return to your first love

Hallelujah;
I am a VESSEL,
a TREE, a LOVER,
a FREE-THINKER, and
will SPEAK TRUTH.

For I am LOVED by a
very GRACIOUS king,
who RESCUED me,
and bids me live with my
EYES CLOSED AND HEART
OPEN.

To live purposefully, illuminately, is my calling.
My hope.
My peace.

little thoughts

Kind and loving Father,
no spirit higher than my soul can I give You.
No worship more than admiration can I pass.
Just little words from a corrupted heart, tiny hopes amidst
barges of dank and putrid sin.

Like tar, thick and grotesque, sin clings to me,
cemented under my teeth, in the spirals of my
nerves.

It cannot be combed out by human hands or wishfulness. Nor
by active ingenuity can we swipe clean our
goopy slates.
We are dirty; the heavy period has been placed
at the end of our unpardonable sentences.
Sentences to a justified termination.

Life is not ours to claim. As if WE had control.
Our matrix is our desired realm-imagining that we can steer the wheel,
make the grade, reach the top.

But the realness of our reality is what troubles me the most.

The truth in between our drawn-in lines of fiction terrify me because we mostly choose to NOT
recognize it.

That man without God is nothing. Not even is he dead, because there ne'er was life.
And yet Life came.

A gift. A breath. A tangled mass of matter, like webs,
covering and linking and building a body with an
active mind,
a fleshy heart,
and a luminescent soul
locked inside.

Life.
Founded in a world intended to be experienced through the
eyes, ears, tongues, nerves.
A world created for the total interaction between the species,
the elements,
and most especially, the God of
heights--
Whose imagination poured forth each organism with such creative genius that makes one gape in
awe, fear, respect, and unquenching love.

Love. A tast of God's blood that is the essence of life.
Conditioned to love and be loved,
the pursuit of such things both make and destroy,
enhance or tear down.

Love is the battery that makes the point of living
so clear.

And such a lifestyle, such a state of being is a thing to marvel over.
And be grateful for-that we, the human collective,
were not made robots called to "serve" a master who
delights in mechanical, soul-less obedience.

No! With love comes choice, a powerful
intentive steering wheel, a
gift to acknowledge in sweet gratitude.

Hosanna to our gracious king for mercy and such simple, yet profound,
thing as choice.
True love, we see, is composed of making decisions.

Will I love that person when I am tired, sick, or fed
up with them?
Will God still love me when I am tired, sick, or fed
up with Him?

Questions-a series of questions and answers.
Answers come from sharing questions with other people
who have had other questions like yours.

Bless those.
Blessings unto God for our fellow members of the species.

Love, questions, answers, choices.
Faced with those of the current generation, we garner knowledge
from each other, to live a life of
MORE awareness.

And together we link in a beautiful arrangement and
(are meant to) look to our glorious, harmonious, ingenious
master artist,
who synced our spirits with His when we were raised to life.
Let us therefore step into
immortality,
to sing our songs with the ethereal stars,
and LOVE our creator, and love
each other
without
hypocrisy.

taking time to waste it

Stuck in my head like music,
like lyrics that flow and move
and have meaning.
Like lines from a movie, that
voice is so clear.
over and over in loops,
cartwheeling between my
hemispheres, until,
bleary-eyed,
I rise before the sun, not
exhausted
but
excited!

Wanting more; hungering after it.
Surely it will come;
Surely I can appease my anticipation with some fanciful dream
or maybe the passing of time
will help to curb the realized enthusiasm.

But when poetry flows so
freely and necessarily from
my pen, such energy
cannot be destroyed, so much as
misdirected.

wash

Love is always enough to cover. When people genuinely love you, on the spot, that is significant. And then, one step farther, one thought bigger, when you realize that Jesus, the cool hippie who defied culture and politicians and social boundaries and prophetic expectation and established protocol, also has a spot in his heart for you, and went so far as to be sacrificed so that you could take in breath and life; that he actually, SERIOUSLY, loves you, and is IN LOVE with you, is almost too cool to take in. 

and you think, once, you actually process that, and make it real in your heart and mind, you can’t help but wonder, what was it about me that made Him love me so much? Why? Dude, I do stupid things all the time. It’s hard for ME to love me sometime, but..and then it hits you that Jesus is JUST THAT COOL. 

He just loves you because that’s what he does. He’s so chill, so perfect, such a good solid friend, and the most picturesque leader, and he just seriously really, really likes you. He likes to be mysterious with you, and surprise you, give you the chills, feed you good food, make sure you get home safe, wants you to respect yourself, and to take care of other people like they were family. 

He wants you to be all-natural, and happy, and there’s this one phrase that he likes, “to be wise as serpents and harmless as doves”. He’s a really beautiful poet, an excellent artist, a natural engineer, and a great conversationalist. 

And He’s incredibly loyal, gives the best advice, and will always take you in. 

Jesus is my total role model- I wish I could be like him. 

No matter what anyone else says, I’ll always believe that he was the best human that ever lived, and I am totally, madly, shamelessly in love with Him. His love is a-bubbling over in my soul <3

today i am missing africa.

hello, happiness.

I am now officially a Southern Village resident. I am equipped with all of my basic necessities, along with a few comforts, and have just said good bye to my dear, sweet family. They’ll be back home in California shortly. And now, I am here. I am here for one week until it’s time for me to go off to my different orientations and whatnots for Campus Ministries. And I have to admit, I do very much like this arrangement. Sitting pretty in my little apartment, carefree and totally happy being back in Tennessee. It brings to mind that independence I once had in Africa. The liberation is tangible, and it tastes so good. Hello, apartment. Hello, joy.

things that happen inside people

i spent last year in Malawi, and i saw many things.

i cried, traveled, was challenged, and i absorbed many things.

BBC filled my mind, and tragedy filled my sight, and i learned many things.

hope was preached by hypocrisy's best friend: indifference, and i gave up on many things.

up and down, i came and fled from Jesus, and i suffered many things.

mind abuzz with questions lacking answers, and illusions, now deluded, i lost faith in many things.

soul-bothered and sore-shouldered, carrying the weight of the burden of helplessness, i discerned many things.

push, pull, tug, tear, and my heart whispered many things.

until finally, when all was at a loss, and everything i valued was sifted and shifted and decreased, i stared at my dirty feet, heaved a great heave of Malawian sky, and knew that Jesus was still King, and i was content.
with many things.

reading is confusing?

why cant i just make things easy and read one book at a time? i have at five separate books stretched open to the leaves i read last, laying about my room, lonely and waiting to be finished. and depending on my mood, i'd say i'll get around and finish them all by Christmas time. i read The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova in the mornings, and Great Expectations in the late morning. In the afternoon, I cover several documents in The Israeli-Arab Reader, and at night I switch between Henrik Ibsen's Emperor and Galilean and and Marcel Proust's Swan's Way.

Confused? So am I.

AND

now i miss Africa.

growing up starts inside, i think

God, be the breath in me;

Be the sparkle in my eye, the smile that glides strong and bright over that lower portion of my face;

Be the hand that gives, the wiry cord that ties up all my loose ends;

The socks that hold my shivering legs in one piece;

The shoes, tied tightly, that stand my feet upon the ground, in one place, never fleeing;

The engine within that revs forward at any show of fear, never shrinking;

Never shutting off, shutting down, freezing up.

I hope that I can swallow this angst and remind myself of who I am, of who God made me,

And walk into the brightest light, the darkness tunnel, to the other side of the door which is a mystery unto me.

The time has taken its time. My soul has persisted slowly, dragging its feet in heavy anticipation that one day I would actually need to take this great leap of faith, and trust

That someone will catch me.

