head for the woods

tomorrow morning the plan is to eventually get on a train with 50 youth from the three different UM churches here and ride it four hours into the countryside of Mongolia where we will spend four days camping.

i am the girl who planned her finals week after the first day of classes. i make lists. i keep schedules. i write things down and try to think ahead. i like details and organization and plans.

mongolia has broken me of all of those habits, because it's just not possible to plan and organize and know details here. but the longing for those things is still there, deep down in my planner's heart, cringing at the non-possibility of schedules that mean something and the existence of details being figured out.

so you can imagine how planning a camping trip for 50 some people has brought out this conflict within me.

Ah! We need a schedule. Ah! We need plans. Ah! We need lists. Ah! We need to plan ahead.

And then there is reality.

We had meetings. In which the item that was discussed the longest and with the most gusto was what food we were going to eat. We are buying two entire goats.

We had to find tents for everyone to sleep in. As of three days ago, my church had found 2 tents (fitting maybe 8 people) for 20 people. No one had started worrying about the tents until a week before we were supposed to leave. Today? We somehow have six.

We had to buy train tickets. This posed several obstacles.

One, we needed everyone's transportation money. As of Friday afternoon (we were going to buy them Saturday), we had four people's money. Four out of twenty.

Two, we had to have everyone's name and birth registration number. This required tracking down everyone who was coming and hoping they could remember/find their number within the span of about 60 minutes. This was complicated by the fact that everyone here changes their phone number on an every day basis. So we called neighbors and friends and all of the possible phone numbers and somehow ended up with all of the registration numbers.

Third, we went to buy the tickets and were told we had to have an official document stating why we were going and who was going, signed and stamped by our country supervisor. So we went to her house and typed the letter. We then realized we need everyone's last initials (no last names here) too. More phone calls, more brainstorming about who could reach who and who would know whose last initials. Managed to finish the list.

Fourth, we had to get the keys to get the official stamp. Then today we had to get the official stamp from the office and actually stamp the letters.

Fifth, we went back to the train station today to show them the letters and buy the tickets. Turns out we can't buy the tickets today because the director isn't there to look at the letter and approve it.

We have to go back to the station at 8 am to show it to the director. This is assuming she will actually show up at 8 a.m.

The train leaves at 10 a.m.

breathe.

i'm heading for the woods. And hopefully I'll be getting on a train to do so.

if not, we're going to need to find somewhere to eat 30 kilos of potatoes.

cupcakes make the world go 'round

Well, maybe they don't make the world go 'round. But they do make it more fun. And sweet.

More multi-colored fun here.

direction

one year ago and two years ago, I was in Dallas.

three years ago, I was in Bolivia.

four years ago, I was in Brooklyn.

five years ago, I was in Pennsylvania, getting ready to move to Texas.

this year I'm in Mongolia.

and next year I'll be somewhere else, somewhere unknown, somewhere yet to be determined.

From where we are to where you need us,

Jesus, now lead on.

From the security of what we know to the adventure of what you will reveal,

Jesus, now lead on.

To refashion the fabric of this world until it resembles the shape of your kingdom,

Jesus, now lead on.

Because good things have been prepared for those who love God,

Jesus, now lead on.

- pg. 24, A Wee Worship Book

(thank you Elaine for the gift of such a wonderful book)

clouds

Do your clouds hang low? Do they drift to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you see them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier?
Do your clouds hang low? Do they drift to and fro?

It is easier to write in the abstract and about random details.

Descriptions of sights and sounds and reflections on thoughts, moments, words.

Ideas are easier, safer, less complicated than realities.

And so I write in colors, smearing them across the page with messy, unstructured sentences; adding notes of sounds when it works, when my mind connects the two.

The colors, the sounds, the movements are what make the realities make sense. They are the context, the lines that give shape to everything that unfolds within the moments of each day.

And I (we) need both the context and the reality. They are interwoven, connected at the seams, held in careful tension with one another.

It is easier to write in the abstract. It is easier to write about random quirks.

About the clouds. The weather. The food. The traffic. Hospitality. Grace. Love.

And yet the context forms the reality. And the reality anchors the context to the world. The context loses its brightness if it doesn't fill the reality of relationships and work and daily rhythms. And the reality is without its light if it's only seen through the shadows of other contexts.

Offering up both means letting go of the fear that the reality will be misunderstood.

Offering up both means letting go of the fear that the context will be disregarded, that the colors will be changed out for stereotypes and misconceptions and the false coverings of those things that just aren't.

Offering up both means trusting that those receiving will reach forward for both context and reality- without letting one drift off like a wayward cloud, hanging low upon the mountain tops.

It means hoping that maybe words can express that which is whole and warring, seamless and contradictory, balanced while also completely and utterly out of sync.

