to my sister

Happy 21st Birthday to my beautiful and wonderful sister Megan!

I so wish I could be there to be celebrate with you, but am sending you my hugs and birthday wishes :-)


Like all good sisters, we share clothes. She's wearing my shirt and I'm wearing hers in this picture. Double the wardrobe :-) Visiting her in Seattle last Easter.
Both of my lovely sisters...stop getting older, it means I'm getting older too! :-)

ykylimw #14

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you use a razor blade as a pencil sharpener in your kindergarten classroom. And that's not weird at all.

point. whisper. stare.

Every Tuesday night I teach a business English class at a downtown office. I know next to nothing about economics or banking, but they've been teaching us about both in light of Mongolia and in return Hol and I have been helping them improve their English skills.

Two weeks ago I taught them the phrase "to stick out like a sore thumb." Which seemed appropriate given my daily life here.

I stick out.

It has become strangely NOT weird to be pointed at, whispered about and stared at. As in I don't even think twice but just go about my way, my work, my day. Mainly because it happens all the time.

Little ones are usually the funniest (and the most endearing), as they stop in the middle of the sidewalk or turn around in a complete circle and crane their little bodies around to look at this strange, non-Mongolian person. They tug on their mom and dad's arms and say, "Look! Look at her!"

They point with their little fingers and it makes me smile. Even if I inwardly laugh at being the sight to see on a micro or in a store. It's still the least offensive pointing I've ever been on the receiving end of.

Older children and young adults tend towards the whispering. Or the flat-out-talking-about-you-while-thinking-you-don't-understand.

My Mongolian might not be all that great but I can still catch the debates that my presence seems to start.

"Is she Russian?"
"No, definitely not Russian."
"No! She's Russian!"
"I think British."
"No, American."
"No! No! RUSSIAN."

Did I mention that everyone thinks we're Russian here? I figure it's a proximity thing.

Sometimes I correct them and then everyone stands shocked that I speak some Mongolian :-)

The staring- well, the staring is just common place at this point. I used to self-consciously think I must have my hat on backwards or toothpaste on my face but then I realized there are some other factors that add to the sticking-out.

My hair is light brown (Mongolians consider it blond). It's also increasingly becoming a crazy, long curly situation. Those two factors combined make for my hair to be a central attraction. My students are constantly playing with it/remarking on it/asking me about it. So are strangers.

Another stick-out factor-I refuse to join the High-Heel Patrol. Almost every Mongolian female my age wears stiletto boots on a daily basis. And not just little stiletto heels - but four inch stiletto heels and boots that sometimes go up to their knees.

Do they look cute? Absolutely. Would I have broken both of my ankles at this point if I followed suit? Without a doubt. I can't even walk in high heels on paved sidewalks, let alone on rocky, dusty, hole-filled paths up hills and down ravines. Forget about it. I'm sticking to my very flat boots and tennis shoes.

I also go running in mismatched layers. The running in and of itself is odd enough. Add in the crazy layers, the scarf and hat and the wool gloves....and I'm basically a slow-moving crazy person.

My running usually brings three different reactions:

1.) Fellow walkers/stretchers/runners smile or nod at me or vaguely acknowledge my presence. Although I've yet to see another female runner. Only males who look like they're probably wrestlers.

2.) Groups of people headed to work/the bus stop/wherever (it is usually only about 7 am) laugh or stare or otherwise talk among themselves while looking at me like, "What are you doing?"

3.) Or my personal favorite- people who as I approach them are walking at a normal pace and wearing everyday street clothes-and then break into a jog as I pass them, as if my running requires that they run past me as well. I can never decide if this spontaneous jogging is mocking or encouraging.

The two smirking policemen in uniforms....definitely mocking.

I'd prefer the pointing two-year old.

hole-y hands

a few weeks ago a question about doubt and belief came up during the youth discipleship class.

We talked about how the disciples wrestled with understanding and believing in Christ's identity even though they got to spend their days with him, watch him perform miracles and listen to him preach. And we talked about how beautiful it is that doubt does not disqualify us from continuing on the journey.

