precious water supply on which the settlement was built. Driving past the security guards at the gate takes you to a completely different world, with Bedouin shepherds living in shacks.
It is not my intention to turn this newsletter into a soap box and preach to you about politics. But I can’t help but share the stories of the ordinary Palestinians I met. One of Paul’s co-workers has a permit to work in Jerusalem, but he has to cross several checkpoints just to reach Jerusalem from his home in the north. His 60-mile trip turns into a four-hour ordeal. As a result, he must live in Jerusalem during the week and risks the journey back on the weekends to see his family.
Other Palestinians living in East Jerusalem must only cross the security wall to get to work. Nonetheless, these permit-holding Palestinians line up as early as 4:30 a.m. to cross the wall and be to work by 8 a.m. The security wall, built in 2004, attempts to stop illegal movement in the border and thus keep out prospective terrorists. But it also functions to humiliate and further complicate those Palestinians who have genuine passes. We went through such a security point after accompanying Paul on a work trip to the West Bank. Only two or three people were let through the gate at a time. They showed their IDs and answered quite a few questions before being allowed to pass through. And they must do this each day, just to get to and from work.
Not all Palestinians are even this lucky, though. The ones who are unable to get work permits are not allowed any movement between Israel and the West Bank. We met Palestinian Christians in Bethlehem who cannot travel to Jerusalem for the Easter Festivals. Paul also told us of a Palestinian man whose father was dying of cancer. They live on opposite sides of the wall. Paul’s hospital applies for a medical pass to visit their hospital, just so that the father can come through for a day and see his son.
The persecution of the Palestinian people has led some to extreme action, who revolt against the Israelis through terrorism. You probably heard about the shooting at a Jerusalem rabbinical school last week that left eight people dead. The Israelis are justifiably concerned about preventing such attacks, and the security wall is an attempt to keep out potential terrorists. And so terrorist attacks such as these only causes the Israelis to take more precautions and to further restrict the movement of the Palestinian people.
So, as you can see, the situation in the Holy Land is anything but peaceful and, furthermore, represents a long and complicated struggle to which there is no clear solution. My visit opened me up to the Palestinian perspective, which the media scarcely highlights; yet it is clear that both sides contribute to conflict and violence. I just wanted to share what I learned and to give voice to those whom I met. Hopefully, my narrative will help you see more of Israel than is shown on the news.
I just realized that I’ve filled two pages without talking about the holy places. This was also a pilgrimage, after all! I’ll end with a few reflections about what I saw.
Israel is teeming with holy sites. It seems as though you can’t walk a block without stumbling into some important site, such as the birthplace of Mary or the site of the Last Supper. Some sites are quite questionable, such as the stone from which Jesus blessed the loaves and fish. Other events are commemorated in more than one place; there are, for instance, two churches of the ascension that both claim to be the authentic place where Jesus ascended into Heaven. One quickly learns that the event itself, not the precise location, is what is important.
Other sites seem to have more credibility. The Garden of Gethsemane, for instance, has been replanted; yet it still contains two olive trees that are more than 2,000 years old. And the Garden Tomb, discovered in the late 19th century and preserved by British volunteers, has very convincing evidence that this empty tomb could have been where Jesus was laid to rest.
On my last day in Jerusalem, I wandered around the Garden Tomb for a second time, to contemplate Jesus’ death and resurrection. I sat silently in the tomb, looking at the empty room and trying to let it all sink in. I imaged that, just perhaps, this site was authentic; that the glorious resurrection of Jesus occurred in that very room. Yet my mind kept wandering back to the events of the past week and all that I had been exposed to. Suddenly, it felt as though God was speaking to me, whispering the words engraved on the tomb’s door: “He is not here; He has risen.” It was then that I finally realized it did not matter whether or not this was Jesus’ tomb, or whether he blessed the loaves and fishes on that particular stone or gave the Sermon on the Mount on that particular hill. For our Lord Jesus rose from the grave; why do we look for him among the dead? Jesus is everywhere and with everyone, and he is especially with those who suffer.
I left Jerusalem with my head still swimming and with quite a heavy heart; but I no longer felt the burden of having special encounters with Jesus in the Holy Land. Instead, I was reminded in the Garden Tomb that we are to look for Jesus in our neighbors, and to proclaim him through promoting love and reconciliation. My heart still aches for the endless conflict in Israel and Palestine. But I have faith that Jesus will not abandon it forever, that peace can still be found among such violence and hatred from both sides.
Please forgive me for such a long newsletter, and for not speaking of my work here at St. Mary’s. I commend you for getting this far! Please continue to keep our ministry in your prayers, as I also pray for you back home.
Also, please note that we youth workers must submit a blog each month for St. Mary’s. If you haven’t had enough of my ramblings, feel free to check it out. Go to www.stmaryscentre.org.uk, and click on “What we’re thinking” at the top. Then look for the picture of me as a pirate.
That’s all for now! Take care, and I hope you have a blessed Easter,
Amanda
February was quite an eventful month. I’ve been busy at work trying to fill David’s role, the other gap year volunteer who finished his service in January. I now find myself leading the sessions and realizing how lucky we were to have David around. Furthermore, the schools broke up for half-term in February, and I ended up chaperoning a junior high retreat. And in the midst of all of this, I took a week off to travel to the Holy Land. I am therefore finding it rather difficult to squeeze so much experience into one newsletter! Please forgive me if I get a bit carried away.
The opportunity to visit Jerusalem came up in November, but I actually didn’t purchase my tickets until January. I hesitated, not because I was apprehensive about going, but because my mother was quite worried. It seems as though all we Westerners ever hear about Israel is suicide bombers and terrorist attacks. Even the U.S. State Department highly cautions everyone who is thinking of travelling to Israel. So my mom had reasons to be worried. But being young and reckless, I was still eager to go; and so, after much thought and prayer, I bought my tickets. My friends encouraged me not to pass up such an amazing opportunity.
My friend Eric, another ELCA Young Adults in Global Mission volunteer, has a college friend who is living and working in Jerusalem. Eric had been planning on visiting him and invited me along. We would stay with this friend, Paul, at the Lutheran World Federation headquarters on the Mount of Olives. It was an ideal situation. I had recently been more interested in Israel and Palestine and quite eager to travel there; and now it seemed like my chance had come.
I tried to prepare for my trip by reading memoirs on pilgrimages, as well as familiarizing myself on the history. Nonetheless, I was still unsure what to expect. If I anticipate a spiritual experience, will I be disappointed? Do I instead focus on the historical sites? Is Jerusalem still a “Holy City,” or is it completely corrupted by warfare? My head spinning with such questions, I decided to leave my expectations behind and let God show me what He will.
My first impression, after landing in Tel Aviv, was that this is not a land of fear-stricken people. Israel may suffer from violence, but people also call it home. This is the Israel we don’t see on the media: the ordinary lives of individuals. I guess it’s sort of like when my young people ask me if everyone in America carries a gun. They are always surprised to hear that I don’t know anyone who’s ever been shot. America has a gun problem, but we don’t walk around in constant fear; so why should we expect Israelis to?
The other “Israel” that we don’t often see is that of the ordinary Palestinians, who live under the rule of the Israeli government. The history of the State of Israel is a complicated subject that I don’t think I’ll ever understand. Very simply, the British took control of Palestine from the Ottomans after World War I, and soon opened up the borders for immigration by Jewish people. Jews from all over Europe and beyond relocated in Israel to escape anti-Semitism, as did many Holocaust survivors after World War II. However, native Palestinians had been occupying the land for nearly 2,000 years. The British displaced many of them from their farms and homes to make room for the Jewish settlers. In 1958, the Jewish people declared their independence from British rule and the State of Israel was born.
