Two students showed up out of the blue to my English class on Friday.
They were looking for help, but what I heard in their words was that they were looking for a magic worker.
"Can you help us improve our English in two weeks?"
They had failed their American visa interviews and were going to try again in 14 days.
Deep sigh.
Try as I might, I am not the English-teaching fairy with a pocket full of sparkly fluency dust.
although surely my students wish that sometimes.
Try as I might, I am still leaving in a week and don't have time to coach them through their painfully memorized interview questions and answers.
although surely I wish I could help them.
Try as I might, I can't change the fact that I'm dreading leaving a country where many would jump at the chance to travel to America.
although surely I am grateful for the things to come.
Carrying the "right" passport leaves me questioning a lot of things about nationalities, borders and freedom of movement.
The reality is what it is- I was born in America and hence have undeservingly been given opportunities and options that others never receive. And I've been given them simply because of where I happen to have been born.
But grappling with this reality in the midst of conversations about leaving and going?
It gives a whole new understanding to what it is to be able to leave and go when I want to and to recognize that as a privilege, not a universal right.
There are some things that are inescapable. Farewells and the privileges of citizenship are just two of them.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
old letters
As I was cleaning my drawers out today I came across a single piece of white paper tucked away in the back.
I read it and my breath caught in my chest as I began to cry.
02/11/10
Dear Erin,
Somewhere around a year from now you will be reading this from a plane back to the United States. I'm not sure how you're feeling right now, but I'd guess you are probably sad, nervous, excited, overwhelmed and crying.
It's been almost four months and already I am in love with this country, these people and this community. It has not been easy- in fact you spent many moments wondering why you're here, why you can't seem to ever get anything right and thinking about how this adventure is hard.
But this adventure is also a beautiful one- full of moments that have filled your heart with joy and thanksgiving and delight.
Like the time you went for a walk and found the sparrows in the snow. Or the time you had your students over to decorate Christmas cookies and ended up making soup together. Or when Od and Taivaana came over for Christmas Eve and you danced in the kitchen and sang in the light of Advent candles. Or when the little girl in blue boots sat in your lap during worship, whispering to you in Mongolian. Or when the sunrise stopped you in the middle of the icy hill, making it impossible for you to move as you lifted your hands in prayer.
These moments have shown you God here and enlarged your heart.
I forgot I had written this letter to myself. I forgot that I had intended to keep adding memories to the letter as months went on. I forgot to finish what I had begun because life became life and time went on without my permission.
It ends there, in the middle of an empty page. Mid-thought, mid-letter, with no conclusion or farewell.
It hurts to read those words, just as it fills me with thanksgiving at the same exact moment.
There is no end to the letter because there is no end.
I'm getting on a plane, but the story isn't over.
And so the tears will fall on a new blank page of possibility and struggle and hurt and hope,
a continued letter to myself,
a gentle reminder to remember,
to hold on
and to walk forward
because it isn't over yet.
there is no limit to what the heart can hold.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
prayers in the time of chaos
(I wrote this just after Christmas of this year, but I re-read it a few days ago and it resonates for this time too)
It's not a race. It's not a blurred sprint towards a finish line.
It is one foot in front of the other, a step becoming a half a mile and a mile a day.
There is too much, it is too difficult, too overwhelming if I lay here in bed and ponder injustice and sin and how we are to share His love.
I am just one broken vessel among millions, shattered and praying he'll put the shards back together.
And yet God chooses to dwell in us, to come and sit among the pieces, mending us back together so his love can be poured out into a basin that can both receive it and pour it out onto others.
Water, water, the living water!
Drink deeply, my daughter, I am here to fill your every need.
Drink deeply my dear, I am here to transform you, to make you who you were created to be.
Drink deeply my child and you will never again be the same.
Oh Abba, may you show me the way. Show me how to love you and my brothers and sisters on this day.
Show me how to love in the midst of tiredness. In the midst of selfishness and pride and sin. May you quell those forces and wash them away- that only your love would motivate and be known.
Time has passed and I am changed, thanks be to your holy name.
Time has come and gone and I am stronger, weaker
more broken, more healed. Thanks be to your holy name!
Time has spread itself wide
an open field stretched to the horizon.
I have breathed in its winds
and I have run its paths
And I am here.
On my knees, in your hands.