Hoping that words can make sense of that which can't be explained away no matter what context you place it in.

ykylimw # 18

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you painstakingly saw a can of black beans open with a knife.

Because they are black beans- gosh darn it. And they are a rare treat. And you're having burritos for dinner. And the can opener breaks before it does any significant good whatsoever.

But it worked. The can and its metal lid did. not. win.

And black beans were consumed. The burritos rejoiced. And I realized that I had just spent 15 minutes violently sawing a knife through metal.

Oh the skills I never thought I'd gain from Mongolia.

wrinkles

"Then the old women seem to cackle, 'Oh, what the hell,' and they start dancing. They've stopped chasing anything down, and you feel the rush of life force that this frees up inside them. Their gnarled witchy fingers are on the catotid artery of the culture, the link between the living and the dead, and in their faces and their bodies and their movement, you see the beauty of having come through."

-Pg. 174, Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott

a peek at life here

Many thanks to Chris Heckert who came and spent time with us in March, filming video and taking photos. And to all of the GBGM staff who helped with putting it together.

Here's a glimpse of Ulaanbaatar, the churches and ministries, the staff and the people and places I've come to love. Bear in mind that this was filmed in March (still winter) and that it's now a lot more bearable temperature wise.

Congregational Development in Mongolia from Sushil Bhujbal on Vimeo.

Questions? Want to get involved? Feel free to leave a comment, send an email or read some of the frequently asked questions.

a liz lemon moment

You know that episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon accidentally steals a baby?

I may have been a little bit of an almost-baby-stealer myself today.

Picture this.

It's a lull between church services. I'm sitting drinking tea and eating some bread with Miga. We're catching up on life and what she's been up to these past few weeks and people are milling around the room- munching on bread, sipping tea, chatting and either coming for the next service or leaving for the day.

Siralje comes to sit with us and join our conversation. Two minutes later, a young girl I've never seen hands him a baby and leaves. I assume he knows the girl and the baby.

I, of course, offer to hold the baby because I can never resist such an opportunity.

Our conversation continues and then the baby starts to fuss and so I get up and walk around for a bit. Everyone starts asking, "Whose baby is it?" And I shrug, admitting that I don't know.

Siralje wanders past at some point and I ask him. He doesn't know, he just knows it was handed to him.

So now I'm walking around with a baby who no one seems to know who it belongs to.

Church members start joking that it's my baby. And I'm starting to feel a bit like a baby stealer.

(although admittedly I was not overly anxious to give the baby back- I was quite enjoying having the little one in my arms)

It's nearing an hour that I've had the baby. Whose name we don't know. Who we don't know if it's a boy or a girl. Who we don't know who it belongs to. And who no one has thus far made any motion towards claiming.

At this point folks are getting ready for the youth service to start. The service at which I have to preach today. My baby friend is still munching on his bread, a trail of crumbs all over my sweater and skirt, and I'm debating how unrealistic of a plan it is to preach while holding said baby.

What are the chances he'll cry mid-sermon? What are the chances he'll just munch on his bread while I talk? Do I really need both hands to keep my notes steady?

Yes, I was seriously planning how I could hold the mystery baby and share at the same time.

Liz Lemon may have unintentionally taken a baby home with her. But I was creating a how-can-I-hold-this-baby-and-speak-to-the teenagers-at-the-same-time moment in my head. While still not knowing whose baby it was.

Just as we are to start, a girl comes in, says thank you in Mongolian and motions that she'll take said sibling back now. I smile, hand over my temporarily, kind-of, sort-of stolen/borrowed baby and go to glance at my sermon notes that would no longer need to be held with one hand while I balance a baby with the other.

The sister claimed her brother. I shared with the teenagers with two hands free for my usual motioning and page turning. I did not become the missionary who walks off with unclaimed babies. And somewhere Tina Fey shook her head and laughed.

ykylimw #17

you know you live in Mongolia when...

...you can see your breath in the mornings. In June.

You wish you wore long underwear to work. In June.

It snows in the countryside. In June.

It was 90 degrees one day last week. But this week you've been wearing a winter jacket and shivering and slogging through massive rain puddles and mud pits.

balancing words

Your grace is enough
More than I need
At your word I will believe
I wait for You
Draw near again
Let your spirit make me new

And I will fall at your feet
And I will fall at your feet
And I will worship you here

Your presence in me
Jesus light the way
By the power of your word
I am restored
I am redeemed
By your spirit I am free

And I will fall at Your feet
I will fall at your feet
And I will worship You here

Freely you gave it all for us
Surrendered Your life upon the cross
Great is the love poured out for all
This is our God

Lifted on high from death to life
Forever our God is glorified
Servant and king rescued the world
This is our God

And I will fall at Your feet
I will fall at Your feet
And I will worship You here

And I will fall at Your feet
I will fall at Your feet

And I will worship You here

- Hillsong, This is Our God

A few of us went to another ministry's Tuesday night worship service last night. Od has been asking me to go for awhile now, and it's taken until now for it to work out with my schedule (I usually teach on Tuesday evenings).