And even if nobody does, and I eat gravel, I think God will still have me,

And He’ll be smiling at me, those big pearly whites glowing, because

I tried.

I faced fear and, conquered or defeated, I did what I thought ridiculous, impossible, impenetrable.

And I suppose I’ll just have to dust off my jeans and keep moving forward.

No.

Running forward.

today..

i release the fear in my heart.

and tomorrow is a new day to try everything all over again.

big breath. you got this.

living in a yellow yolky sun

the heat is overwhelming, but it is just enough to take me anywhere.

the day break flows in and fills up the empty dark spaces like watercolor running together over a creamy canvas. the suns cracks like a line over a cool, smooth egg shell. the air is fresh like mint on a chilled wind. it pours over my skin, refreshing my visage. my arms.

and the sun breaks forth in a yolky mass, spreading thickly and casts a humid atmosphere over us all. it is heavy, and so, so yellow.

reflections

passions, emotions,
they take hold, they grab hold;

and i am like a person who is held back by the ocean
from pursuing innumerable wonders
that would
fill my head with adventures
and
my heart with love.

O what a world that we live in!

so beautiful, yet filled with
many significant inconveniences.

restlessness paired with impassioned hearts and
limbs aching for action, yet constrained by time
and space.

progressive anxiety burrows into the muscles that
crowd my neck;
my joints pop(!) as often as i step.

today, i am extra everything;
wishful squared and restless;
seeking, longing, praying for differences.

my faith lies on a thin white line, barely moving yet
daring to leap.
a little speck, a tiny spark, is all it needs to catapult into the great unknown
that is our future.

my future.

the one i am waiting for, but not presuming to know.

and when it does arrive, the question is,
will i recognize its presence, or will it be like smell,
and simply be another part of me?

i really tried

to deactivate my account on Facebook.

but then i remembered that i never answered this ooober long message from a good friend of mine in Africa.

so i reactivated it again. it was really easy. you just log right in.

and just like that my facebook fast was over.

someone

assumed i was a high school graduate when mom and i showed up at the car dealership.

"Oh is this a graduation present?" the lady asked condescendingly, a coke in her hand.



"No." Is all I say.

Even though I knew she was being generous with me by assuming I looked old enough to graduate.

Question of my life: When will I stop looking like I'm fourteen?
Sadness.

friends are good

laughing, screaming, talking over one another,
carrying six different conversations with
eight different people.

your laughter is like orange juice to my soul.
your wild, raucous comments
remind me that my heart can be satisfied much more
easily than i imagined.

i am filled with joy, one that
i believe i hardly deserve.
but i am so grateful.
so unbelievably grateful to have
friends like you in my life.

from all ethnicities, ages,
areas, schools, interests,
you complete me.

you are my nest, my safety,
my cause for dancing, and my
reason for such consistent joy.

from the bottom of my soul,
i love you.
how did i ever do without you for so long?

a purely recreational blog; one that doesnt really make much sense. but it entertained me, so..

i search through my drawers, looking for something that i cannot put my finger on.

what is it? what do i need to find?

an old journal? a picture? a book i once loved and then forgot all about?

im searching for that one missing thing that will make my joy complete. if only i could find what i am looking for...

i glance around at my walls, covered floor to ceiling in collages, paintings, maps, mother boards from my brothers old computers (they are so beautiful to me, in the way of organized and artful information), and books. everywhere books. this room is a disaster-categorized chaos at best. but i love it. everything in it has an irreplaceable value, some sweet memory attached to it. i love it. i take in the essence. the only time i shed a tear coming home is when i stepped inside my room-dusty, untouched, like i never left at all-and just took it all in. did i already say that i love it?

and now i tear it apart, digging through papers, paintbrushes, recipe books, keepsakes looking for that one little thing that will pull it all together. and still, i laugh at myself because i have no idea what im trying to find.

maybe i just need to orient myself. maybe my eyes just need to graze over everything here, take it all in, like a buyer at a swap meet looking for a real prize. my prize is...what? everything here? nothing at all?

im not lost now that i am back home.
i dont feel overly altered by my experiences abroad. a little wiser, maybe. possibly a little disheartened. but on the whole, pretty okay. i love it here. i missed this place. my people. my favorite people in the world that i could be bored with and still have the BEST time ever. my heart was aching for those people.

and oh, the smell of home, too! the glorious, life-giving, soul-lifting sweet fragrance of this place, my town, the mountains, the lake, the sky, the fresh air. oh how i forgot the smells..they would make a sick person well. the fountain of youth springs from these mountains, i'd swear.

and the food! and the grocery stores! and the perfect weather, and the safe drivers, and the abundance of coffee, and people who would never in their life be so rude as to stare at me as i walk down the street because i have white skin. the safety, the comfort, the language freedoms, the familiarity, the streets, the fact that i can drive my car again, the prospect of school. My god, what a wonderful thing is home! i only wish i wasnt so happy to be back!

of course, so much of who i am comes from Africa. i certainly traded a piece of my heart with malawi. i took some, and it took some.

Africa took and took and took until there was no more to take. and then it gave and gave and gave in ways that will take me a lifetime to understand. so, from the bottom of my heart, i am so grateful to you Africa. your sweet sadness is tattooed into my soul.

but now, to search. to search for the thing that makes it all worth it. somewhere-i suppose i have a notion that its tucked away in another drawer, the closet, the attic. somewhere. it has to be there. or is it?

maybe, quite possibly, that something is hidden within me. like a forgotten word on the tip of the tongue.

someday it will spring forth from inside me, curtsy, and smile as if to say, "looking for me?" and i suppose this something would giggle at me as if to say, "I've been right here all along, silly."

and then of course, it will hit me, that the thing i may be looking for is something that does not yet exist. it is hope. it is faith that i am on the road to completion. that God is making a good work in me. that good things will happen, and bad things will happen. but it all will happen, and the future will come when i am looking elsewhere.

yes, perhaps that is it, then. i am searching for an answer to a question i have yet to ask. a clue is what i need, but will not attain. and i search for it madly.


and if i dont stop myself now, i'll probably start garbling into a vague and ridiculous philosophical debate with myself about knowledge and wisdom and future and present, and goodness knows what else.

home.

enough said.

8 days from leaving

The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.

My heart wrinkles a little.

I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.

I sigh.

It is quiet.

A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.

I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.

I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the rubbish bin.

Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.

Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.

But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.

I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.

breathe, dear, just breathe.

my eyes are filled with wonders,
my heart is filled with spirit
like coffee for the soul
gelato for the brain,
travel makes me sing,
zambia, mallorca and spain.

mother and my friend,
embracing, reuniting
tightening the over stretched
ropes that bind
a mother and
her daughter

under a tourist's sun,
upon white sand beaches
luxury at my beck and call,

i will recover from this
third-world hell-hole

to be conflicted, engages,
happy and bitter-sweetend,

all of this and more, i
am acutely eager to live through.

come on, june 1. you can run to me faster than this.

foggy-headed and rather hung-up on despressing subjects

Life, don’t let me down. Not this one.
Samantha Richardson
May 15, 2011

The broom falls heavy on the floor
sweeping up the fragments of my disappointed heart.

The swagger of your once so-humble soul
echoes like a mockery in the chasm that now keeps the distance
between us both.

How can the one person I respect so much
change so dramatically between one phone call and the next?

You, I thought you’d always have my back,
fail, because you’re now too interested in your own fail safe.

The trust that once bound
disintegrates with each new thing you learn.

Your brilliance has become a curse,
your kindness melted from gold into
a puddle of finite resources made of Chinese plastic.