So right from the start, Israel was an unstable country with conflicts stemming from displacement and religion. Fast forward to the present, and you have a strong Israeli government that not only controls Israel but also occupies the Palestinian territories of the Gaza Strip and West Bank. Israeli citizens live in a Western society of shopping malls and night clubs. Palestinians, however, have limited rights to own land and to move around in their own country. And the ugly truth is that the Israeli government is trying to force even more Palestinians from their homes in the West Bank.
Paul drove us through an Israeli settlement just outside of East Jerusalem. It was a gorgeous oasis in the desert with large homes and palm trees, reminiscent of southern California. Yet its construction meant that many Palestinians lost their homes, as well as access to the precious water supply on which the settlement was built. Driving past the security guards at the gate takes you to a completely different world, with Bedouin shepherds living in shacks.
It is not my intention to turn this newsletter into a soap box and preach to you about politics. But I can’t help but share the stories of the ordinary Palestinians I met. One of Paul’s co-workers has a permit to work in Jerusalem, but he has to cross several checkpoints just to reach Jerusalem from his home in the north. His 60-mile trip turns into a four-hour ordeal. As a result, he must live in Jerusalem during the week and risks the journey back on the weekends to see his family.
Other Palestinians living in East Jerusalem must only cross the security wall to get to work. Nonetheless, these permit-holding Palestinians line up as early as 4:30 a.m. to cross the wall and be to work by 8 a.m. The security wall, built in 2004, attempts to stop illegal movement in the border and thus keep out prospective terrorists. But it also functions to humiliate and further complicate those Palestinians who have genuine passes. We went through such a security point after accompanying Paul on a work trip to the West Bank. Only two or three people were let through the gate at a time. They showed their IDs and answered quite a few questions before being allowed to pass through. And they must do this each day, just to get to and from work.
Not all Palestinians are even this lucky, though. The ones who are unable to get work permits are not allowed any movement between Israel and the West Bank. We met Palestinian Christians in Bethlehem who cannot travel to Jerusalem for the Easter Festivals. Paul also told us of a Palestinian man whose father was dying of cancer. They live on opposite sides of the wall. Paul’s hospital applies for a medical pass to visit their hospital, just so that the father can come through for a day and see his son.
The persecution of the Palestinian people has led some to extreme action, who revolt against the Israelis through terrorism. You probably heard about the shooting at a Jerusalem rabbinical school last week that left eight people dead. The Israelis are justifiably concerned about preventing such attacks, and the security wall is an attempt to keep out potential terrorists. And so terrorist attacks such as these only causes the Israelis to take more precautions and to further restrict the movement of the Palestinian people.
So, as you can see, the situation in the Holy Land is anything but peaceful and, furthermore, represents a long and complicated struggle to which there is no clear solution. My visit opened me up to the Palestinian perspective, which the media scarcely highlights; yet it is clear that both sides contribute to conflict and violence. I just wanted to share what I learned and to give voice to those whom I met. Hopefully, my narrative will help you see more of Israel than is shown on the news.
I just realized that I’ve filled two pages without talking about the holy places. This was also a pilgrimage, after all! I’ll end with a few reflections about what I saw.
Israel is teeming with holy sites. It seems as though you can’t walk a block without stumbling into some important site, such as the birthplace of Mary or the site of the Last Supper. Some sites are quite questionable, such as the stone from which Jesus blessed the loaves and fish. Other events are commemorated in more than one place; there are, for instance, two churches of the ascension that both claim to be the authentic place where Jesus ascended into Heaven. One quickly learns that the event itself, not the precise location, is what is important.
Other sites seem to have more credibility. The Garden of Gethsemane, for instance, has been replanted; yet it still contains two olive trees that are more than 2,000 years old. And the Garden Tomb, discovered in the late 19th century and preserved by British volunteers, has very convincing evidence that this empty tomb could have been where Jesus was laid to rest.
On my last day in Jerusalem, I wandered around the Garden Tomb for a second time, to contemplate Jesus’ death and resurrection. I sat silently in the tomb, looking at the empty room and trying to let it all sink in. I imaged that, just perhaps, this site was authentic; that the glorious resurrection of Jesus occurred in that very room. Yet my mind kept wandering back to the events of the past week and all that I had been exposed to. Suddenly, it felt as though God was speaking to me, whispering the words engraved on the tomb’s door: “He is not here; He has risen.” It was then that I finally realized it did not matter whether or not this was Jesus’ tomb, or whether he blessed the loaves and fishes on that particular stone or gave the Sermon on the Mount on that particular hill. For our Lord Jesus rose from the grave; why do we look for him among the dead? Jesus is everywhere and with everyone, and he is especially with those who suffer.
I left Jerusalem with my head still swimming and with quite a heavy heart; but I no longer felt the burden of having special encounters with Jesus in the Holy Land. Instead, I was reminded in the Garden Tomb that we are to look for Jesus in our neighbors, and to proclaim him through promoting love and reconciliation. My heart still aches for the endless conflict in Israel and Palestine. But I have faith that Jesus will not abandon it forever, that peace can still be found among such violence and hatred from both sides.
Please forgive me for such a long newsletter, and for not speaking of my work here at St. Mary’s. I commend you for getting this far! Please continue to keep our ministry in your prayers, as I also pray for you back home.
Also, please note that we youth workers must submit a blog each month for St. Mary’s. If you haven’t had enough of my ramblings, feel free to check it out. Go to www.stmaryscentre.org.uk, and click on “What we’re thinking” at the top. Then look for the picture of me as a pirate.
That’s all for now! Take care, and I hope you have a blessed Easter,
Amanda
newletter february - James in Argentina
An afternoon somewhere in the past my supervisor and I sat down to do an evaluation of my time here so far, and my supervisor being the wonderful wise woman that she is, suggested we try and do some sort of artist demonstration to sum up everything we had talked about in the day. The program I am doing here has this wonderfully slow feel to it, where every step you take is so analyzed that every action in your life becomes so important and valued. There is something so beautiful about being aware of your life and your actions. I began to think about what this year has meant to me so far and what I would like the year to come to look like and I came to this conclusion. I don’t believe I ever before appreciated the interconnectedness of life; how every action affects the next, how every decision is really a decision for the next decision, with it never ending the time we have here.
To represent my life I drew my head with all this chaos behind it, not an ugly chaos, but a chaos of confusion and uncertainly. Everything in my life that I had learned and experienced everywhere, in every action I did, but never consciously guiding my actions. In front of me I drew what I hope to be the future, as I already feel is near in my recent present, colors focused, all of the chaos of my past and present, still complete, in that every color and line still existed, but centered. A sort of prism that sucks in light and spits out a rainbow. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately as I read and find out more about poverty and underdevelopment in the world.
I had the opportunity to read “Open veins of Latin America” by Eduardo Galeano during the month of February, and have been fascinated by it ever since. It talks about the real and factual history and current exploitation in Latin America, which leads up to the current situation of some of the riches countries in the world in terms of natural resources having people dying of hunger. The prism in my mind is starting to put into focus my reality here, as I see hundreds of people living inside shacks of cardboard and scrap metal. The forces that drive thousands of hungry families from the farms and country to cities such as Resistencia, to make a living collecting bottles and cardboard in horse draw carriages at night. Poverty is not television program or commercial, it is a little girl I know coming up to us as we eat at a restaurant and confessing she is on the street every night until 6 in the morning selling Valentines Day cards, her sisters and her supporting the family on change. And as I understand more of the realities of the world we live in, I discover this remarkable web that covers our existence here.
It is scary to think that our actions affect so much more than ourselves. Every product we buy and use, every leader that we elect, every natural resource we decide to consume affects people on the other side of the world. This world is so injust, and for centuries this interconnectedness has been used for oppression and hurt, but we have the power to change that. Look at the interconnectedness of the church. I live in a city where over 80% of the population identifies themselves as a Christian, and I would bet another 10% identifies themselves with other religions. What a rallying point that is in itself; if we could only start living the beautiful messages religion around the world teaches us, how couldn’t we change this world?