Praising you, O Lord,
maker of heaven and earth.
For all is yours
and in your nearness
I know peace.
Thanks be to your holy name!
It's not a race. It's not a blurred sprint towards a finish line.
It is one foot in front of the other, a step becoming a half a mile and a mile a day.
There is too much, it is too difficult, too overwhelming if I lay here in bed and ponder injustice and sin and how we are to share His love.
I am just one broken vessel among millions, shattered and praying he'll put the shards back together.
And yet God chooses to dwell in us, to come and sit among the pieces, mending us back together so his love can be poured out into a basin that can both receive it and pour it out onto others.
Water, water, the living water!
Drink deeply, my daughter, I am here to fill your every need.
Drink deeply my dear, I am here to transform you, to make you who you were created to be.
Drink deeply my child and you will never again be the same.
Oh Abba, may you show me the way. Show me how to love you and my brothers and sisters on this day.
Show me how to love in the midst of tiredness. In the midst of selfishness and pride and sin. May you quell those forces and wash them away- that only your love would motivate and be known.
Time has passed and I am changed, thanks be to your holy name.
Time has come and gone and I am stronger, weaker
more broken, more healed. Thanks be to your holy name!
Time has spread itself wide
an open field stretched to the horizon.
I have breathed in its winds
and I have run its paths
And I am here.
On my knees, in your hands.
Praising you, O Lord,
maker of heaven and earth.
For all is yours
and in your nearness
I know peace.
Thanks be to your holy name!
Monday, February 14, 2011
love from this side of the universe
from our corner to yours, we, the members of Chingeltei Mission Center kindergarten, would like to say...
"Happy Valentine's Day!"
No matter where the day finds you, or how you spend your time, may each moment remind you that love is in the air...
...and we're sending you hearts, flowers, swirly-madoodles and cyrillic letters that must travel across the sea...
...cause we love you- both known and unknown. For you are a part of our family, a part of the story, a part of the shared space of this universe.
love, love and ever more love on this day of st. valentine.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
surprise
here's what they don't tell you in missionary training.
they don't tell you that if you fall in love with a whole community of people, there are not going to be enough hours in the day to spend quality time with all of them.
especially not when you only have 20 days left.
they don't tell you that every minute you are with one group of people you love, you will be agonizing about the people you aren't seeing, talking, hanging out with, laughing with, being present to.
20.
they don't tell you that each moment will feel like this precious piece of liquid gold you're trying desperately to hold onto even as it slips through your hands.
they don't tell you that you will start resenting public transportation and menial necessary tasks because they equal more time you can't be with people you love.
20.
they don't tell you that you will constantly fluctuate between feeling immensely guilty and wholly justified for every choice you make about who and how you spend your time.
they don't tell you that you will stand in an empty sanctuary and listen to the noises of your community upstairs and your heart will ache with the longing to spend every waking moment with them because the leaving is coming like a freight train without breaks.
20.
they don't tell you that you will constantly be caught off guard by moments that bring you to tears in their poignancy and ordinariness and your deep desire to remember every single thing about them.
they don't tell you that you, the introvert, will spend all of this time with people and forget that you need time alone to process and to think and to feel. And when you do unexpectedly find yourself alone, all you will be able to do is breath and whisper prayers that sound a lot like, "please, Lord, please."
20.
they don't tell you that loving means facing this immense sense of loss.
I haven't done this before, in this way. I've done it in other ways, in other places, in other times.
It is the conundrum of being in the midst of something you're still trying to figure out. There are no neat ends or ways to nicely wrap things up. It is a life, a normalcy, a way of being.
and all I have is twenty.
they don't tell you that if you fall in love with a whole community of people, there are not going to be enough hours in the day to spend quality time with all of them.
especially not when you only have 20 days left.
they don't tell you that every minute you are with one group of people you love, you will be agonizing about the people you aren't seeing, talking, hanging out with, laughing with, being present to.
20.
they don't tell you that each moment will feel like this precious piece of liquid gold you're trying desperately to hold onto even as it slips through your hands.
they don't tell you that you will start resenting public transportation and menial necessary tasks because they equal more time you can't be with people you love.
20.
they don't tell you that you will constantly fluctuate between feeling immensely guilty and wholly justified for every choice you make about who and how you spend your time.
they don't tell you that you will stand in an empty sanctuary and listen to the noises of your community upstairs and your heart will ache with the longing to spend every waking moment with them because the leaving is coming like a freight train without breaks.