A voice, sturdy, now
more bendable, less flexible
A boldness once endeared
now feared,
wished away.

And I’m hoping you’ll just grow out of this.

Don’t over-change yourself because you’re
desperate for freedom from your past.

Promise me that you will climb over your
arrogance

and find the way back to the beautiful boy I was once so proud
to call friend..


Not a friend, this friend,
the knower of my colors

Capture this one not, o life

A prayer and deepest desire,
spare him his innocence.

Don’t let me down, o life.
not this one.

heated about things like coffee, figuring my life out, and eventually shakespeare. oh life.

Sometimes you have to throw away a perfect thing, because the timing just isn’t right. Like Jamie Thomas, who I met at the end of senior year. in my opinion, he probably would have made an excellent first boyfriend, and that’s hard to do with me. I’m insanely picky. But whether or not Jamie would have done, I wouldn’t know, because a month after we met, flirted (he said something like, “I feel like I’ve known you for my whole life”), we graduated and I never saw him again. Strange how those things happen. Something that could be really, really good, just disappearing like they were insignificant.

I’m a big believer in the expression, “there are no coincidences”. That’s probably why I like Gibbs from NCIS so much. There are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe not a reason that can be understood at the moment; maybe not for years. But still. Nothing happens without a purpose, and it’s my constant dissection of life’s events that keep me occupied, hopeful, and impressed that everything is under control and things are happening as planned. And someday, no matter if I’m going through heaven or hell, I will understand and appreciate the circumstances I was put in. I think that’s what life is about really-garnering memories to share with other people.

You learn your lessons, and then pass them on to inspire other people.

Just about the worst thing happened to me last week. I had a major attack in my digestive track, collapsed, and had to be administered injections to take the pain in my stomach away. It seems that I may have something like minor ulcers. Most likely (and this is my unprofessional opinion, based solely on my experiences) from these past 10 months in Africa. The worst part of it is, I have to stay away from caffeine. That’s fine with me, as far as sodas and chocolates go, but when it comes to coffee, this pretty much broke my heart.

If you know me, then you know that I am a coffee JUNKIE. Not one of those pansy coffee drinkers with the grande iced mocha latte, double shot of caramel, extra cinnamon on my whipped cream. No. I’m talking straight up black, no milk, no sugar, the real deal coffee. I’ll drink it anytime, anywhere. One of the ideals of Europe, to me, is drinking a steaming cup of fine Italian coffee, reading a paper, and smelling the rain. Sounds nice, right? But the coffee is the heart of it. Without it, the point is void.

Like people who are experts in wine (“Wineys”), I was pretty much on my way to becoming a total expert in coffee (making me a “coffee-y”?). Yes, I’ve had my share in Ethiopian, Columbian, Venezuelan, Italian, French, American, Malawian, Indian. I know my way around. I could tell you that Indian is sweet and delicious. Malawian is as rich as tree root, with a sweet tang that rises through your nose. Ethiopian is as “boner” (so strong you feel it as deep as your bones) as it comes. Colombian and Venezuelan fill you up to your toes, and Italian is so strong it almost feels healthy. Are you getting my drift?

So I was pretty much at a loss for words when I learned I was hereby restricted from strong drinks like coffee, as they stimulate acid in the stomach, which then stimulates the ulcers in there too.

My plan, however, is to talk to a doctor as soon as I get home from this ridiculous continent and have them test me out. if there aren’t any ulcers on the screen, forget it. I’m taking it back up again. If there are…well, then I’ll deal with that when it comes.

I just decided a couple weeks ago that I’m going to pursue International Studies (French emphasis) and a Political Science minor. This requires that I take amazing classes under the categories of literature, languages, history, art, international relations…it’s pretty much the most excellent path for me. I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out.

One of the other requirements is living abroad yet again, only this time in France, in the alps, in a small Alpine village that overlooks Lake Geneva. Can it be any more picturesque, any less Africa, thus any more perfect? Maybe you can hear the desperation to get away from this place seeping through these words and pictures.

What can I do? I am plagued by a rotten body imagine, a vegan diet (that I am really trying so hard to follow but it’s getting to the point where none of it feels worth it anymore), ulcers, babysitting students that all have ADD, ADHD, no motivation or a bad attitude, and am constantly bogged down by the frustrations of a third-world country (the power went out AGAIN this morning. And our water was off yesterday. And when that happens every week for ten straight months, patience wears thin, folks). Oh god, god! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses in this world! Fie upon it, ah fie! Tis an unweeded garden grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature posses it merely. That it should come to this!...

Okay, Hamlet rant.

I should probably stop this before I move onto Macbeth..

when a fiery star falls down from heaven, shrinks into a spore, is inhaled, and then expands again. that what it feels like.

Hunger.
So hungry.
we have plans, fun ones, today.
but first, to the meal.

Hunger.
stomach scraping, heart-burning hunger.
we sit. We wait. We order. We wait.
food comes. Not mine. I tell her, “eat, your stomach needs food”
And then mine comes. One bite, delicious.
first samosa, finished.
Samosas, and sweet coffee.
warm and smooth.
a perfect tantalizing mixture.

But hunger pains keep going.
I waited too long to eat.
why am I not filling?
still hurting.

The pain is not satisfied. Must be louder. Screams, a seam rips. Something hurts, so bad. It seeps into my back, excruciating, soul-writhing, demon-possessed pain. Hot, acidic, unquenchable.

I cry out. I lay down my cup, my warm pocket of veggies wrapped in gently fried phyllo dough. The peas are plump, the potato curry steaming, the smell makes me cringe.

In the restaurant, I duck behind the chair. I stretch out, begging this pain to leave me. it refuses. Worse than before. My back, like exploding veins of sickle-cell acid piercing both sides in a manner of war.

I twist, writhe, must get out. I give money to Cass, and abandon my warm meal for hope of homeful healing. A bed. I require one. The door, I need it now.

But no, up a long hill I walk, past smelly Africans, dodging mini buses, ignoring the demanding beggar woman. I come to a grassy knoll. It is hot, dry, brittle, pokey grass. I lie down, the pain having doubled me over like a jack-knife. I sprawl, then clench again, my back searing me, and my stomach exploding in white hot lava.

Oh. My…


God.

I get up. I am already attracting a crowd. I tell myself I must vomit. I must get this poison out of me. my brain reminds me that pain is all in the mind, the perception of the world around you. If you try hard enough, it would not exist if you do not allow it to. Then I seize up. This pain will NOT end. screw logic and philosophy. Dear God, I don’t want this. Please, take this.

I make it to the gate, dragging my purse at my ankles. I come to the steps, past the gaurds who are chatting, who have kind stomachs and painless backs. I am too in pain to be jealous.

At the second step, I cry out and collapse. I shove my finger into the back of my throat and gag myself. it takes a few tries, but I succeed. Somewhat. Very small amounts surface, and relief is not what I feel. The only thing that I feel is the end of the rope that I am hanging upside down on. Pain! Shooting! Cannot sit, cannot stand, cannot lie down. Too much pain! This can’t be real, this cant be happening! I am dying. Or I want to die. If this pain does not end NOW, I will make it end. I will kill myself.

My excruciation has brought me an audience. People I don’t know, didn’t look at, and will never see again, picked me up, laid me down, asked me questions and looked in awe at the “mzungu” with “malaria”. Psh. Malaria. If my tooth was aching they’d call it malaria.

Cass comes. She sees me. the old man at the gate cries out that “your friend is sick!!” she ducks to me, and then runs to the hospital.