My skewed vision that I saw the world with for so many years is being altered but as I become more and more critical of my own ways and the ways of my people I also find so much hope. I find hope in knowing so many movements of change have already been started and work. We cannot wait though for someone to place into our laps a handbook on how to live for change. It comes to the point where we can no longer wait to be informed of the problems of this world, we have to search and long for knowledge. That is where transformation and hope for a new tomorrow will come from. As I am connected to all of you, so now are you connected to every person and story I know, and I to your story. Through this stringing together of human lives we will span all humanity and carry each other towards a new understanding of what love and life can be. Steps over stumbling step we will walk together, uncertain and scared, but together.
Over the “less than half year remaining” hump, and so nervous and excited by that
-James
To represent my life I drew my head with all this chaos behind it, not an ugly chaos, but a chaos of confusion and uncertainly. Everything in my life that I had learned and experienced everywhere, in every action I did, but never consciously guiding my actions. In front of me I drew what I hope to be the future, as I already feel is near in my recent present, colors focused, all of the chaos of my past and present, still complete, in that every color and line still existed, but centered. A sort of prism that sucks in light and spits out a rainbow. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately as I read and find out more about poverty and underdevelopment in the world.
I had the opportunity to read “Open veins of Latin America” by Eduardo Galeano during the month of February, and have been fascinated by it ever since. It talks about the real and factual history and current exploitation in Latin America, which leads up to the current situation of some of the riches countries in the world in terms of natural resources having people dying of hunger. The prism in my mind is starting to put into focus my reality here, as I see hundreds of people living inside shacks of cardboard and scrap metal. The forces that drive thousands of hungry families from the farms and country to cities such as Resistencia, to make a living collecting bottles and cardboard in horse draw carriages at night. Poverty is not television program or commercial, it is a little girl I know coming up to us as we eat at a restaurant and confessing she is on the street every night until 6 in the morning selling Valentines Day cards, her sisters and her supporting the family on change. And as I understand more of the realities of the world we live in, I discover this remarkable web that covers our existence here.
It is scary to think that our actions affect so much more than ourselves. Every product we buy and use, every leader that we elect, every natural resource we decide to consume affects people on the other side of the world. This world is so injust, and for centuries this interconnectedness has been used for oppression and hurt, but we have the power to change that. Look at the interconnectedness of the church. I live in a city where over 80% of the population identifies themselves as a Christian, and I would bet another 10% identifies themselves with other religions. What a rallying point that is in itself; if we could only start living the beautiful messages religion around the world teaches us, how couldn’t we change this world?
My skewed vision that I saw the world with for so many years is being altered but as I become more and more critical of my own ways and the ways of my people I also find so much hope. I find hope in knowing so many movements of change have already been started and work. We cannot wait though for someone to place into our laps a handbook on how to live for change. It comes to the point where we can no longer wait to be informed of the problems of this world, we have to search and long for knowledge. That is where transformation and hope for a new tomorrow will come from. As I am connected to all of you, so now are you connected to every person and story I know, and I to your story. Through this stringing together of human lives we will span all humanity and carry each other towards a new understanding of what love and life can be. Steps over stumbling step we will walk together, uncertain and scared, but together.
Over the “less than half year remaining” hump, and so nervous and excited by that
-James
Monday, March 10, 2008
Feb. Update!!!! - Mark in Slovakia
Mark's Missionary Notes February 2008
News about what God is doing in Slovakia
Ahoj and Greetings from Slovakia.
February has been an interesting month with comic and frustrating
moments. There were
moments when the month seemed to take forever and moments when it seemed
to fly by very
fast. This marks about the mid-point of my year here, it is hard to
believe. Thank you all for your
continued prayer and thoughts. Please pray for all the other people who
are serving in various
places around the world as well.
And as usual I have been writing some other updates on my Blog for those
of you who are
Internet savvy. The address is http://www.moltron.net/blog/
I also have many more pictures
available at http://flickr.com/photos/themoltron
For me February is usually the month where things seem to drag on and
you feel like somehow
that the great new beginning of a year had in January is long gone. For
me this month has been a
time when many of cultural frustrations are starting to come to the
surface. I'm also realizing that
it is about that time I have to start considering what I will do when I
get home. Despite all these
things this month has been fun.
February has been interesting because we've been catching up on the some
of the smaller projects around the village. The Kulturny Dom (Civic
Center), which is being renovated, is full of junk and old clothes. We
have cleaned, burned or thrown away most of these things making it
easier to get some of the larger work done. In the process we have found
old newspapers and others antique things. It is interesting seeing how
the village and cultural has changed. In the Stara Škola (Old School)
where we live, we have been doing some small repair projects that
involve some electrical work. Much of the stonework around the
church is starting to fall apart this includes the front steps to the
church. We have been working making some to concrete steps. I am not an
expert but we take our time and think things through we end up making
really nice work. When projects are more of a mental challenge it makes
the work that much more enjoyable.
The youth group has been going well, although sometimes we ended up
planning things at the last
minute. One of these last minute plans was the week before Valentines
and we talked about what
it means to love and what love is. Discussion is not a very popular
thing in Slovakia for some
reason. So our conversation was somewhat brief but I think they got
something out of it. We then
made Valentines for people they might not usually give Valentines to. We
encouraged them to
not just say love your neighbor but show it. As much as I want the kids
to get out of youth group,
I find planning and preparing a source of spiritual renewal.
The following weekend I had the opportunity to take a mini-vacation to
Velky Slavkov and Hybe where some of
the other American Volunteers are. It was great to see them and see some
other Slovak faces than the ones in my
Village. One fun thing we did was visit and Wild West Tavern in Poprad.
(On a side note: Most of what the
Slovaks know about the Wild West is from German author Karl May who was
never actually in America.)
Nothing like the Wild West in Slovakia. In Velky Slavkov I visited the
home for Gypsy Boys. I
helped Kristen and Jessica (the volunteers working there) with an
English class and had some interesting
conversation. In the area I live there is not a very large gypsy
population. So it was interesting to interact with
them. Getting to know them as people instead of just those Gypsy boys.
After my short trip it was back to work. This particular week the
students we out for vacation. Because of this we were
invited to several families to eat lunch instead of going to the school.
I don't think I have ever been more stuffed in my life.
Slovaks enjoy eating and feeding people. One of the other Volunteers
hears quite often "Food is for eating" implying you
should eat even when you're not hungry. It was an enjoyable week
visiting and talking with the various families. I feel like
I'm getting to know the village more and sense of appreciation for the
work I am doing here.
As I've mentioned before Language is a constant struggle. I am learning
something new everyday and the more I learn the
more I find I don't know. The struggle now is trying to learn and
communicate beyond just getting by. Some days I just
don't want to speak Slovak, some days I do. One of the things I'm
learning is that this year for me has been an exercise in listening.
Learning to understand and really listen even when I don't have a strong
desire to so.
One of my other struggles is related to Alcohol. They have a very
liberal view of Alcohol and
generally most people drink in moderation. It is not uncommon for
everyone to have a shot of
Slivovica (Plum Liquor) before lunch or dinner. The struggle I have is
with how they treat and
ostracize members of the community who are Alcoholics. It happens in
America too but here
because Alcohol is such a commonplace thing for everyone being an
Alcoholic is common and to
find recovery or help of any kind is non-existent. One such man is
Ivanko; he is unemployed and
works at the church doing various things on occasion. The other
Volunteers and I have tried to be
his friend and encourage him when he sober. There is really little else
I can do. I pray that he
finds hope in the situation and that my actions will make others see how
to love their neighbors.
