the easter tomb

"Woman," he said, "why are are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?"

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him."

-John 20:15

to say my insides have been confused as of late would be an understatement.

it has been an emotionally turbulent....four....three....five months? Or really, shall we just round up and say- 2 years?

do not mistake me. There has been deep, deep joy. I have learned and grown and been stretched and pulled. I have sat in silence, overwhelmed and overtaken by the sheer faithfulness of our Lord and how GOOD he is.

I have also walked valleys, seen dark days (and nights) and wept in the shower more times than I would like to admit. I have learned what it is to pray words of thanksgiving in the hard hours, even as there doesn't feel like there is much to be thankful for (but oh there is).

there has been a lot of learning. and un-learning. and re-learning. and learning together with others.

but little prepares you for transition like the ones I'm in the midst of.

some would probably argue that I can stop claiming I'm in transition. I have been here for almost a month now. I have a living space, a job, no plans to move in the very near future.

but oh have mercy, I'm still in transition.

my heart and mind and soul and body are all sorts of confused. my heart and mind and soul and body are all sorts of still trying to figure out what all of this movement has meant over the past two months. what all of the conversations and changes and decisions and shifts and choices and....all of this huge stuff has meant and does mean.

and I have been wrestling with what it means to not have answers. To be confused.

To come before the Lord and offer him my empty palms, my empty, confused self in need of Him like a hunger I have never known.

To come before him confused and dazed and just barely keeping anything together for longer than a spare second.

And I have felt guilty.

Guilty that I didn't get my internal life ordered enough to partake in Lent in any traditional, standard or disciplined way.

Guilty that I am such a mess when I have been blessed with so many supportive and loving people.

Guilty that I don't always feel like singing joyful hallelujahs about being back in the States.

Guilty that all I keep having to give my King are my tears.

So, as I sat in Easter service this Sunday and listened to the Scriptures being read, tears slipped down my face at the reaction of Mary seeing the risen Christ.

She is weeping. She is a mess. She is devastated. She is confused out-of-her-mind.

This Easter, that was what I needed to hear. I needed to hear that the disciples and the people who followed Christ were confused. That they came before their Lord confused and crying and not at all sure how all of the pieces fit together and He let that be o.k.

This Easter, the empty tomb and the confusion it caused comforted me.

thanks be to the Risen King.

making a house

Some people I know are excellent at arriving somewhere, immediately emptying out all of their suitcases and within a few hours, making a space a home.

Hol, my Mongolia roommate, is one of those people. She hadn't been in D.C. for longer than a few hours and she was texting me pictures of her completely unpacked and decorated bedroom.

I, on the other hand, had already been in Omaha for a week and was still living out of my suitcases.

For me, a home is less about things being organized or put away or decorated and more about familiarity. It is about etching out time in the spaces. I need time to claim those spaces as mine. I need time to let them become comfortable and known.

and so I lived out of suitcases for awhile (exactly what they tell you not to do in missionary training by the way).

and I was blessed with the gift of being able to do that because my co-workers and the church that is sharing this space with me were gracious enough to grant me an abundant supply of things I needed.

like a bed and sheets. like living room furniture. like a pile of craft supplies. like pots and pans. like milk and bread and eggs.

and then, slowly but surely, I unpacked the suitcases. I lived in the transitory phase of things being a disordered mess. I walked over small mountains of random things and bumped into new-to-me furniture. I wondered at the blessing of being given a parsonage, a space that feels way too large for just me.

I bought a hammer and nails. I went to Lowe's and Target. I printed pictures and measured and hammered and jumped up and down in self-congratulation when I hung things in a relatively straight manner.

On Good Friday I grew tired of the mess. I scrubbed and wiped and swept and mopped. I cleaned what had already been cleaned before me but now needed to be cleaned by me. Because this needs to be my space. Because I need to know these corners and crevasses and floorboards. Because familiarity is a process and not a moment.

I put things in their places and I hung up artwork and I organized the office that had become a dumping ground for miscellaneous things.

And when I was done, it felt like maybe I live here.

come visit me. there's lots more room I don't know what to do with. I'd love to fill it with the presence of some friends.

a cold and broken hallelujuah

Who has believed our message
and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
² He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
³ He was despised and rejected by mankind,
a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

Surely he took up our pain
and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
stricken by him, and afflicted.
⁵ But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
⁶ We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
each of us has turned to our own way;
and the LORD has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.

⁷ He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
⁸ By oppression^[a] and judgment he was taken away.
Yet who of his generation protested?
For he was cut off from the land of the living;
for the transgression of my people he was punished.^[b]
9 He was assigned a grave with the wicked,
and with the rich in his death,
though he had done no violence,
nor was any deceit in his mouth.

Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
and though the LORD makes^[c] his life an offering for sin,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.
¹¹ After he has suffered,
he will see the light of life^[d] and be satisfied^[e];
by his knowledge^[f] my righteous servant will justify many,
and he will bear their iniquities.
¹² Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,^[g]
and he will divide the spoils with the strong,^[h]
because he poured out his life unto death,
and was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for the transgressors.

-Isaiah 53

good friday service ended with the candles blown out and us singing "hallelujah" into the silence of sitting with our sin.

my heart keeps returning to "the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed."

brokenness made whole by the cross

hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah

as we sit, as we wait on this day between the cross and the rising of Easter morning...

may we too know that the intermingling of pain and healing, struggle and peace are our gospel song.

so far

flying into Omaha

the first food I made in my new kitchen...tortillas

the Big Garden truck that I had lots of fun trying to drive one rainy morning

sunset somewhere in Iowa on the whole bringing a car back to Omaha road trip extravaganza

becoming a shoveling master. i'm a natural, right?

transitory yoga

i've been in this place before.

in fact, if I really wanted to I could turn off the podcast and move forward from memory.

i've been in this downward dog, in this child's pose, in this pigeon more times than I care to remember.

and yet it still aches today, it still stretches and challenges my ever-tight hip muscles.

it is old and familiar, a tumbling flow of one motion moving into the next, a rapid waterfall of changing and reaching and starting all over again.

breathe, I remind myself.

i have been in this space before.

i've been in this transition, this crossroads of good-byes and hellos and how very nice to meet you-s.

i've been in this aching and longing, this necessary barrenness of starting over, of building from the nothingness of humility and the need to learn.

where's the supermarket?

how do I get to the office?

how will i be a part of a community?

have grace, I remind myself as I slide from high to low push-up, from one continent to another.

i've been here before, but it's still new in its own ways.

i've been here before, but I bear today's realities, which are different than yesterday's.

...right leg forward, turn the left foot, hands together, open into warrior two...

knowing doesn't always make it easier.

knowing doesn't take the stretching away, the pulling and balancing that show up each and every time.

unpack the boxes. cook familiar food. pray. run. develop routines. find groups.

i have to repeat this on the left side, I remind myself.

and so i lower myself down and do it again, because yoga is nothing if not an act of balance.

those who say it better

"So it's not a matter of being willing or unwilling. It is clear that all the Beloved wants of us is humility and holy bewilderment. He wants us to accept what we are given and praise the One who gives it."

-St. Teresa of Avila

Within us, without us,

behind us, before us,

in this place, in every place,

for this time, for all time,

Christ is coming to make all things new.

-The Wee Worship Book, pg 20

following along

one of the good parts of returning to the US was the chance it offered for all six of us Mission Interns to gather together once more and share with one another.

We spent those two weeks in Atlanta working and debriefing, but we also spent that time telling stories, talking, laughing, crying, listening and praying.

We cooked meals for each other, ate too many delicious desserts, bemoaned jet lag, discussed experiences, watched movies and shared in Joseph's hunt for an Ipad 2.

I am beyond grateful for the ways they have walked with me in this past year and a half. I am even more grateful for the fact that they will continue to walk with me as we all transition into our US places of service.

And so I invite you all to continue following along not only with my time in Omaha, but with their stories and ministries in their new places of life and ministry.

Where can you find these excellent partners in storytelling and journey-living?

My former roommate (boo, I miss you!) Holli will be in Washington D.C. working at Foundry United Methodist Church.

Joseph will be in Detroit, Michigan working with Justice for Our Neighbors (JFON).

Rachel will be in Seattle, Washington working with Mary's Place.

Hannah will be in Orlando, Florida working with Justice for Our Neighbors.

Jen will be in Washington D.C. working at the Methodist Federation for Social Action

avalanched

sometimes I am overwhelmed by how humbling it is to be on the receiving end of so much grace and hospitality.

the American way is self-sufficiency and independence and no, thanks-I-can-do-that-myself.

we are as a culture intensely private, individualistic and hell bent on doing things without the help of others.

i have always been excellent at pretending I don't need any one's help and forging ahead by myself, gosh-darn-it.

Excellent at pretending I have it together and taken care of and oh-no-don't-worry-about-that.

Excellent at making things more complicated than necessary because heaven forbid I might ask for help.

this is a time in my life where my basic needs are open on the table for a lot of people to see. It's a vulnerable space to be in, one that is not always easy or free of stress, but one that is always humbling.