20.
they don't tell you that you will constantly be caught off guard by moments that bring you to tears in their poignancy and ordinariness and your deep desire to remember every single thing about them.
they don't tell you that you, the introvert, will spend all of this time with people and forget that you need time alone to process and to think and to feel. And when you do unexpectedly find yourself alone, all you will be able to do is breath and whisper prayers that sound a lot like, "please, Lord, please."
20.
they don't tell you that loving means facing this immense sense of loss.
I haven't done this before, in this way. I've done it in other ways, in other places, in other times.
It is the conundrum of being in the midst of something you're still trying to figure out. There are no neat ends or ways to nicely wrap things up. It is a life, a normalcy, a way of being.
and all I have is twenty.
Monday, February 7, 2011
the stroller debate
There's a scene in one of my very favorite movies where two characters have a showdown about a child's choice to get in a stroller.
As the man is yelling encouragement at little Ralphie, the child's mother keeps repeating "Listen to your heart! Listen to your heart!" until it becomes a shrieked mantra rendered useless by Ralphie's decision to get in the stroller.
She freaks out. The man gloats. Chaos ensues. And Ralphie enjoys his first ever stroller ride.
In screaming "listen to your heart!" his mom wasn't really advocating free choice. What she was saying was, "do what I taught you you should do and all will be well."
hello, society and your ever controlling forces/pressures.
The man wasn't encouraging the act of rebellion for the well-being of Ralphie, but for his own purpose of angering and horrifying Ralphie's mom.
Hello, humanity and your self-serving purposes.
Operating in the midst of this screaming match, let alone making a decision in it, is overwhelming, exhausting, confusing and downright awful.
Because at the end of the day, the person whose opinion is worth hearing probably isn't shouting. God doesn't really need to shout after all. He kind of likes for us to turn around and realize he's patiently waiting so we can sneak under the table, away from the screaming and share our hearts with him.
Decisions get made for all sorts of reasons. For ourselves, for others, for what we think others want from us, for doubts and failures, dreams and successes.
I'm learning that I haven't always been so good about sorting out why I am or am not jumping in the stroller. And I haven't always considered that I could slip away and skip the ride all together, walking away on my own two feet.
That, in fact, one of the best ways to ensure you get anywhere you're hoping to reach is to walk forward by yourself- away from the yelling, away from the shouts, away from the people trying to determine your path.
In this season of change, I'm praying that I'll think in the midst of my decisions.
That I won't make them for anyone but God and myself.
And that if I DO jump in the stroller, I'll enjoy it because I'm doing it for me and not anyone else.
As the man is yelling encouragement at little Ralphie, the child's mother keeps repeating "Listen to your heart! Listen to your heart!" until it becomes a shrieked mantra rendered useless by Ralphie's decision to get in the stroller.
She freaks out. The man gloats. Chaos ensues. And Ralphie enjoys his first ever stroller ride.
In screaming "listen to your heart!" his mom wasn't really advocating free choice. What she was saying was, "do what I taught you you should do and all will be well."
hello, society and your ever controlling forces/pressures.
The man wasn't encouraging the act of rebellion for the well-being of Ralphie, but for his own purpose of angering and horrifying Ralphie's mom.
Hello, humanity and your self-serving purposes.
Operating in the midst of this screaming match, let alone making a decision in it, is overwhelming, exhausting, confusing and downright awful.
Because at the end of the day, the person whose opinion is worth hearing probably isn't shouting. God doesn't really need to shout after all. He kind of likes for us to turn around and realize he's patiently waiting so we can sneak under the table, away from the screaming and share our hearts with him.
Decisions get made for all sorts of reasons. For ourselves, for others, for what we think others want from us, for doubts and failures, dreams and successes.
I'm learning that I haven't always been so good about sorting out why I am or am not jumping in the stroller. And I haven't always considered that I could slip away and skip the ride all together, walking away on my own two feet.
That, in fact, one of the best ways to ensure you get anywhere you're hoping to reach is to walk forward by yourself- away from the yelling, away from the shouts, away from the people trying to determine your path.
In this season of change, I'm praying that I'll think in the midst of my decisions.