I am in so much pain, I cannot answer the incessant questions beyond... I cannot. I cannot move. I writhe, clenching my legs. I unstrap my bra. In delirium, or the state right before it, I drag nails across my face and let out wails like the ones given by mourning women outside the hospital who grieve for the dead. The onlookers gather for a closer look. To be fair, they sound concerned.

Cass comes. My legs are at perpendicular angles, seized in pain. My back is arched, my stomach somewhere. Somewhere it’s never been before, and is never allowed to go again.

Cass assesses the situation like a good PA prodigy, and does what no other onlooker has the means to do. She calls the Blantyre Adventist Hospital staff’s personal cell phones. She calls Ann. Who calls Adriel, the surgeon. God bless him. if surgery is what it takes, if I could be put under, administered anesthetics, then I wont have to kill myself.

Please, put me in surgery. Now.

Adriel is coming, bringing his car. cass massages my back and snaps at the interfering (but well-intended) onlookers. A man offers to take me to his house where I would be more comfortable. No. I cannot move. I will die before I move.

Minutes drag. I repeat over and over, oh my God, oh my God, oh my god, oh my god. A mantra, a prayer, both, I am unsure. But at last my God did help me. Adriel came. He was there beside me, asking me professional questions, prodding my back, my stomach. I cry out.

Could be kidneys. A tear slips out my eyes.

But not the appendix, he says. The pain is too high.
I am relieved. Cass is too. She exhales.

I cannot walk, but I must move. Adriel carries me, lays me in the back seat. I curl up. Cass grabs my bag, my shoes, my jacket, my scarf. Everything, I stripped it. I would have taken off my pants too-not sure why-but I lost feeling in my hands before I could. And my coordination was not too strong.

We back up, drive the car to the hospital. It is 30 seconds away, but it feels like an hour. How many three point turns do we have to make to turn this stupid car around? I start moaning my mantra even louder. I am outside myself, unable to stop this pain, unable to control my words, my contractions, my hands smooshing and pulling my face apart as I cry, and continue to lose feeling in my extremities. All I want is to faint to get away from this pain. But it’s apparently not strong enough. I was meant to live through this.

Adriel parks, but I cannot go into the hospital. I cannot move. I cannot speak. And when I do, my voice is heavy, cracked and burdened with both fear and the desperation.

He runs for a pain killer shot. Minutes pass. Don’t remember what I did. Cass talked to me. don’t remember what she said.

He comes back, says it might hurt. Give it me, I say inside my head. He draws blood, but squeezes every last drop of whatever that was into my blood stream. How long will it take, cass asks. We will wait and see. Adriel goes for anti-acids. I pull it out and hand my bra to cass. Will you hold that? She laughs and stuffs it in my bag. Too much pain to understand why it was so odd.

Gradually, within three minutes I would say, the pain started to leave me. it retreated from my back first, evaporating into nothingness. I cursed it. And then, minutes later, with the arrival of the doctors, good friends, I turn to my side and feel with relief that the hell pot inside of my stomach is subsiding.

The doctors, my people, check me, get the story, and pose their different theories. Pancreatitis? No, it was too fast. Kidney stones? No, she’s too young. It was the gradual change of diet while being in Africa. But, really? does it end up like this? I’ve been in Africa almost 10 months. And suddenly? I reject that idea. A consensus goes around that its some sort of hyper-acidity. I am growing stomach ulcers from this year, apparently. Stress from a medical point of view? I don’t know, but it makes me laugh. The irony. They get me pills, and syrup, to drink and take three times a day. I hold them like treasure.

I feel so good now, I can sit up. I can smile, I can laugh. Praise you God that I can exist without pain! You are so wonderful! Thank you for my doctors. Your doctors. You have given me so much. If I had been out in the bush, I may have died from so much pain. I say that a lot, but it’s only because I must never go through that again. I could not do that again.

Adriel takes us home. He hands cass the meds. The pain supposedly wont come back.
All I know is that I have never been so relieved. I know God has really taken care of me. and I also know that when I go into labor, whenever that day comes, I WILL be using the epideral. Because pain like, it just aint worth your time.

so, that was me, yesterday. voila.

lets hold hands

Life is art, completely and irrevocably. Life is our canvas, and our actions are our art. What shall we do with it? We have the capacity of living beautifully. Shall we do it? Do we dare?

I intend to, with the greatness of love and humility, ignorance and bliss, being both routed and lost, decided and indifferent, cautious and liberal, both collecting and distributing, generating, recycling, circulating kindness, knowledge and the art of an individual life, like currency, for the uniqueness of another on their decidedly distinct path. And we shall trade my stories for yours, your experiences for mine, and we shall grow each other, give to receive, give to build, give to shape and create and furnish. Give to encourage, educate, enlighten. Give for love and joy at being alive and free. And receive bountifully in your own eye, the peculiarities of a fellow nomad on this spherical realm. For we are nomads, all of us, and we are meant to learn from one another, all the things which are meant to be gotten out of this life. from others, we see places unimagined, experience events once exclusive and now open. All experiences in life are meant to be shared with others, to feed and fuel the race and stimulate growth in the interweaving tapestry of life. And it is beautiful, I say!

The tapestry of life, the interconnectedness of people, place, time, circumstance is both too amazing to behold, and too beautiful to be ignored. We are each other’s burden, belonging to one another, and God is the master weaver, who brings together all things for good. The tapestry of life is gorgeous, despite dark and seemingly messy places. Step back, however, and see how it corresponds astoundingly. You come to realize that all of life is just as one breath; matching and interacting with each facet we humans have structured as something different from the other. But nothing is different, everything is the same, only the representation is slightly altered. Art is the same as math and physics. History is the same as psychology, as religion is philosophy, and that leads back to art, which leads to math, and stars, and photosynthesis, and libraries, and people, and food, and personalities, and culture. It is all the same, except in the symbol and size of it! That is, you study one thing, and you study them all. It is merely up to you to decide which form and measure. All life is the same, yet the differences are displayed by a conglomeration of colors and images. Our senses inform us of the uniqueness and fascinating distinctions in this world.

And it is the free-minded that find it, I dare say. It is the ones breaking the mold of the sociological mores who discover how life holds hands with itself. It is the ones who dare take a leap of difference, for the sake of life itself, and they who behold the grandeur of the unimaginable presentation. Who stumble upon the truth of it while they are lying asleep on the shore of a beach in some far off land. It is those plagued by wanderlust and adventure who stumble upon the mysteries of life. And God bless them! For life is one, and we are meant to find it, through love and breath and courage.

Life is our canvas, as I said, and our actions are our art. And our art is a piece of the puzzle, and the puzzle fits together in a gorgeous display of ethereal and unmatched perfection. Don’t soil it with stupidity.

Life is meant to be lived by these simple rules: have faith, have love, have courage, have imagination, and have a good humor. That is all, and that’s the glorious end and beginning.

just cant

forget sleep.

all i can think about is going home and what it will be like

and why am i am dreading it..

a

headache.
bout of boredom.
momentary warmth.
chilled walk.
a stare.
a flickering of the eyes.
a name on the tip of my tongue.
it comforts me.

smells.
i remember those well.
and with them come memories too great, they bring tears to my eyes.
they are clogging my tear ducts, causing traffic,
causing blurry vision,
taking my eyes off the road God has lead me on.

who am i?
not who i was when i graduated high school
not who i was when Elias died.
not who i was 9 months ago, when Africa punched me in the heart.
not even who i was yesterday.

change is constant.
the question of tomorrow hangs in the air.
will it be better?
worse?
boring?

but i walk anyway, making myself move forward,
making myself take it in,
because i know that soon this will all be over,
and this chapter, this heavy chapter,
will be finished,
and will be regarded as a blurry memory
where i cant remember who i was, now.

lord, let me take it in.
let me smell you,
and remember who you are.
let me feel you with my memory..
and staple you to my agenda for the blurried tomorrows.