I didn't have a place to live....they found me a house.

I didn't have furniture or housewares or just about anything to fill a place to live....they filled my cupboards with kitchen supplies, my living room with furniture, my bathroom with towels and my bedroom with a place to sleep, blankets and sheets and pillows.

I didn't have a clue where anything was...they filled my fridge and counter tops with food, drove me to the store and gave me their phone numbers.

I don't have a car...they have arranged to pick me up for work, taken me to look at cars, offered me rides to the grocery and never once hesitated in going out of their way to drive me.

I don't know anything or anyone in this place... they have been gracious and welcoming.

It astounds me how completely I have been avalanched with hospitality and kindness.

It is difficult for me to admit that I could not and can not do all of these things on my own. A part of me wrestles so fiercely with feeling as if I am imposing myself upon others and it makes me want to tie up loose ends and collect all of these scattered pieces of settling into a new place and declare myself self-sufficient once more.

But I can't. And I shouldn't. And I won't.

My need reminds me of my need for Christ. My need reminds me that truly all I have to share with my neighbors is Christ's love. My need tells the story of our shared need. My need stands as the elephant in the room of my life, a constant and ever-present sign that I don't have my stuff together anymore than the next person.

I can stop pretending now.

I can start giving thanks that we need each other.

I can start being humbled by my need and giving up on the false pride of constant capability.

I am not capable, thanks be to God.

confessions of a returning missionary

1. I officially hate driving now. Hate, hate. hate it. I long for public transportation and the ability to walk most everywhere I need to go.

2. Shopping exhausts me. Grocery stores baffle me. 50 million choices of chips, really?

3. It is lovely to be able to go running when I want to and to do it on smooth surfaces where I don't get things thrown at me or have to dodge buses and people. There is a slight part of me that misses the logistical challenge of running in UB, but mostly I am grateful for sidewalks and tracks and running weather.

4. I miss hearing and speaking Mongolian. It's nice to communicate on autopilot and I realize that that decreases the amount of energy necessary for daily tasks, but I also dislike feeling as if my language skills are slipping away each day.

5. More fruit please! More vegetables please! Produce is a wonderful thing.

6. It doesn't matter where I am or where I am going, every airport makes me wish I had a ticket to Mongolia and was preparing for a 13 hour flight across the ocean.

the fog of a strange familiarity

(these are only my reflections on reverse culture shock. I really and truly believe it is a unique and personal thing for each person who transitions back to their home culture. I am neither an example or authority on what it is or how it comes)

I got royally lost in downtown Pittsburgh yesterday.

The buildings and streets I drove by were familiar ones, places and things that occupy spaces of my childhood memories, my high school days, the reasons why I love and hold dear the city of Pittsburgh and its knit together stories of how I have lived and grown here.

the cultural district, the convention center, PPG place and the ice skating rink, the rivers, the bridges, Mount Washington and the inclines, the one-way streets of Oakland and its college student-filled pathways, the old Kaufmann's where we used to buy my homecoming dresses, the Carnegie and its rooms brimming with artifacts and stories.

And while I recognized every. single. thing. around me and knew exactly where I was, I had not a flipping clue how to get back to the highway so I could make my way to my 4 o'clock meeting.

Cue exhausted driving in circles and a stubborn refusal to call anyone for help.

***

Everything is familiar. In fact in some moments I feel as if my body and brain are on autopilot, maneuvering through life back in the U.S. thanks to memory and recall and the reality of necessity.

Everything is familiar. But it is also absolutely, positively foreign.

I unlearned the ways of my life here when I moved to Mongolia.

I unlearned the ways so that I could relearn life with my brothers and sisters in the mountains and gers and steppes and blue skies and snow-covered fences.

And in unlearning, I found comfort in a foreign space made familiar.

And the familiar became foreign.

I know these spaces, this culture, this doing, this speaking, this place.

yet the knowing is tempered by the fact that it's coated in a thick hazy fog of unfamiliarity and discomfort.

I'm feeling my way through a strange maze of knowing, feeling out of place and aching for the things that became familiar but are no longer within my daily life.

Add that to the fact that I'm getting on a plane tomorrow morning and heading to a new state, city, community and job, and you have a confluence of all kinds of foggy emotions and transitions.

It is scary to not know. It is difficult to miss a place that is not currently where God has called you. It is intensely emotional and tiring to navigate the culture you have long known how to function in and now no longer fully get.

But none of this changes that God has asked me to be here, in this hard space, in this strange fog of figuring it out as I go, in this time of transition and change and moving.

So it is here I stand, fog covered and a little bit lost, grateful that at least I'm not alone.