That I won't make them for anyone but God and myself.
And that if I DO jump in the stroller, I'll enjoy it because I'm doing it for me and not anyone else.
Friday, February 4, 2011
an addendum
so maybe I did catch the spirit after all...when you spend the first day of the lunar new year here, it's pretty impossible to do otherwise.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
when the spirit doesn't catch you
Saikhan shinleerei!
Or in English, happy lunar new year!
The three-day holiday has arrived, but the festive mood of Tsagaan Sar has been flying around the city for a few weeks now.
Discussions about how many dumplings have been made, the price of meat and visiting plans have dominated recent conversations, trumping even complaints about the cold, the air pollution or the traffic. Welcome to THE holiday season of Mongolia.
It's a strange feeling that has filled me in this time.
I am familiar with Tsagaan Sar. I celebrated last year and had a wonderful time experiencing it for the first time. I know to ask how many dumplings a family is making or at which relatives' home they will be celebrating. I know the markets will be nuts and everyone will be fighting over special bread and candy and buying new things to spruce up their homes.
But I don't have the holiday spirit. I am not caught up in making dumplings or cleaning or household chores assigned to me by family members.
Christmas is the time when I think of carols and lights and special foods and family gatherings. And I had a beyond lovely time celebrating with my loved ones here this year.
But now is the time when I feel the most out of place. Now is the time when I feel like everyone has drank the kool-aid and I'm the one who doesn't know where to buy it.
I have plenty of invitations for visiting homes and eating the special Tsagaan Sar foods and offering the traditional greetings. My next three days will be filled with food, friends and dear ones.
I'm excited about it, while also feeling weirdly disconnected from the city's festive spirit.
I have no Emee (grandmother) of my own to visit today, because my Emee doesn't celebrate Tsagaan Sar. I have no family to make dumplings with, because they've never had byy3.
In a holiday about family and relatives, I have a sense this year that perhaps I will never be able to fully understand Tsagaan Sar. Perhaps I will never be able to fully catch the spirit.
Holidays are less about the actual celebrating and more about the things they hold for us- the memories, the traditions, the routines that remind us that this is the time, the moment which we wait for each year.
So I'm going to keep celebrating. I'm going to keep eating and fellowshipping and greeting my elders.
And I'll wait for the someday when the spirit will catch me with its memories and traditions and lunar new year kool-aid.
Or in English, happy lunar new year!
The three-day holiday has arrived, but the festive mood of Tsagaan Sar has been flying around the city for a few weeks now.
Discussions about how many dumplings have been made, the price of meat and visiting plans have dominated recent conversations, trumping even complaints about the cold, the air pollution or the traffic. Welcome to THE holiday season of Mongolia.
It's a strange feeling that has filled me in this time.
I am familiar with Tsagaan Sar. I celebrated last year and had a wonderful time experiencing it for the first time. I know to ask how many dumplings a family is making or at which relatives' home they will be celebrating. I know the markets will be nuts and everyone will be fighting over special bread and candy and buying new things to spruce up their homes.
But I don't have the holiday spirit. I am not caught up in making dumplings or cleaning or household chores assigned to me by family members.
Christmas is the time when I think of carols and lights and special foods and family gatherings. And I had a beyond lovely time celebrating with my loved ones here this year.
But now is the time when I feel the most out of place. Now is the time when I feel like everyone has drank the kool-aid and I'm the one who doesn't know where to buy it.
I have plenty of invitations for visiting homes and eating the special Tsagaan Sar foods and offering the traditional greetings. My next three days will be filled with food, friends and dear ones.
I'm excited about it, while also feeling weirdly disconnected from the city's festive spirit.
I have no Emee (grandmother) of my own to visit today, because my Emee doesn't celebrate Tsagaan Sar. I have no family to make dumplings with, because they've never had byy3.
In a holiday about family and relatives, I have a sense this year that perhaps I will never be able to fully understand Tsagaan Sar. Perhaps I will never be able to fully catch the spirit.
Holidays are less about the actual celebrating and more about the things they hold for us- the memories, the traditions, the routines that remind us that this is the time, the moment which we wait for each year.
So I'm going to keep celebrating. I'm going to keep eating and fellowshipping and greeting my elders.
And I'll wait for the someday when the spirit will catch me with its memories and traditions and lunar new year kool-aid.
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