One of the small things I do on occasion is assist (or should I say
lead) the Kid's Church. The Pastor has asks us to fill in when he can't
find someone at the last minute. It is difficult but, we try and the
kids seem to enjoy it. During the sermon the kids leave the church and
have a small lesson for about 30 minutes or so. It is quite a struggle
to keep about 15-20 kids entertained and
teach a bible lesson when you don't know the language. Many of the kids
we know from teaching school or from guitar and drum lessons, so they
help us. For all of you who say they can't lead a kid's bible study try
doing it in Slovak.
As I am passing the mid-point I can't help but think of home more often.
One of the many things
that give me a sense of home is music. Especially one particular song
during my times of struggle and longing.
"So if I stand let me stand on the promise that you will pull me through
And if I can't let me fall on the grace that first brought me to you
If I sing let me sing for the joy that has born in me these songs
But if I weep let it be as a man who is longing for his home"
This Chorus from a Jars of Clay song has spoken to me and given me strength.
The last line particular speaks to me especially, I am here enjoying my
time and serving the Lord
but I am a man longing for his home. I am thinking about and craving for
the familiar. Hot Dogs,
Peanut Butter, Baseball, Family, Friends, English Language. I began to
think about what home
means to me. It's not just a place. It is people, small things and
cultural quirks. It is a feeling of
being accepted and loved for who you are. I then began to think, what
about our Heavenly home?
Do we as Christians have a sense of what our Heavenly home will be? One
Vision of heaven is
described in Revelations,
"The main street was pure gold, translucent as glass. But there was no
sign of a temple, for the
Lord God – The Sovereign-Strong – and the Lamb are the temple. The City
doesn't need sun or
moon for light. God's Glory is its light; the lamb is its Lamp! The
nations will walk in its light and
earth's kings bring in their splendor. Its gates will never be shut by
day, and there won't be any
night. They'll bring the glory and honor of the nations into the City.
Nothing dirty or defiled will
get into the City, and no one who defiles or deceives. Only those whose
names are written in the
Lamb's book of Life will get in." Rev. 21:21-27
What a description of Heaven. A whole City in the presence of God. We
should be people who
are longing for a heaven home, a place of God's Presence. A place of
love, forgiveness and grace.
When the early immigrants came to the United States they set up
communities to reflect a sense
of home. You can see it in the China Towns and Little Italys. It just
feels like you are walking
into another culture sometimes. This sense of making a home in a foreign
land is reflected in the
bible during Israel's exile in Babylon. God commanded the Israelites to
make homes in the place
they were. "Make yourselves at home there and work for the country's
welfare, Pray for her wellbeing."
- Jeremiah 29:7 Later Jeremiah announces "[God] will show up and take
care of you as
promised and bring you back home" in verse 10. Jesus showed us how to
live and through his
death and Resurrection made it possible for us to be citizens of heaven.
God's command is not to
twiddle our thumbs but, to make a heavenly home here on earth so that
when he comes in full
glory we will be that much more familiar, that much more prepared.
What are we doing to reflect a sense of our Heavenly Home? How are we
conveying Forgiveness
and Grace? I am realizing this longing I have for home is a reflection
of a deeper desire for my
heavenly home and deeper desire to see God's Presence Reflected no
matter where I am.
Lord,
Let us be people who long for our heavenly home,
Helps us Pray that it will come sooner
But, that we would build reflections of your hope
Here and now in the places we live and work
Amen
God's Blessings and Peace be with you,
Christ’s Servant in Slovakia
Mark
News about what God is doing in Slovakia
Ahoj and Greetings from Slovakia.
February has been an interesting month with comic and frustrating
moments. There were
moments when the month seemed to take forever and moments when it seemed
to fly by very
fast. This marks about the mid-point of my year here, it is hard to
believe. Thank you all for your
continued prayer and thoughts. Please pray for all the other people who
are serving in various
places around the world as well.
And as usual I have been writing some other updates on my Blog for those
of you who are
Internet savvy. The address is http://www.moltron.net/blog/
I also have many more pictures
available at http://flickr.com/photos/themoltron
For me February is usually the month where things seem to drag on and
you feel like somehow
that the great new beginning of a year had in January is long gone. For
me this month has been a
time when many of cultural frustrations are starting to come to the
surface. I'm also realizing that
it is about that time I have to start considering what I will do when I
get home. Despite all these
things this month has been fun.
February has been interesting because we've been catching up on the some
of the smaller projects around the village. The Kulturny Dom (Civic
Center), which is being renovated, is full of junk and old clothes. We
have cleaned, burned or thrown away most of these things making it
easier to get some of the larger work done. In the process we have found
old newspapers and others antique things. It is interesting seeing how
the village and cultural has changed. In the Stara Škola (Old School)
where we live, we have been doing some small repair projects that
involve some electrical work. Much of the stonework around the
church is starting to fall apart this includes the front steps to the
church. We have been working making some to concrete steps. I am not an
expert but we take our time and think things through we end up making
really nice work. When projects are more of a mental challenge it makes
the work that much more enjoyable.
The youth group has been going well, although sometimes we ended up
planning things at the last
minute. One of these last minute plans was the week before Valentines
and we talked about what
it means to love and what love is. Discussion is not a very popular
thing in Slovakia for some
reason. So our conversation was somewhat brief but I think they got
something out of it. We then
made Valentines for people they might not usually give Valentines to. We
encouraged them to
not just say love your neighbor but show it. As much as I want the kids
to get out of youth group,
I find planning and preparing a source of spiritual renewal.
The following weekend I had the opportunity to take a mini-vacation to
Velky Slavkov and Hybe where some of
the other American Volunteers are. It was great to see them and see some
other Slovak faces than the ones in my
Village. One fun thing we did was visit and Wild West Tavern in Poprad.
(On a side note: Most of what the
Slovaks know about the Wild West is from German author Karl May who was
never actually in America.)
Nothing like the Wild West in Slovakia. In Velky Slavkov I visited the
home for Gypsy Boys. I
helped Kristen and Jessica (the volunteers working there) with an
English class and had some interesting
conversation. In the area I live there is not a very large gypsy
population. So it was interesting to interact with
them. Getting to know them as people instead of just those Gypsy boys.
After my short trip it was back to work. This particular week the
students we out for vacation. Because of this we were
invited to several families to eat lunch instead of going to the school.
I don't think I have ever been more stuffed in my life.
Slovaks enjoy eating and feeding people. One of the other Volunteers
hears quite often "Food is for eating" implying you
should eat even when you're not hungry. It was an enjoyable week
visiting and talking with the various families. I feel like
I'm getting to know the village more and sense of appreciation for the
work I am doing here.
As I've mentioned before Language is a constant struggle. I am learning
something new everyday and the more I learn the
more I find I don't know. The struggle now is trying to learn and
communicate beyond just getting by. Some days I just
don't want to speak Slovak, some days I do. One of the things I'm
learning is that this year for me has been an exercise in listening.
Learning to understand and really listen even when I don't have a strong
desire to so.
One of my other struggles is related to Alcohol. They have a very
liberal view of Alcohol and
generally most people drink in moderation. It is not uncommon for
everyone to have a shot of
Slivovica (Plum Liquor) before lunch or dinner. The struggle I have is
with how they treat and
ostracize members of the community who are Alcoholics. It happens in
America too but here
because Alcohol is such a commonplace thing for everyone being an
Alcoholic is common and to
find recovery or help of any kind is non-existent. One such man is
Ivanko; he is unemployed and
works at the church doing various things on occasion. The other
Volunteers and I have tried to be
his friend and encourage him when he sober. There is really little else
I can do. I pray that he
finds hope in the situation and that my actions will make others see how
to love their neighbors.