Surprise of all surprises, the first song we sang was this one. In English. In a room in which we were the only native English speakers. And it was our first time there.

I leaned over to ask Od if they normally sang English songs and she shook her head.

This is a new song for me, but one whose words I found utterly beautiful.

Od kept saying, "The meaning of these words is good!" And I smiled to myself, because I was thinking the very same thing- of how they were words my heart needed to hear, of what a beautiful and rare gift it was to worship in English and then to move back into singing in Mongolian.

I love worshiping in Mongolian. There is a surrender to not knowing that is necessary, a willingness to worship without understanding every word that provides a great freedom.

And yet, these words, sung in a language known intimately to only two of us in that room, were a gift last night. A reminder of hope and of grace and of surrender.

the traffic dilemma

We met an Australian couple last week that have been traveling for 14 months (and have about another 10 months to go). They decided to drive from Australia to Holland and so far they've managed to make it through much of Southeast Asia, China and now Mongolia.

While talking with them over our lunches, the man remarked that of all the places they have driven so far, UB hands down has the craziest traffic and worst drivers. According to him, whereas in other places the traffic looks crazy but actually has an orderly flow; this is a city of aggressive driving without order or flow or reason.

The ironic part of this discussion is that while he was saying this we literally watched a driver across the street run into a tree with her car.

Normally, my micro rides to work or other places don't require encountering too much traffic unless it's a particularly busy time of the day (think lunchtime or around 7 pm). But these past two weeks have been a whole other story.

They are doing some major construction on the road I take to work and it has thrown everything into a gridlock disaster. What was four lanes of traffic is down to two lanes and that means that the drivers form up to five different lanes of traffic all trying to cut the line and merge sooner into the ONE lane of traffic. You sit and you sit and you sit.

And then your bus or micro driver pulls into the one lane of oncoming traffic to try to get ahead and you flinch as other cars come at you and he's forced to swerve back into the mass of vehicles sitting at a standstill.

Or, in the case of this morning, an accident (surprise, surprise) blocks the one lane and so your micro driver shifts into reverse and then drives down a sidewalk, through a dirt alley flooded with water from the rain and then back onto the road- with a parade of cars and buses following his lead.

The crazy part is that I think I actually prefer traffic. Traffic, while frustrating and dangerous in its own right, forces the drivers to slow down. They may cut each other off and swerve down sidewalks and honk their horns an obnoxious amount, but they can't go very fast because there are too many other cars in their way.

Empty roads? Are the scariest. Because then, you have a crazy driver with no one in his or her way.

And then I end up closing my eyes, my stomach lurching, because OH DEAR GOODNESS WHY IS HE NOT SLOWING DOWN WE'RE ABOUT TO HIT THE ROAD DIVIDER.

Traffic. I definitely prefer traffic.

I also daily give thanks that I do not have to drive here. Not on your life would I voluntarily drive here. No way.

I'd much rather walk the hour to work.

a whirling pool of reflective thoughts

"Out of nowhere I remembered something one of my priest friends had said once, that grace is having a commitment to- or at least an acceptance of- being ineffective and foolish."

-Anne Lamott, pg 142-142, Traveling Mercies

(I wrote the following about 3 months ago, but it seems ever more appropriate as I near the half-way point of my time here in Mongolia)

To be received in grace.

I spent such a long time believing, functioning as if I could earn the love and concern of those who entered my life.

As if what I did could make up for who I was convinced I was not.

And then I discovered that identity is not created with the blocks of effort and work, but exists solely in the breath of the One who creates us, knows us and longs for us to know ourselves as he knows us.

Identity is found in Christ, our being something to be returned to instead of something built.

And then he sent me here- where I could know nothing but humility. Where I could do nothing but receive. And oh how I have received!

In being sent I have found the healing balm of grace- a gift given by those who help me, who graciously accept me and love me and welcome me into a place where I could easily be labeled an intruder and cast aside.

That is beautiful. That is Christ.

happy children's day

I am...

completely,

utterly,


and deeply

in love

with summer.

It's Children's Day here in Mongolia- which means everyone had off work and all of the kids receive presents. It is a day of picnics and leaving the city for the national park or other favorite countryside spots.

We got invited along to a friend of a friend's guesthouse about a 40 minute drive outside of UB. It was a gorgeous summer day, complete with sunshine and warmth and a blue sky with clouds that hover in the most beautiful way and wonderfully cold river water.

To top off our Children's Day we had the perfect summer dinner when we got home:

ice cream sandwiches and watermelon

i. love. summer.