The History of Love, p. 76-77

“I wrapped my hands around the coffee. The warmth felt good. The next table over there was a girl with blue hair leaning over a notebook and chewing on a ball point pen, and at the table next to her was a little boy in a soccer uniform sitting with his mother who told him, The plural of elf is elves. A wave of happiness came over me. It felt giddy to be part of it all. To be drinking a cup of coffee like a normal person. I wanted to shout out: The plural of elf is elves! What a language! What a world!...

It hit me how good it is to be alive. Alive! And I wanted to tell you. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m saying life is a thing of beauty, Bruno. A thing of beauty and a joy forever...”

sometimes

...i have to walk away and pretend some things don't exist.

...i have to remind myself that i won't always be in this situation. that things are temporary.

...that, for better or worse, i'm only here for eight more weeks.

...that it's okay to be frustrated.

...that attitude determines your memories.

...that I am loved.

...that years from now, i'll look back on these moments, and laugh.

lets just

relax this weekend, shall we?

the bullet list

When I am overwhelmed, I have to sit down and make a bullet list. This could be towards de-stressing, or to simply relieve so much excitement! Such as from this weekend.

On Friday, Cass, her parents, Krystle and I made it up to the capital, Lilongwe, to pick up her brother, Matthew from the airport.

From there, we headed straight to Lake Malawi, to a gorgeous backpackers lodge called Cool Runnings, which is owned by this hippier, community-oriented white Zimbabwean lady named Sam. The African rain nearly drowned us both nights, but the days cleared beautifully, and we got to snorkle in the lake, and hang out on the beach.

After the second day, we drove down to Liwonde National Park, where we took a boat ride up the Shire River to another camp in the middle of the game park, along the river. It was so cool! We had hippos come up to us during the night, chomping away on the grass, and warthogs during the day, down on their knees, feasting too. The first day we got there, we took an awesome car safari ride, saw elephants, hippos, impala, bushbuck, waterbuck, baboons, and tons of gorgeous birds.

The following morning, we took a river safari and saw crocodiles, and accidentally ran over a hippo! woops. anyway, we left there in the afternoon, went to Zomba Plateau, ate lunch, and chilled out in the lovely, lush mountains.

And when I came back last night, to top off every other amazing thing that happened this weekend, i found out that I GOT THE JOB AT THE SM OFFICE! I am one of three receptionists at the front desk who says, hello, how can i help you become a student missionary. *smile!
im pumped to start working with campus ministries. i feel so blessed that God let me have this job, and i only hope that i can fully do my best!

okay, and then theres today. we went to the Open Arms Orphanage, one of my favorite spots here in Blantyre. we brought clothes, baby formula, shoes, and bibs. they looked smart in there fresh new clothes :) I held one little girl, Patricia, who had been abandoned about 4 or 5 months earlier. they got her then, and take care of her, still trying to track down her family. I also befriended a beautiful boy, Boniface, who was sick, and has gorgeous big, brown eyes. I helped him with his lunch, as well as a tiny little girl. afterward, they had their nap time, and we excused ourselves, and went to have lunch.
i just LOVE going there and taking care of those amazing children. they are so awesome.

for tonight, the last thing i'll write about, we are going hyena hunting at a park nearby. we are supposed to bring meat, and then hide up in a tree to wait for the pack to smell it. then, they come, and we spotlight them, and take pictures, and hope that they cant jump too high :) it should be fun!

well, these werent so much bullet points. maybe im getting better at writing fuller statements, even in my gleeful states.
anyway, thats all! God has blessed so much during this spring break!

it must be the march air

Since coming to Malawi, I have never wanted to stay longer than necessary. I have no interest. No inclination. I wouldn’t know how to be a full-time missionary. But. Tonight my eyes were opened just a millimeter to what it possibly could be like to be a missionary, a real one, I mean..

It started with the book, “Africa Rice Heart”, by a girl named Emily who worked in Chad as a nurse. Go Emily. This girl is awesome. A hippie with a heart for service. I was intrigued.

But, then I look at me. I’m already in Africa. But.

I cringe, turn up my nose at so much. When did I become so high strung? Since when have I cared? Since I saw Europe, and how beautiful things could be? I don’t know. Maybe since the divorce. I’m not sure.

But I’m just not outfitted for this work here in Malawi. It’s too clean, too bearable. I am getting so bored and restless. I hardly sleep, waking up throughout the night, tossing and turning on my hard bunk. Maybe I need more exercise.

Anyway, I just wish I wasn’t so bogged down by fears. Fears of going without, fears of being in unsafe situations, fears of getting hurt. Or worse than fear, worse than anything, I am trapped by rising indifference. I wish I could be like these hippies with hearts for service. But I have a feeling that my style, my interests, are more suited for old European libraries. Why is my lamonin holding together such a selfish mess of interests?

Why can’t I be cool, and not so worried? Why can’t I be fearless? How does one become fearless? This African experience has left me without. I didn’t get what I was hoping to come for. I am possibly even more selfish than before. I wanted to be broken, to change lives, and to have mine changed, like Emily. But no. I’m stuck here in “Africa For Beginners” land, where nothing happens and the biggest scandal is being stared at by some vacant-eyed, shoeless guy on the street. My compassion has dried up, my patience is worn thin, I am so tired of the monotony, so tired in general. Everything is so easy. Why, God? Why did I need to come here?

I need to know the answer.

Will I ever know it?

I need to let you know, Lord, that I have to come back. Not to Malawi, but to some other “Graduate Level” Africa experience. I’m not done yet. I got nothing this year. To feel like I’ve done something here, there is no alternative but to come back.

Maybe…maybe that’s why God sent me here. Because He knew that I wouldn’t have my fill, that I would absolutely have to come back in the future. It secures my return.
God, please, let me come back again someday soon, to a different place, and actually experience it this time around.

Maybe this place was warming me up. Getting most of my kinks worked through. I’ve worked through a lot of myself this year.

Issues have surfaced, been analyzed, addressed and taken care of. I’ve learned so much about people, myself, the world. I feel very much expanded, culturally, in that way. I feel very broad, happy with my views, confident in who I am.

But now, or sometime very close in the future, I want to go deeper.

I need more.

More God, more service; less pretty, more real. I need in-the-face, heart-shaking, ear-pounding work, that will shock the very blood from my body. I want to be in, giving my own blood, loving to the point of death, finding the treasure in the field so to speak. I need You, God. And I need to do this. You see this, saw it the whole time. Forget Europe. It has its own worries. I want you, all of you, and I know I will find it here.

Please, God, take me by the hand and lead me there.

i am aching

to get away. i want to be in the land of wireless internet, starbucks, clean bathrooms, safe streets. i hate to say this, but "i'm feeling over it". i want to check out. and it's a bit too early to feel those feelings. thanks, you people who are encouraging. but, now that ive experienced africa, i cant help but want to whine and say, "let me go home now".

so danny's

gone.

step one of my process of departure has been accomplished.

setp two comes next week, with the arrival of cassie's family. when they leave, we'll move to step three.

which is, my friend, Jan's, wedding in S. Africa. big stufff.

and thence to step four, Cassie's aunt's visit during our last week in May.

after that, we're tasting freedom, baby!

reconstruction

the red paint upon my nails is fading, cracking, chipping away like my once ever-flowing spirit.

i need rest; a trickling stream in a dark and quiet wood.
i need magic, the kind that tingles the under side of the ribs.
i need peace, a light, a hot bubble bath to scrape away these sensations of exhaustion and ingrained filth, which seem sewn within my marrow, and underneath my eye lids.

but, your peace, i can take it.
i can suck it in through a straw of sunlight you decided to shine upon me.
i can absorb it through a smile,
interpret it through the way a small child plays in the sand.

you are my everlasting, never-wanting peace;
a body from which contentment is drawn, and beauty is mirrored.
you are silence, a dream within a dream, of which i know is real.
truth. the purity of which deserves eternal admiration, awe, and praise.

let it be that i drink of your spirit,
inhale your light,
eat of your manna.

you, a one who is so great,
you, and only you, are my heart's desire.

just for the sake

of saying something, I'm going to put this in words.