So the other disciples told [Thomas], "We have seen the Lord!" But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it." - John 20:25

this morning we talked about doubting Thomas in my fifth grade Sunday school class.

they stuck their hands in a pillowcase filled with random household things and tried to guess what each item was without looking.

and we talked about how in order to really truly believe that each thing was what they thought it was they wanted to see those items with their eyes.

and that Thomas was a lot like them- he wanted to see. he wanted to touch. and then he could rest in knowing.

Then Jesus told him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed." -John 20: 29

we talked about how Jesus didn't have to come back and show Thomas his hands and his side. He didn't have to invite him to see and to touch and to believe. But he did. Because he isn't afraid of our doubt.

and we traced our hands and we drew the wounds that Christ bore on our hands. As a reminder that we carry doubt sometimes and that's ok. As a reminder that Christ's wounds carry that doubt too and they let us move from doubt to belief.

and we painted our paper fingernails with brightly colored markers and we taped our hand prints to the wall and ate sugar cookies (I've got to get rid of all of the things we bake somehow).

as they trickled out the classroom door, I thought about doubt.

a lot of times when I think of doubt I think of intellectual doubt- a la doubting that God is present or that he exists or that he cares or that he has not forsaken us.

but sometimes doubt is revealed not in what we intellectually believe or think- but in how we live.

Do we live as if we believe that God is faithful? loving? merciful? just? wise? ......

So often my doubt comes in my unfaithfulness. In my fear. In my refusal to accept forgiveness or to confess or to repent. In my desire to control. In my incessant need to cling to the (totally false) idea that I know what is best for me. In my inability to surrender.

So I am grateful. Grateful that Christ returned for doubting Thomas. Grateful that he returned for me- the doubter who longs for her life and choices and attitudes to reflect belief instead of doubt.

Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." -John 20:27

coming back to some kind of beginning

places have a way of crawling inside of you.

Sometimes we jump in- wanting to be submersed, wanting to see and feel nothing but where we are. We let the waves of being physically present surround us.

But this jumping, this submersion is not very sustainable.

It's a lot like holding your breath.

You jump in because you know you will only be there a short while. You don't have to figure out how to breathe there, how to survive, how to live day after day. All you have to do is take in all that you possibly can so that you can take back with you all that you can- that a piece of this place will go with you when you leave in a week, in 10 days, in a month.

And yet when you jump, the waves receive you and they jostle and the submersion's effects color all that you can see - the dizzying impact of a jump an inescapable theme of all that you see and know.

Sometimes we guard ourselves, sticking a toe in, trying not to get completely wet, separating ourselves into the parts that are in this place and the parts that are not. We try not to fall in love with this place.

Then it happens when we're not looking; like dirt under our fingernails or the cold air that swoops into your lungs and fills you up. You get splashed over and over again until you might as well go under. Or you slip while you're distracted and the divisions of wet and dry cease to mean anything at all.

You wake up one day and realize that you can either keep fighting, treading water when you're already wet, or you can let it be as it is- an opening of every part of yourself to a place that you will at one point grieve leaving.

Then we realize, remember, recognize that we are not made for this place like those who were born here. We cannot fully let go of our past environment and fit in our new (much as we might want to at some moments)- we are forever making adaptations- creating ways to make up for our shortcomings and still be a part of where we are now. We learn how to let go of plans and wrestle with language learning. We get used to never really fully knowing or understanding what is going on. And we get really good at communicating in smiles, pantomime and a few essential words. We learn how to be here even as we come from there.

Yet it is always clear that not only do we have to adapt to this new place, we also have to return to the old. And we long to share with those still where we once were.

And so you adapt and you let your new surroundings fill you. And in the beginning you still know how to talk about your new place in a way that can be understood in the former.

Then you start to lose the words, the frame of reference, the context. The old environment is very much still there, still very much a part of you and who you are, still very much where you will return. And yet you feel like you're losing the ability to navigate between the two.

Things that once made sense don't so much anymore. That which you knew is no longer what you know.