One of the small things I do on occasion is assist (or should I say
lead) the Kid's Church. The Pastor has asks us to fill in when he can't
find someone at the last minute. It is difficult but, we try and the
kids seem to enjoy it. During the sermon the kids leave the church and
have a small lesson for about 30 minutes or so. It is quite a struggle
to keep about 15-20 kids entertained and
teach a bible lesson when you don't know the language. Many of the kids
we know from teaching school or from guitar and drum lessons, so they
help us. For all of you who say they can't lead a kid's bible study try
doing it in Slovak.
As I am passing the mid-point I can't help but think of home more often.
One of the many things
that give me a sense of home is music. Especially one particular song
during my times of struggle and longing.
"So if I stand let me stand on the promise that you will pull me through
And if I can't let me fall on the grace that first brought me to you
If I sing let me sing for the joy that has born in me these songs
But if I weep let it be as a man who is longing for his home"
This Chorus from a Jars of Clay song has spoken to me and given me strength.
The last line particular speaks to me especially, I am here enjoying my
time and serving the Lord
but I am a man longing for his home. I am thinking about and craving for
the familiar. Hot Dogs,
Peanut Butter, Baseball, Family, Friends, English Language. I began to
think about what home
means to me. It's not just a place. It is people, small things and
cultural quirks. It is a feeling of
being accepted and loved for who you are. I then began to think, what
about our Heavenly home?
Do we as Christians have a sense of what our Heavenly home will be? One
Vision of heaven is
described in Revelations,
"The main street was pure gold, translucent as glass. But there was no
sign of a temple, for the
Lord God – The Sovereign-Strong – and the Lamb are the temple. The City
doesn't need sun or
moon for light. God's Glory is its light; the lamb is its Lamp! The
nations will walk in its light and
earth's kings bring in their splendor. Its gates will never be shut by
day, and there won't be any
night. They'll bring the glory and honor of the nations into the City.
Nothing dirty or defiled will
get into the City, and no one who defiles or deceives. Only those whose
names are written in the
Lamb's book of Life will get in." Rev. 21:21-27
What a description of Heaven. A whole City in the presence of God. We
should be people who
are longing for a heaven home, a place of God's Presence. A place of
love, forgiveness and grace.
When the early immigrants came to the United States they set up
communities to reflect a sense
of home. You can see it in the China Towns and Little Italys. It just
feels like you are walking
into another culture sometimes. This sense of making a home in a foreign
land is reflected in the
bible during Israel's exile in Babylon. God commanded the Israelites to
make homes in the place
they were. "Make yourselves at home there and work for the country's
welfare, Pray for her wellbeing."
- Jeremiah 29:7 Later Jeremiah announces "[God] will show up and take
care of you as
promised and bring you back home" in verse 10. Jesus showed us how to
live and through his
death and Resurrection made it possible for us to be citizens of heaven.
God's command is not to
twiddle our thumbs but, to make a heavenly home here on earth so that
when he comes in full
glory we will be that much more familiar, that much more prepared.
What are we doing to reflect a sense of our Heavenly Home? How are we
conveying Forgiveness
and Grace? I am realizing this longing I have for home is a reflection
of a deeper desire for my
heavenly home and deeper desire to see God's Presence Reflected no
matter where I am.
Lord,
Let us be people who long for our heavenly home,
Helps us Pray that it will come sooner
But, that we would build reflections of your hope
Here and now in the places we live and work
Amen
God's Blessings and Peace be with you,
Christ’s Servant in Slovakia
Mark
A very late February Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
I am, quite sadly, almost 2 weeks late with my February update. It has been an incredibly busy few weeks around here, though – Mate Monday´s latest few entries should tell you quite a bit about what I´ve been up to for the past while. This month, I am not going to be using the Franklin´s Choice format for my newsletter entry; the prompt wasn´t a bad one, by any means, but I have other things on my mind – one episode that has only casually been mentioned in Mate Mondays.
On the second night of the Minnesota group´s stay with us in Montevideo, Daniela (our doctor/friend/neighbor), KD, Dorothea and I were sitting around the church office after hours, working on a photo show about the kid´s camp from a few weeks back. We were talking, laughing at Dorothea´s playing the Las Divinas song from Patito Feo, and in general having a good, laid-back time. And then Amanda entered the room. Her grandmother, Jean, was feeling very ill and disoriented, and Amanda asked if there was a doctor nearby who could take a look at her. Daniela, of course, volunteered, and I went along as the translator.
It was not hard to tell from the look in Amanda´s eyes that something more than just a stomach ache was bothering her grandmother, and as soon as we walked into their room (they were staying in Carlos and Carla´s apartment, which is also in the church building), it was obvious that Jean was not well at all. She seemed incredibly disoriented and dizzy, her speech was slurred, and she could barely move or control the right side of her body. I´ve taken enough First Aid to have been able to recognize immediately what was likely happening to Jean – those are the classic signs of a stroke. Jean was very obviously worried; she knew First Aid, too. Amanda was worried. For that matter, I was worried, but I didn´t show it. Daniela very calmly began her investigation, and so I translated for Jean. I never thought my Spanish skills would be use to ask a 75 year old woman if she´s been having regular bowel movements, or have to say in Spanish that among her medications is one for vaginal dryness.
After a basic examination, Daniela decided that a hospital visit was in order – it didn´t seem as if Jean´s condition was serious, but neither was it something treatable in the “take two of these and call me in the morning” manner. Jean´s blood pressure was skyrocketing, though, and so Daniela gave her a blood pressure med – mostly nerves, we assumed. From there, it was time to make hospital arrangements, and then the fun began. We had to use Jean´s travel medical insurance, and in this delightful system, you end up making about 7 phone calls, including one to Jamaica, just to talk to a live person. In the end, after all kinds of going back and forth between the phone downstairs and the upstairs bedroom, an insurance agent from the U.S. called Daniela´s cell phone...to talk to Jean. Yes, needing to talk to the patient is ALWAYS the best way to authorize emergency medical care – stroke patients are always lucid, happy, and able to share a description of their conditions with a penpusher back in the United States. Fortunately, by the time Poindexter finished grilling her, she felt better, looked better, and didn´t need a hospital visit after all – our best guess is that she had an extremely minor stroke (there´s a proper medical name for them, but I´ve forgotten it), and once it passed, she was back to normal.
Daniela, however, was livid over the episode – in Uruguay, if you´re sick, you go to the hospital. They treat you, and then they ask about insurance, and since the state (cash-poor as it is) pays for a reasonable chunk of medical expenses, people without the financial means to pay don´t have to. It made no sense to her that someone having a stroke should have to physically get permission from an insurance agent on another continent to receive medical treatment.
It doesn´t make much sense to me, either. If a country that meets at least some official definitions of “third world” can provide adequate, treat-first-and-ask-questions-later medical service, then why can´t the world´s wealthiest nation find a way to take better care of its citizens? When did we decide to let soulless corporations, who could care less about the individual so long as they get their money, run virtually everything in our country? What would have happened if Jean had died because Poindexter was in the bathroom for 5 minutes too long before returning our call, or if we had just gone to the hospital without authorization and the insurance company used this as grounds not to cover her treatment, thus stiffing her with a huge bill? 2008 is an election year; it´s time to start finding some answers to these questions, and an acceptable answer is not “stay the course” this time around.
Soapbox speeches and residual anger aside, the God of the Cross was there that night, in the midst of pain and anxiety. God was there, calming us – we watched as Jean got better, as her blood pressure went down, as she began to talk and think clearer. We watched as Amanda managed to hold in her own fears and be a strong, calming presence for her grandmother. We watched as Daniela and I tried simultaneously to keep it together and communicate in adverse conditions, even though we were both tired and frazzled. The next day, after Jean and Amanda got some sleep, things went back to normal – they re-joinec group activities in the afternoon, and went and did everything the rest of the group did for the rest of the week.