I am sitting in the hospital doctor's lounge, on a gray, swivel chair, tilted sideways so the internet cable will stretch.

My hair is in a messy pony tail, and I am wearing a very comfy turquoise skirt, black shirt and I've taken off my sandals (my feet are currently bent underneath me). this was a bad idea, because i think i stepped on a mosquito, and now my (left) foot is itchy, itchy. the question in my mind is: "will i get malaria this time?". actually, cholera is the sickness that they theorize will come around any day now, so maybe malaria should not be so dreaded..?

today is thursday, my brother, Ryan, started university at Avondale this week, and my mom, i believe, is feeling rather lonely at home, sensing the empty-nest syndrome beginning. however, im due to depart from this land in approx 96 days, so its not so bad.

i just got back from practicing a line dance with my two buds here. we're having a cow-boy themed good bye party for our texan friend, danny. (he's actually full Argentinean, but who really cares?) he's leaving next week, and it's going to be really sad having yet another friend our age leave malawi. so, we celebrate via a square dance..

and now, i am getting hungry. a friend let us download a bunch of movies from her updated hard drive, so, knowing cass and i, we'll be glued to our laptops for the next several hours. and then, we wake up tomorrow morning, and start everything all over again.

such is my life, at this moment in Africa. (the time is 5:20 in the PM)

97

days left! Eep!

why cant...

why cant i just know? why cant we all just come out knowing what we're supposed to do with our lives? why, instead, must we be spinning in circles, looking for the answers?

i need to stop spinning. someone, please, stick out your foot and trip me. anything to just stop this madness.

It's finally the end

of a really, really long week. In fact, this week feels like it has taken the total length of time I have spent on this continent. which is approximately eight months. I can't believe how it just couldn't, wouldn't end until thirty minutes from now...

so how does one...

turn the other cheek? when what you'd really like to do is rip the person who is taunting you apart with your bare teeth..okay, that's very extreme. and gross. but still.

i have a parent who loves to yell. YELL YELL YELL YELL YELL! They love it! especially at me and cassie...because we're teachers and teachers, as everyone knows, love being yelled at.

but these complaints which are constantly being shot at us from this parent's mouth-rifle are not only totally unnerving, but also completely irrational.

"this late-homework rule is illegal!" he says, stabbing our letter-to-the-parents-reminding-them-of-the-late-work-rule with his finger. he glares at us, daring us to challenge him. we do, naturally. are you serious? what planet are you from? these are the same late rules we in America (he apparently has a high respect for America, so we play that card) have followed since pre-school. illegal? what is that?
another favorite of his is, "you're discriminating against my children! you yell at them in class and not at any of the other students, because we are Muslims!"

I'm sorry, but 1.) do you have a camera hidden somewhere where you are watching this, or are you actually making it all up? and 2.) WHAT?
he LOVES pulling the i'm-from-a-different-religion card (from nowhere, with no encouragement, mind you) whenever possible, because it's bound to win him a few points of guilt. even when there is NOTHING to be guilty for.

Anyway, his two children have a problem with late work. turning it in two weeks late doesnt exactly earn you much, if any, credit in any school in the world, right? i think im right when i say that. but, no, no, no. this is wrong. we need to give them FULL credit when they turn in 14 math assignments over three weeks late, because they are Muslims after all, and we can't be "discriminating". but forget the fact that every other child is expected to bide by the same normal school rules...right, no, those kids are the only exception..?

so, this week, there has been a lot of chiding (and yelling) at these two, to try and motivate(?)/impress upon them the urgency of turning in their late work/etc. sweet-talking, bribing, doing nothing, it doesnt work. not that getting angry does either. but we are up to our eyeballs in frustration, and just OVER it by now (get me home, dang it) and THIS EVENING we get a call saying to expect yet ANOTHER visit from this parent.

my god! a fiery knot inflames in my chest, and the feeling of drowning overtakes me. how can i go through this again? how can i keep myself from turning into a volcano of fury and exasperation at this parents accusations, threats, belittlements, and irrationality?

how, really, does one turn the other cheek

Sogginess

This morning I was woken by the tender tap-tapping of the rain on our tin roof. Careful, as if trying not to scare it, I pulled back my gray curtains an inch, and saw, that there was, indeed, water falling outside, and a thick mist clouding up the sky.

I took a breath, closed my eyes, and whispered a prayer/wish that it would stay like this for the entire day. (In Africa, the trend usually consists of RAIN, SUN, RAIN, SUN, all in one day, which is exhausting keeping up with).

And glory be, folks, my wish was heard and the rain has stayed ALL DAY! Seriously, it's so cool. And this is one of those pointless blogs with nothing significant, but I can't help but be pleased with my Malawian weather, which is consenting so affably today, February 10, 2011. And as for the sogginess in my shoes, pant bottoms, hair, I couldn't be more delighted.

I just wanted to say

that this weekend was good. So good, and so filled with good things, good people, good places. Thank you, Jesus, for these moments of fresh air, in the midst of chaos and confusion. You are the "good-est" part of it all.

I am becoming

impatient.

please, step into my cocoon

I know that I am this way, and I won’t ever change. Maybe, though, I will develop, like a caterpillar does into a butterfly through the means of a warm cocoon.

It makes one wonder what the caterpillar thinks about when he is waiting for his transformation. Is he nervous? Is he afraid of the shape of the wings, the colors of them, the strength? Is he trying to imagine the feeling of the wind lifting his glorious wings, his lithe body? What if he is caught in a storm? What will he do then?

But, I imagine, that these worries are more attractive to those less in tune with instinct-like us. I imagine that caterpillars really don’t think about those things during metamorphosis. They sleep. They wait. They trust nature’s unchanging course.

In the same way, I trust that life will guide me into my different cocoons, and play me music whilst I am being worked upon. So that, when I emerge, I will have scarcely noticed the time which has passed, nor the changes which are now so apparent in me.

i might have had

parasites.

the package that God comes in

The knowledge of God has subsisted, whether as fact or fiction, since the beginning of our time. Men will dispute whether or not there was such a thing as a “life force” who ushered forth matter, breath, and interactive souls, within the period of six days, six eons-or, alternatively-who’s “presence” has no correlation to human life whatsoever.

However, despite the numerous internal conflictions, it may be agreed that it’s permanence in the minds of men is proof enough of its legitimacy within what could be called the “spiritual” component of humanity. Had it been a passing idea, some nonsensical revelation experienced by a doped up guru, or something practiced only by a minuscule, isolated, and socially upset tribe, the notion would have been easily contradicted, criticized, and forgotten. It would have been studied as some strange psychological phenomenon, something either too deep, or too utterly simple, for average comprehension.