The land and the sea have flipped. The place where you once held your breath is now where you breathe. And the only middle ground is that which you make, a slippery surface carved out of words that sound a lot like underwater air bubbles.

They carry with them the stories of a place found in that water, found in the jumping and the treading and the discovering. They carry with them an invitation to a place of uneven, dirt paths dug into the dusty, rocky way of gers and one-room houses. To a place of blue skies and throat-singing and bumpy micro rides that create a rhythm of life; a story of footsteps, of conversations and of the past. To a place of paradox- of poverty and struggle that aches and of life and living that sings.

ykylimw #13

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you have the following conversation with one of your students:

Me (dramatically as I'm mid-teaching): Ugh! Look- It's SNOWING OUTSIDE. Again. WHY? Why is it snowing? It is the end of April and it is still snowing. It is SUPPOSED TO BE SPRING.

Jawa: Last weekend it rained.

Me: I know. But why is it snowing today? Winter is forever. FOREVER winter. That's what we have here.

Jawa: Yes, no summer. No spring. Just winter.

Me: All the time! Winter is never going to end. I just want it to end.

Jawa: You know I'm kidding right?

Me: Yes, I know you're kidding. I'm the one who's not kidding.

(we go back to learning English)

spiders and hard-boiled eggs

somedays I show up to teach and throw my lesson plans out the window- opting instead for whatever fun comes our way.

I don't teach at a school, but at the mission center- which means my classes are optional for my students, just something for them to do before or after school if they want to.

Which also means I don't feel guilty about having such days of fun :-) And really, any amount of time together counts as English lessons since my Mongolian is so limited.

So today? We learned the itsy bitsy spider, played with my camera- which turned into a photo shoot of ourselves and the mission center- and dyed eggs.

My students crack me up...

ykylimw #12

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you have your kindergarten students make a craft out of leftover toilet paper rolls. They glue on arms, legs, a face and hair that with its jagged edges looks a lot like a king's crown.

And thus your kindergartners tell you that they are "making Chinggis Khans."

I guess that means Chinggis had some purple, blue and multicolored arms and legs back in the day.

little moments

it's morning, it's cold and I've just managed to half fall, half step out of the crammed micro and onto the sidewalk.

i adjust my hat so I can see again and start the 10 minute walk to the mission center from the bus stop. as I move, I pass a woman sitting on the side of the road, bags of coal and firewood spread out before her, waiting for customers looking for warmth.

a little boy takes off from his perch next to her and barrels down the dusty hill, finding his way to the path below.

he runs with a joy and freedom that takes my breath away and leaves me still, unable to keep walking as I watch.

i can't see his face, but every movement of his body in motion reveals his utter and complete delight.

he zig-zags as he runs, kicking up dust with his feet. he darts into the nearby store, evidently sent on some errand by his mom.

and i think to myself, "That is how we are supposed to run to God."

with abandon, with joy, with absolute, uncontainable delight that consumes every fiber of our being.

and i pray, rooted there on the side of the road, that watching that little boy run would remind me to be faithful, to run with abandon towards God, to rush into the presence of He who waits for me.

***

on Sunday, I had just crossed the main road separating the bus stop and my path to the mission center.

it was early and the sun was coming up and my head was buried into my scarf. The wind was whipping itself around furiously, bringing dirt and dust and debris with it and lending itself to making it one of the colder days we've had in awhile.

i wondered why i hadn't worn more layers as I walked. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waving motion up ahead of me.

as I peeked my head out of my scarf and looked up I saw a little one waving furiously at me. He walked a few steps while holding his mom's hand and then turned back to wave again.

i smiled as I realized it was Dushku, the little brother of one of my students and one of the little ones I adore (i adore them all, but he has a special place in my heart) immensely.

he repeated this process as I kept walking- taking a few steps, then turning to wave again and make sure I knew I had seen him.

i waved back and then walked faster as he and his mom eventually stopped and waited for me.

as i reached them I couldn't help but grab his little hand, his face covered almost completely by his scarf and hat.

and so we walked, his mom on one side and me on the other, down the dusty street, through the ravine and its melting piles of ice, over the slippery patches and up the hill to church.