I think about my position in it all – the translator, the person having to bridge a communication gap rain, shine, or stroke – and I think about how far I´ve come in 6 months. I couldn´t have done this in September. I would have been almost as clueless as the two non-Spanish speakers were. However, just for being here, for having ears and a mouth and a brain, I´ve learned Spanish, and something else along the way - that God gives us what we have, and what we need, and then finds ways to use us where we are. Maybe that´s my lesson of the year.
On the second night of the Minnesota group´s stay with us in Montevideo, Daniela (our doctor/friend/neighbor), KD, Dorothea and I were sitting around the church office after hours, working on a photo show about the kid´s camp from a few weeks back. We were talking, laughing at Dorothea´s playing the Las Divinas song from Patito Feo, and in general having a good, laid-back time. And then Amanda entered the room. Her grandmother, Jean, was feeling very ill and disoriented, and Amanda asked if there was a doctor nearby who could take a look at her. Daniela, of course, volunteered, and I went along as the translator.
It was not hard to tell from the look in Amanda´s eyes that something more than just a stomach ache was bothering her grandmother, and as soon as we walked into their room (they were staying in Carlos and Carla´s apartment, which is also in the church building), it was obvious that Jean was not well at all. She seemed incredibly disoriented and dizzy, her speech was slurred, and she could barely move or control the right side of her body. I´ve taken enough First Aid to have been able to recognize immediately what was likely happening to Jean – those are the classic signs of a stroke. Jean was very obviously worried; she knew First Aid, too. Amanda was worried. For that matter, I was worried, but I didn´t show it. Daniela very calmly began her investigation, and so I translated for Jean. I never thought my Spanish skills would be use to ask a 75 year old woman if she´s been having regular bowel movements, or have to say in Spanish that among her medications is one for vaginal dryness.
After a basic examination, Daniela decided that a hospital visit was in order – it didn´t seem as if Jean´s condition was serious, but neither was it something treatable in the “take two of these and call me in the morning” manner. Jean´s blood pressure was skyrocketing, though, and so Daniela gave her a blood pressure med – mostly nerves, we assumed. From there, it was time to make hospital arrangements, and then the fun began. We had to use Jean´s travel medical insurance, and in this delightful system, you end up making about 7 phone calls, including one to Jamaica, just to talk to a live person. In the end, after all kinds of going back and forth between the phone downstairs and the upstairs bedroom, an insurance agent from the U.S. called Daniela´s cell phone...to talk to Jean. Yes, needing to talk to the patient is ALWAYS the best way to authorize emergency medical care – stroke patients are always lucid, happy, and able to share a description of their conditions with a penpusher back in the United States. Fortunately, by the time Poindexter finished grilling her, she felt better, looked better, and didn´t need a hospital visit after all – our best guess is that she had an extremely minor stroke (there´s a proper medical name for them, but I´ve forgotten it), and once it passed, she was back to normal.
Daniela, however, was livid over the episode – in Uruguay, if you´re sick, you go to the hospital. They treat you, and then they ask about insurance, and since the state (cash-poor as it is) pays for a reasonable chunk of medical expenses, people without the financial means to pay don´t have to. It made no sense to her that someone having a stroke should have to physically get permission from an insurance agent on another continent to receive medical treatment.
It doesn´t make much sense to me, either. If a country that meets at least some official definitions of “third world” can provide adequate, treat-first-and-ask-questions-later medical service, then why can´t the world´s wealthiest nation find a way to take better care of its citizens? When did we decide to let soulless corporations, who could care less about the individual so long as they get their money, run virtually everything in our country? What would have happened if Jean had died because Poindexter was in the bathroom for 5 minutes too long before returning our call, or if we had just gone to the hospital without authorization and the insurance company used this as grounds not to cover her treatment, thus stiffing her with a huge bill? 2008 is an election year; it´s time to start finding some answers to these questions, and an acceptable answer is not “stay the course” this time around.
Soapbox speeches and residual anger aside, the God of the Cross was there that night, in the midst of pain and anxiety. God was there, calming us – we watched as Jean got better, as her blood pressure went down, as she began to talk and think clearer. We watched as Amanda managed to hold in her own fears and be a strong, calming presence for her grandmother. We watched as Daniela and I tried simultaneously to keep it together and communicate in adverse conditions, even though we were both tired and frazzled. The next day, after Jean and Amanda got some sleep, things went back to normal – they re-joinec group activities in the afternoon, and went and did everything the rest of the group did for the rest of the week.
I think about my position in it all – the translator, the person having to bridge a communication gap rain, shine, or stroke – and I think about how far I´ve come in 6 months. I couldn´t have done this in September. I would have been almost as clueless as the two non-Spanish speakers were. However, just for being here, for having ears and a mouth and a brain, I´ve learned Spanish, and something else along the way - that God gives us what we have, and what we need, and then finds ways to use us where we are. Maybe that´s my lesson of the year.
Sukhamano, state-sider - Rob in India
January/ February Mega-Double Issue
And we're back … back from a trip to the Maldives, back to normal life at our sites, and back with the newsletter after two months (yikes!). This is the long awaited double issue, but double only in the fact that it covers two months, not double in length per se. We have to keep these things a manageable length. I don't want to discourage the few die-hards who actually read these each month.
I'm back in Kottayam, I'm healthy and I'm ready for action. But wait, where has everyone gone? If I ever had a semblance of a weekly routine, it has now been completely obliterated. We had the last day of classes at the college two weeks ago, many of my friends at the theological institute have been accepted into seminaries and are moving to far-away lands, Thursday is my final day at Baker LP and I'm feeling just a little emotional about all this. I will keep relatively busy until Easter, splitting my time between the boys at KNH Hostel in Kanam and preparing for two musical performances during Holy Week, but then what? You're just going to have to stay tuned to find out. In the meantime, let me give you the brief on these last two months – they have truly flown by.
Attending conferences has become a monthly activity. Some are poorly managed, unspeakably dull and, in general, a huge waste of time. The conference I attended in mid-January was the opposite of all of those things. The topic was, "Globalization: Life and Livelihood Issues." The attendance was small, maybe fifty people, but they represented most of South India, some states in the North and contained a wealth of experience and knowledge on the subject. During the week we heard from social activists, professors, pastors and priests, villagers and city folk. We heard first hand accounts from people who have made it their life's work to oppose many of the negative effects of globalization. Actually, the only people with little field experience were the four Americans, but we had a unique perspective on the discussion as well. While many people in Kerala have frustrations relating to globalization, a lot of times their complaints are vague: "Globalization is bad" or "America is the source of all that is bad about globalization." While there is certainly some truth in these statements they simplify a very complicated issue. No one mentioned even once either of these all too common accusations. Rather, they identified a specific concern (for example Pepsico sucking up all the ground water of a village, leaving the villagers without the basic resource for survival) and then discussed how to react to that threat. It was a hugely inspiring time and we made some close friends. We hope to visit many of these friends in April and get a closer look at the grassroots work they're doing.
In the last week of January, I visited the homes villages of several of my student friends, attended yet another wedding, experienced the craziest Church festival I've ever seen, and participated in the yearly C.S.I. Convention held in Kottayam. That church festival really was a crazy experience, maybe that'll become a blog post.
Emily came to visit during the first two weeks of February. We spent some time seeing the "sights of Kerala," as you can see on my Web Album, but we also spent some days in and around Kottayam. I really enjoyed exposing her to many of the people and places that make up my life in India. My newsletter may be magnificent, but it doesn't quite replicate the actual experience of being in India. I'm glad that Emily was able to get a first hand glimpse of the reality. Anyway, it's handy to have one more person back in America who understands when I say, "I was at the KSRTC stand and a goat drank my tea."
After Emily's departure I had one week back in Kottayam before my Indian visa expired and I had to leave the country - what a week though. Tuesday was sports day, which featured departmental tug off way, and the hilarious "slow race" on motorbikes. Wednesday was College Day. Many students presented dances and songs, and even yours truly got on stage for one number with the band "Rockin' Saints."