Yet, the impression has survived, through every generation, in every culture, within every heart, through each beat, each breath, each new generation. There has existed the innate knowledge of something “out there”, something to be accredited and worshiped; from pagan sacrifices to Catholic indulgences. The component within us, identified as chi, OM, soul, immortality, conscience, the Holy Ghost, whatever name men have christened it with, there is always its undeniable presence; an aura which outlasts the aging body, the weakening senses, and the cycle of problems that we constantly experience. Even to the grave, experiencing finally the physical death that all will suffer in the moment least expected, we feel the presence, the light at the end of the tunnel. More than myths, these spiritual flirtations we dabble in involuntarily speak to us. We all worship something-money, celebrities, the perfect body, our significant other, food. We must look to something, if not up, then side-ways, down, beneath.

Yet, there are perceptions that encompass this immortal portion, which are the theoretical primary colors for the unending part of ourselves. These may be summed up as goodness, courage, hope, and love. They are petrified within the old fairy tales, the white knights, and the age-old glorious idea of good triumphing over evil. It is a spirit which whispers to one of such a time to come; that idea of Heaven, and what it takes to reach everlasting joy and peace and paradise.

And that, my friends, is what we work for. A heaven on earth. Jesus himself instructed us to pray the words, “Your kingdom come…on earth as it is in Heaven”. We are searching, racking our brains, skinning our spleens to find that climax of pure joy, which can be classified as a heavenly achievement. That level when we are finally satisfied, and have no more need. We create, invent, profess ideas of what the next step to that heaven is. where is it? how far must we search?

Have we found it? It seems, folks, that we are all still searching.

Or perhaps, it is right there, staring us in the face.

something like the rain

The clouds release their explosive bladders, and it is a DOWNPOUR, unlike anything I have ever seen. The thunder strikes the sky like a deadly gong. The power flickers, and the lightning flashes in rhythm. Sitting indoors, I can still feel the mists through the open slats near the ceiling. I can barely hear Cassie explaining adverbs to Gloria, just 15 feet away. At 3:00 in the afternoon, the sky is near black. We won’t be walking down to the market today, I imagine.

Then it recedes. But only for a moment.

Just when you release your breath, the thunder again boomerangs through the sky like a time bomb, and punches the air with an ear-boxing roar. Lightning continues to dagger through the atmosphere, sending electrical pulses through the ends of your hair, and under your nerves. It picks up, louder, louder, LOUDER!!!, until you can’t hear yourself think. the grass and flowers are crushed beneath the heavy burden of the sky’s offering.

It sounds like millions of needles being poured onto a metallic table. The powerful smell of mucky soil, rich and fresh, nearly overwhelms your senses.

You feel the chill around your ankles, under your skirt. You shiver. You wish you brought your scarf, pants, boots, jacket, ANYTHING, that will keep you warm or dry. But there is nothing. It was hot and sticky when you left your house.

Thus, Africa continues to surprise you. And thus, you will get wet today.

hindsight (thank you, chris)

My last semester at Southern was colored gray with depression. It was a predictable illness, like the pattern of black and white squares on a chess board. It would start in the late afternoon and hold me in its clutches until the early hours of morning. Sleep came with difficulty, like swallowing a pill with no water. I spent a lot of time on my own, rolling in my misery like a pig rolls in its own excrement. My friends could have been on separate planets for how often we saw each other. And me, with my shaved head, weighted body, and no direction in life, what was I? In short, I was seriously questioning whether I should have returned to Southern or just stayed home. What was the point if I was just going to be miserable?

Basically, I had had a rough first semester. I (happily at first, then later not so happily) acquired my first job at a high-class eclectic couture dress shop called Betsy Johnson. I can tell you more about those few months of horror later, but I’ll summarize by saying that if I had the choice between going to work or going to the hospital with a broken leg, I would have taken the broken leg with pleasure.
The second event which transpired in those four months was a hair crisis both unforeseen and unimaginable. I was approached to be a hair model by a young girl with a purple Mohawk. I should have known then. Unfortunately, I didn’t let that worry me at the time, and agreed to “helping her out”. In short, I went to class the next day with hair just a quarter of an inch long, and it was bright red. Don’t even get me started on how that worked out. I spent the next year and a half growing my hair, and it’s only now hitting below my shoulders. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to cut it again.

The final thing that happened that semester topped everything. Brace yourselves.

One of my best friends passed away.

It was caused by a totally treatable illness that the purely imbecilic doctors failed to diagnose in time. They are currently being sued for malpractice. Idiots.
But pain overwhelmed anger at the time, and I admit that I went back to school in Tennessee with a very heavy heart.

But don’t pity me please. I was pathetic enough as it was. I’ve past the death; I’m alright with it. The rest though, it just makes me laugh and shake my head.
It happens, they say. And folks, it does.

So, for the first half of the semester, to distract myself, I ate breakfast alone in my room and listened to world news via BBC online radio. Then, and this is so embarrassing to write, I would dance. I would switch on Pandora radio and freestyle for an hour or so every morning before class. It released so much tension and was the tangible form of this quiet rebellion that I was fostering when no one was around to watch.

I also spent a lot of time studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which, for some obscure reason, had suddenly caught my attention. I was fascinated on its origin and its constant place among the headlines. I read books on it, and studied Old Testament geography and Levitical law. I read about on how to be a Jew for a year, and actually ordered a Tallit straight from Israel. (A Tallit is a special shirt worn by orthodox Jews underneath one’s clothes. It has special fringe on the four corners of the shirt which symbolize the ordinances given to them by God and was meant to remind the Israelites not prostitute themselves to their worldly desires, but to remain faithful as a remnant people.) I thought it was a fabulous experiment to try wearing the Tallit for one month under my clothes. My friends laughed at me and said I was turning Jewish. But what they didn’t realize, and what I struggled to explain to them through their snorts and eye-brow raising, was that the religion we follow is the little step-sister of Judaism. In fact, when examining Seventh-day Adventism, our signature faith, it is nearly a mirror of Messianic Judaism, with the exception that we are not ethnically Jewish. But, of course, my friends didn’t care about that, and I was playfully mocked whenever they saw me. I tried to be the bigger man (metaphorically; I already looked enough like a man), and allowed them their ignorant fun.

When I finally received the shirt in the mail, I found that it would be much harder to wear than I imagined. It was bigger, shaped like a poncho, and the fringe was at least two feet long. I tried it on under a few shirts and it bulged on every side. A puff of air escaped my lips as I realized that I should probably have thought this through more.

I wore it for a few days, then took liberties by replanting the fringe (which was the most important part of the Tallit) onto another undershirt I had, in hopes to make it easier to wear. But then there was the problem of the length of the fringe. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I thought it would be too blasphemous to trim it down a necessary foot and a half. So I left it in the bottom of my drawer, as more of a symbol than a practical application.

My interest in Judaism, though not completely dead (my interests are keenly geared towards all things. I honestly can’t think of a subject in which I have absolutely no interest), faded somewhat after spending spring break at home. My family doesn’t make it a point to keep up with my rapidly changing curiosities, so I had little support for ordering (and attempting to wear) a Tallit from Jerusalem. The only comment I got on the matter was from my brother, Ryan, who told me not to become Jewish. An echo of my friends. What was so bad about becoming Jewish anyway? I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother explaining to him, as I had to explain to EVERYBODY it seemed, how close Adventism and Messianic Judaism really were. Needless to say, after spring break, I found it exhausting to answer everyone’s redundant, half-mocking questions, and put passion for Jewish affairs on hold for the time being. I can only handle being controversial for so long.