as we walked, mostly in silence, i was simply overcome with the beauty of being known here.

that in walking to church i would be found by my friend, who would wave and wave and wave.

who would wait for me. who would let me take his hand.

and who would journey with me to church, his smiling eyes glancing up at me as he eventually let go of our hands and ran the rest of the way into the mission center, his little legs keeping him upright even as bulky layers hindered his balance.

little ones are the most hospitable people i know.

and it's utterly humbling to me.

running into spring

After a winter of yoga podcasts, jumping rope, workout dvds that I can now quote (HipHop Abs dvds provide quite the hilarity if you're willing to have a sense of humor about them) and otherwise wishing I could be outside...it's warm(ish) enough to run again!

April is spring whether Mongolia wants to get that memo or not (it's supposed to snow for three days this weekend and it's all of 21 degrees outside right now).

And so it is that last week I put on the layers and got to start doing one of the things I've missed the most again- running.

Isn't this a happy face? :-)

And in honor of my desire to run my way into the spring season- The Things I Will and Will Not Miss About Winter in Mongolia list.


What I will miss about winter:

1.) Snow covered mountains.

2.) Milk tea.

3.) Babies bundled up in their winter gear.

4.) Wrapping up in blankets.

5.) Watching our breath in the cold air.


What I will not miss about winter:

1.) Shivering.

2.) My hair freezing.

3.) Chillblains. Trust me, no fun.

4.) Slipping on icy sidewalks.

5.) Wearing lots of layers.


Here's to hoping that spring continues to arrive!

ykylimw #11

you know you live in mongolia when...

...a discussion about singing leads to one of the elderly men at church being asked if he knows how to do the Mongolian throat singing. He then says he can't because he doesn't have any teeth.

And then he and the rest of the table of people at senior citizen group crack up because apparently teeth are necessary for throat singing.

Who knew? Certainly not I :-)

muddy footprints

the muck of the world.

melting snow means mud. mud that oozes over shoes and splashes up and follows us inside.

we handed out plastic coverings for the little kids' shoes last Sunday as a means of avoiding massive amounts of mud on the floors.

but the truth is that despite our best efforts, we do track in the muck and messiness of the world.

And so the church is a place of muddy footprints.

But the question this Holy Week is, can it then become a place of foot washing?

It was just before the Passover Feast. Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love. - John 13:1

After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. - John 13:5

Can we allow ourselves to serve in that kind of humility and grace?

Can we welcome those with dirty feet- even when we know it will take more time and energy and resources?

"Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you." -John 13:14-15

And can we be willing to let it be a never-ending process? To be present in the muck and to receive grace and be washed- again and again and again?

That we would not sit around and look at our clean feet, but use them?

To know that to be in the midst of life- ours as well as our brothers and sisters (here, there and everywhere) means to walk in the muck and messiness of things.

Knowing that in going forth we must become muddy again, but that this time we can walk in the muck and know that it does not own us, it does not become permanent, it does not need to define us or dictate our actions- for we now know that we can be washed.

The things that once owned us or tied us down or chained us up are no longer. Yet the messiness of our journeys still remains. We are washed and yet we are real. We are washed and yet we are present in the messy places, for that is where the washing is most needed.

Knowing that we can live a life of washing and being washed, that we would never not need the grace that such washing brings, nor think we are undeserving of its cleansing.

May we track the mud in and be washed.

May we walk in the mud and testify to the washing to come- the washing waiting for our dirty feet.

May we walk in the mud and know that Christ's footsteps were muddy too.

ykylimw #10

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you're sitting on the micro and the woman who sits next to you tries to pay with a U.S. one-dollar bill (where she got this I have no idea).

The micro driver refuses this, so she then digs through her purse and pulls out a 1000 tugruk card of cell phone minutes (Everyone buys minutes for their phones-there are no contracts/cell phone plans).

She offers it to the micro driver, he checks to see what kind of card it is (there are a few major carriers) and nods.

The caller gives her cash as her change and the card goes in the driver's pocket.