And then Kat, Beth, Laura and I went to the Maldives. I suppose that deserves some sort of explanation. The plan was always to go to Sri Lanka in February when we needed to renew our passports. Well, one large bombing in the Colombo railways station put and end to those plans, so at the last minute we diverted our trip to the next closest country, the Maldives. The Maldives is only about an hour flight from Trivandrum, but it's a whole world away. No, that is not their tourism slogan, though it would be a good one, it's simply the truth of it. Flying into the capital island, Male, was an impressive sight. The sea below us was dotted with dozens of islands; a green forrest nucleus, a white sand beach cell wall, azure sea ectoplasm and a rich blue … look I haven't had cellular biology since 9th grade. You get the idea anyway; it was really cool looking.
We did face one large problem upon arrival to the Maldives – a complete lack of cash. Our budget would have suited us quite well for Sri Lanka, but in a land where the economy literally floats atop a sea of tourism, bargains were hard to find. We did find a relatively cheap place to stay. The toilets reflected this cheapness by utterly refusing to function properly, but we managed. We also had trouble finding a beach, which is astounding being in a country with 1,190 islands. The problem was that most beaches were privately owned by resorts, and to use a resort beach you had to pay their (exorbitant) fee. Ah ha, but we got creative. We took a passenger ferry to a local island, one not controlled by a resort, and spent two glorious days enjoying a half a mile of beach, and an expanse of shimmering blue water all to ourselves. We also smuggled ourselves aboard a SCUBA boat and snorkeled over a beautiful coral wall, visited the national art museum, discovered how and where the locals eat and, my favorite, enjoyed relaxing for hours in a coffee shop, sipping an actual cup of coffee. That coffee thing may seem like a trifle, but after six months of limited access to western style coffee and no access to western style "just sit and read for an hour" coffee shops, it felt like a huge luxury.
That's it for now. Keep checking my blog for periodic updates, and don't forget to look at the updates to my web album. Ya, no Maldives picks yet. They will come.
KNH (Kindernothilfe) Hostel (Bala Bhavan) in Kanam
I've alluded to the rascals many times, but now I officially present to you the boys of KNH Hostel in their very own article.
Since sometime in late October I've been visiting KNH Hostel. The KNH actually stands for a German word, Kindernothilfe, which means "Helping poor children." KNH Hostel is also often referred to as Bala Bhavan, which means "boy's home." I normally just say, "I'm going to Kanam," Kanam being the village where the hostel is located. This hostel is home to about 60 boys ranging for elementary school age to college age. It is a place for boys who, for one reason or another, cannot study and live at home. Some of the children are orphaned; others come from poor households that cannot accommodate the expenses of schooling a child. Though almost every one of these children comes with a heart-breaking story of their own, my visits there have (almost) always been extremely joyful affairs. The boys are full of life and energy, lots of smiles and they are never shy to teach me some new tricks.
The first time I visited Kanam was something of a traumatic experience. Once my conversation with Mercy Miss, the head warden of the hostel, ended, children overran me. "WHATISYOURNAME?" "HOWAREYOUIAMFINETHANKYOU!" "WHEREAREYOUGOING?" I answered as best as I could while trying to manage five or six handshakes at a time. Thomas, another one of the wardens, shooed away the younger children and so I was left alone with just a few of the older boys. We sat down together in the main courtyard and started to learn about each other. I asked them their names, what they're studying, which is their favorite subject, etc. They answered politely, and then scrutinized me at length in Malayalam. Finally, one the oldest boys, Subin, paused, gave me a good once over and proclaimed, "You have a very large nose." "Yes and you have a very large mouth" I thought to myself. This cat and mouse game of dialogue finally came to a close when I saw it was time to catch my bus to Kottayam. I only spent a few hours at the hostel, but at that point, I was convinced that I didn't need to come ever again. Somehow I ended up back the following week.
I'm glad to say that the first visit was the only one where I actually feared for my life. Each time I went back to Kanam I enjoyed it a little more and a little more. Now I can say that it's probably my favorite weekly activity. I absolutely adore those guys. I go when I have time, usually on the weekends, and stay from one to three days at a time.
My daily activities there are basically split into two categories: time with the little ones and time with the big ones. Time with the little ones usually occupies my early afternoon hours. One common activity is going for "wild" walks. I call these walks "wild" for many reasons. They usually involve walking across many people's private property and entering homes without warning. We also often disturb tourists at a nearby "rustic retreat." To these boys, no land in or around Kanam is off limit and they move about it with incredible confidence. Normally by the time I catch up with one to say, "Deepu, we really shouldn't be in this man's yard" we are already inside his house and drinking a cup of his tea. The strange thing is, most people don't seem to mind the intrusion.
These walks are also a lesson in local flora. They pick literally every flower they see and give it to me; usually the gift comes along with some sort of message like "I love you, Uncle" – incredibly endearing. We also have tasted every edible thing in the nearby forest. We eat oranges the size of a bowling ball, pineapples, the chewy lining of pods dropped for trees, coconuts, and these incredibly sour pink fruits. I always look forward to these walks, but they have been toned down recently. Now Mercy Miss insists that several older boys come along as well. This usually mitigates the wildness by a significant margin.
The other main chunk of time is spent with the big ones. These guys are more the conversational type. We often go for quiet, non-wild walks in the early morning, sometimes not speaking for minutes at a time, but simply enjoying the coolness of the air. At night we often stay up way past curfew and discuss all things Malayali and American. One of our favorite activities is trying to tell jokes. This is an incredibly difficult task.. Most jokes assume some level of inside knowledge of a culture, and also utilize some sort of wordplay so we have to tell each other these jokes using a combination of Malyalam and English. Usually the jokes don't translate and the response to a punch line is only the sound of a cricket chirping in the distance, but occasionally we have a winner. Here's my favorite so far:
"Yesterday (name someone in the room) was trying to get a coconut from the tree by throwing stones at it. He failed because one of the leaves kept getting in the way. So finally he climbed the tree with his machete, cut down the leaf and slide down again, satisfied that he could now dislodge the coconut with a stone."
Now that's a great joke. I'm headed off for Kanam this very afternoon so who know what adventures await me. I'm excited because it's been almost two weeks since my last visit, but no worries, in May when all of the students are off campus, I may just make Kanam my temporary permanent home.
And we're back … back from a trip to the Maldives, back to normal life at our sites, and back with the newsletter after two months (yikes!). This is the long awaited double issue, but double only in the fact that it covers two months, not double in length per se. We have to keep these things a manageable length. I don't want to discourage the few die-hards who actually read these each month.
I'm back in Kottayam, I'm healthy and I'm ready for action. But wait, where has everyone gone? If I ever had a semblance of a weekly routine, it has now been completely obliterated. We had the last day of classes at the college two weeks ago, many of my friends at the theological institute have been accepted into seminaries and are moving to far-away lands, Thursday is my final day at Baker LP and I'm feeling just a little emotional about all this. I will keep relatively busy until Easter, splitting my time between the boys at KNH Hostel in Kanam and preparing for two musical performances during Holy Week, but then what? You're just going to have to stay tuned to find out. In the meantime, let me give you the brief on these last two months – they have truly flown by.
Attending conferences has become a monthly activity. Some are poorly managed, unspeakably dull and, in general, a huge waste of time. The conference I attended in mid-January was the opposite of all of those things. The topic was, "Globalization: Life and Livelihood Issues." The attendance was small, maybe fifty people, but they represented most of South India, some states in the North and contained a wealth of experience and knowledge on the subject. During the week we heard from social activists, professors, pastors and priests, villagers and city folk. We heard first hand accounts from people who have made it their life's work to oppose many of the negative effects of globalization. Actually, the only people with little field experience were the four Americans, but we had a unique perspective on the discussion as well. While many people in Kerala have frustrations relating to globalization, a lot of times their complaints are vague: "Globalization is bad" or "America is the source of all that is bad about globalization." While there is certainly some truth in these statements they simplify a very complicated issue. No one mentioned even once either of these all too common accusations. Rather, they identified a specific concern (for example Pepsico sucking up all the ground water of a village, leaving the villagers without the basic resource for survival) and then discussed how to react to that threat. It was a hugely inspiring time and we made some close friends. We hope to visit many of these friends in April and get a closer look at the grassroots work they're doing.