Let me just say one more thing on the topic of Israel and Palestine. Throughout my studies and research, I found myself avidly supporting the creation of Israel and its position in past and current events. Sympathetic to their plight, especially after what happened in World War 2, I heartily believed that what they needed was a home of their own, not unlike the Roma and several other broad, nomadic groups. Was it too much to ask for a place of safety for these people? I mean, if you couldn’t grant them a plot of land which means so much to them spiritually, geographically and culturally, that would make them feel both happier and significant then you’re just as bad as the Nazis. This was my view. And where else could they go? It only made sense for them to go back to the ancient homeland of the Israelites. And, if not there, the somewhere else. If it wasn’t the Palestinians getting pissed off, it would have been others. Get over it.

This was my view…in the beginning. (That was a pun.)

However, I have to say, that though I believe it is right for Jews to have a specific piece of land for themselves in order to provide a safe haven for their traditions, culture, and identity, my position on the matter has changed due to the WAY in which Israel has gone about doing so. If they could free Gaza from its ghetto existence, remove the illegally built settlements, and stay within their partitioned territory as originally specified in the 1940’s, then I would agree with a total Israeli state, and even make a toast to their future endeavors. Of course, this is not the reality of the situation, and until those previously mentioned (and reasonable, might I add) demands are met, I cannot wish well a country who is cannibalizing its neighbors.

I’ll leave those statements where they are and move on. Inshallah.

Boys were not an issue for me that semester (that whole year, actually) because it would have been as close to homosexuality as it gets for them to date me. Remember, my hair was about an inch long at this point-a long way from my starting point, but still, it was a social disgrace. I tried pulling off that “artsy” look, which only barely passed, but remained single the entire four months, without a prospect in sight.

It wasn’t until one afternoon in March that something significant happened in my life to, if only for a minute, lift the fog of depression which was slowly eating me alive. it was one of those moments where you pause and whisper, “God…was that You?”. One of those weird, out-of-body experiences where you HAVE TO LISTEN to that little voice you think you may have just heard. You’re not sure, but wait, let me just be quiet for another second and see if I’m crazy or not…no, I swear I heard something.

The words that I heard, or I suppose it was more of an inner push deep in my gut, was to go online and look up positions to be a student missionary. To explain, at my university, students had the option of taking a year off to study abroad (mostly in Europe) or take a year off to be a volunteer anywhere in the world. The idea of the latter (which was, as you have guessed, called being a student missionary) option always half-way appealed to me, but I never found the time to actually get serious about it.

But the time hit me just then, and I pounced on the internet site. Within ten minutes, I found this awesome position to be a history teacher in Cairo, Egypt. It had my name all over it, and by the next week, I had applied for the job and was teaching myself Arabic.

To my ultimate disappointment, the position in Egypt was taken by the time my application got there, and I glumly applied for the next best option I could find, which was in Malawi, a small country in South Eastern Africa, wedged in between Tanzania, Zambia, and Mozambique. I wasn’t as excited about this place, but I hadn’t gotten over the excitement of going somewhere. So, I pursued Malawi and to my ultimate surprise, I was accepted for the position less than 24 hours later.

Wait, what?

This was news that I wasn’t sure how to swallow. I have to say that I wasn’t as thrilled, but that couldn’t be helped anymore. I was off to some random, never-heard-of-before country in Sub-Saharan Africa. At this point, I just threw up my hands and told myself to just “go with it”.

I left about five months later for Africa. Before going to Malawi, I went for two weeks to northern Tanzania, with a group from my church, for about two weeks. Those couple weeks were some of the best I spent in Africa-all rural and typical of what you would see in World Vision ads. The orphans, the AIDS, the malnutrition. It was all there, and I could learn to heal it, learn to love it.

Malawi was different though. The city in which I was contracted is called Blantyre, a formerly Scottish settlement, and is the commercial capital of the country. AKA, it’s “Westernized”, mostly of British influences. The Malawians are supposedly some of the nicest in Africa, and I could believe that. But it’s difficult to determine whether this is culturally or colonially inherited. For all their salt, the Malawians stick to a classy British educational system, have tea time, serve fish and chips, wear suits wherever they go (even the poorest of the poor own suits), and use colonial words like, “madam”, and “cheers”, and “dust bin”.

I leave Africa in exactly 125 days. I am both thrilled and unsure about getting out of here and going back home. I have grown accustomed to the awkward chaos of Africa, and returning to the “ideal world” (which is about as close as it gets to Heaven on earth, according to most Africans, and I think I can understand why). I don’t really feel like discussing what I’ve learned in Africa thus far, because I think it’s one of those experiences that leave an impression on you for the rest of your life, and everyday you’ll understand something new about what you went through.

A way of explaining this inability to explain is: If you were asked to summarize the Holocaust in one sentence where would you begin? How could you even touch upon such a subject without an introduction in the ideology surrounding the Jews in Europe, the psychological state of Hitler’s mind, his oratory powers, Germany’s desperate need for money, hope, a future. And then, once you’ve settled all of that, you would move onto methods of exterminating the Jewish race, the drive to create a “perfect German world”, the way in which the monstrosities were being hidden from the world, and the toll it took on everyone after it was discovered and finally vanquished. In order to understand one thing, you must be acquainted with all, or most, of the details.

In the end, in one sentence, all you’d really be able to say is, “it was horrible”. Vague, but how else could you say it? Beyond that, you would not have even the idea of how to explain something so huge, so unique to someone in just one sentence.

Right?

Okay, my Africa experience was nothing like the Holocaust (that wasn’t the point I was making); in fact, it’s on the total opposite end of the spectrum. However, the concept of explaining something so life-changing is very much the same. I could never just explain to you in one go how Africa went. It would not be fair, nor accurate (unless all you’re really looking for is superficial answer, and in that case, this whole explanation is not necessary). People ask me, “How is Africa?” Okay, what can I say? let’s see…where do you begin? And all you can end up saying was, “It was great”.

And that’s as far as I can write, for now. Let’s wait for my life to ribbon out a little farther before I go narrating any longer.

the beauty of words

Journalism. The tasty discipline comprising transportation, participation, allegation, investigation, illumination, and publication. Activated by those with an itch for answers, distance, and truth.

something new and different

Something that I was thinking about this morning:
I believe, based solely on my observations on fellow human beings, that how we ACT (ie, communicate with people, body language, clothing choices, and essentially the aura that the individual creates) is an exact mirror or how that individual LEARNS.
An example, myself. I am a visual learner. And on reflection, I observe that I am also a visual communicator. I speak through my specific clothing choices, pictures, paintings, performance. I speak through images, as well as think in images. It makes complete, logical sense that how I think is also the way in which I communicate with others, since I can understand and relate in a visual way with ease, over audio or hands on learning/communicating skills, with which I am less inclined.
Another example, John. Chatty Kathy is a colloquialism for “talkers”, of which category John belongs to. He can speak about anything, and very thoroughly and congenially. I venture to assume that John is an auditory learner. Words and speech come naturally from his mouth, and thus they should also come naturally into his mind. It seems that if he can converse so well, and on a range of limitless topics, that he responds well in a learning environment in which auditory teaching is chiefly used.
Gloria, a student of ours, on the other hand, is silent nearly all the time. She is not gifted with speech, nor through visual communications. I believe that Gloria does her best work when she I allowed to use her hands. To support this, I have observed that when Cass takes Gloria to the white board to demonstrate a math equation, and has Gloria also put dry erase marker to white board, that she will pick up the theorem quicker.
Of course, some individuals have several ways of learning, and thus I believe many ways of communicating with people. Those particular individuals would make the best teachers, because of their ability to reach out in each way to meet all learning patterns of their students. The best curriculum cycles through each learning method, so as to ensure the complete understanding of all.
My findings are inconclusive, but my theory is so far evidentiary enough to continue my research. If my supposition is correct, I believe I have found a new way of assessing and assisting in the classroom and in society. :D