In the last week of January, I visited the homes villages of several of my student friends, attended yet another wedding, experienced the craziest Church festival I've ever seen, and participated in the yearly C.S.I. Convention held in Kottayam. That church festival really was a crazy experience, maybe that'll become a blog post.
Emily came to visit during the first two weeks of February. We spent some time seeing the "sights of Kerala," as you can see on my Web Album, but we also spent some days in and around Kottayam. I really enjoyed exposing her to many of the people and places that make up my life in India. My newsletter may be magnificent, but it doesn't quite replicate the actual experience of being in India. I'm glad that Emily was able to get a first hand glimpse of the reality. Anyway, it's handy to have one more person back in America who understands when I say, "I was at the KSRTC stand and a goat drank my tea."
After Emily's departure I had one week back in Kottayam before my Indian visa expired and I had to leave the country - what a week though. Tuesday was sports day, which featured departmental tug off way, and the hilarious "slow race" on motorbikes. Wednesday was College Day. Many students presented dances and songs, and even yours truly got on stage for one number with the band "Rockin' Saints."
And then Kat, Beth, Laura and I went to the Maldives. I suppose that deserves some sort of explanation. The plan was always to go to Sri Lanka in February when we needed to renew our passports. Well, one large bombing in the Colombo railways station put and end to those plans, so at the last minute we diverted our trip to the next closest country, the Maldives. The Maldives is only about an hour flight from Trivandrum, but it's a whole world away. No, that is not their tourism slogan, though it would be a good one, it's simply the truth of it. Flying into the capital island, Male, was an impressive sight. The sea below us was dotted with dozens of islands; a green forrest nucleus, a white sand beach cell wall, azure sea ectoplasm and a rich blue … look I haven't had cellular biology since 9th grade. You get the idea anyway; it was really cool looking.
We did face one large problem upon arrival to the Maldives – a complete lack of cash. Our budget would have suited us quite well for Sri Lanka, but in a land where the economy literally floats atop a sea of tourism, bargains were hard to find. We did find a relatively cheap place to stay. The toilets reflected this cheapness by utterly refusing to function properly, but we managed. We also had trouble finding a beach, which is astounding being in a country with 1,190 islands. The problem was that most beaches were privately owned by resorts, and to use a resort beach you had to pay their (exorbitant) fee. Ah ha, but we got creative. We took a passenger ferry to a local island, one not controlled by a resort, and spent two glorious days enjoying a half a mile of beach, and an expanse of shimmering blue water all to ourselves. We also smuggled ourselves aboard a SCUBA boat and snorkeled over a beautiful coral wall, visited the national art museum, discovered how and where the locals eat and, my favorite, enjoyed relaxing for hours in a coffee shop, sipping an actual cup of coffee. That coffee thing may seem like a trifle, but after six months of limited access to western style coffee and no access to western style "just sit and read for an hour" coffee shops, it felt like a huge luxury.
That's it for now. Keep checking my blog for periodic updates, and don't forget to look at the updates to my web album. Ya, no Maldives picks yet. They will come.
KNH (Kindernothilfe) Hostel (Bala Bhavan) in Kanam
I've alluded to the rascals many times, but now I officially present to you the boys of KNH Hostel in their very own article.
Since sometime in late October I've been visiting KNH Hostel. The KNH actually stands for a German word, Kindernothilfe, which means "Helping poor children." KNH Hostel is also often referred to as Bala Bhavan, which means "boy's home." I normally just say, "I'm going to Kanam," Kanam being the village where the hostel is located. This hostel is home to about 60 boys ranging for elementary school age to college age. It is a place for boys who, for one reason or another, cannot study and live at home. Some of the children are orphaned; others come from poor households that cannot accommodate the expenses of schooling a child. Though almost every one of these children comes with a heart-breaking story of their own, my visits there have (almost) always been extremely joyful affairs. The boys are full of life and energy, lots of smiles and they are never shy to teach me some new tricks.
The first time I visited Kanam was something of a traumatic experience. Once my conversation with Mercy Miss, the head warden of the hostel, ended, children overran me. "WHATISYOURNAME?" "HOWAREYOUIAMFINETHANKYOU!" "WHEREAREYOUGOING?" I answered as best as I could while trying to manage five or six handshakes at a time. Thomas, another one of the wardens, shooed away the younger children and so I was left alone with just a few of the older boys. We sat down together in the main courtyard and started to learn about each other. I asked them their names, what they're studying, which is their favorite subject, etc. They answered politely, and then scrutinized me at length in Malayalam. Finally, one the oldest boys, Subin, paused, gave me a good once over and proclaimed, "You have a very large nose." "Yes and you have a very large mouth" I thought to myself. This cat and mouse game of dialogue finally came to a close when I saw it was time to catch my bus to Kottayam. I only spent a few hours at the hostel, but at that point, I was convinced that I didn't need to come ever again. Somehow I ended up back the following week.
I'm glad to say that the first visit was the only one where I actually feared for my life. Each time I went back to Kanam I enjoyed it a little more and a little more. Now I can say that it's probably my favorite weekly activity. I absolutely adore those guys. I go when I have time, usually on the weekends, and stay from one to three days at a time.
My daily activities there are basically split into two categories: time with the little ones and time with the big ones. Time with the little ones usually occupies my early afternoon hours. One common activity is going for "wild" walks. I call these walks "wild" for many reasons. They usually involve walking across many people's private property and entering homes without warning. We also often disturb tourists at a nearby "rustic retreat." To these boys, no land in or around Kanam is off limit and they move about it with incredible confidence. Normally by the time I catch up with one to say, "Deepu, we really shouldn't be in this man's yard" we are already inside his house and drinking a cup of his tea. The strange thing is, most people don't seem to mind the intrusion.
These walks are also a lesson in local flora. They pick literally every flower they see and give it to me; usually the gift comes along with some sort of message like "I love you, Uncle" – incredibly endearing. We also have tasted every edible thing in the nearby forest. We eat oranges the size of a bowling ball, pineapples, the chewy lining of pods dropped for trees, coconuts, and these incredibly sour pink fruits. I always look forward to these walks, but they have been toned down recently. Now Mercy Miss insists that several older boys come along as well. This usually mitigates the wildness by a significant margin.
The other main chunk of time is spent with the big ones. These guys are more the conversational type. We often go for quiet, non-wild walks in the early morning, sometimes not speaking for minutes at a time, but simply enjoying the coolness of the air. At night we often stay up way past curfew and discuss all things Malayali and American. One of our favorite activities is trying to tell jokes. This is an incredibly difficult task.. Most jokes assume some level of inside knowledge of a culture, and also utilize some sort of wordplay so we have to tell each other these jokes using a combination of Malyalam and English. Usually the jokes don't translate and the response to a punch line is only the sound of a cricket chirping in the distance, but occasionally we have a winner. Here's my favorite so far:
"Yesterday (name someone in the room) was trying to get a coconut from the tree by throwing stones at it. He failed because one of the leaves kept getting in the way. So finally he climbed the tree with his machete, cut down the leaf and slide down again, satisfied that he could now dislodge the coconut with a stone."
Now that's a great joke. I'm headed off for Kanam this very afternoon so who know what adventures await me. I'm excited because it's been almost two weeks since my last visit, but no worries, in May when all of the students are off campus, I may just make Kanam my temporary permanent home.
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