Once Upon a Time in Real Life

when the flurries come to town

2012-02-10T05:00:00.003+08:00

last Saturday morning was a snow day...perfect for pajamas, hot chocolate and playing in a white winter land.

so much more than snow storms happening right now. stories and updates coming soon!

an alternate year

2012-01-27T01:45:00.003+08:00

in many ways, my sense of time shifted permanently last spring.

the calendar said March, but my life spoke to it being a new year. a new place. a "new" country. a new job.

I have struggled for almost a year trying to describe how those first few months were filled. I still don't think I have the words or even the capacity to begin.

but I do know there was a deep "before" and "after" chasm that formed in my life.

January came this year and I couldn't process 2011 as a cohesive year. There are two 2011's for me. One in Mongolia and one here in the United States.

There is another year altogether for me, one that does not have a numerical marker. It is simply this year back in the States. It does not run from January to January. It does not follow school vacations or cultural celebrations. It is, in fact, a whole lot messier and blurry and unconfined.

I am nearing the end of that year, this messy year of March to March. This year of moving and leaving, of coming and going, of weeping and praying, of searching and questioning, of deserts and glimpses of hope. This year of so, so many contrasts and so much wrestling.

It is an interesting thing, this year of one's own. Made of my own transitions and grasping, my own sorting and falling apart and being put back together by the trusting hands of the Holy and the loved.

Of walking paths and seasons that don't run according to a plan.

Of learning my own rhythms, my own timetables, my own seasons and the things they will and should and would and could hold.

Oh those words, those wills and shoulds and woulds and coulds.

A year of breaking open their constraints and placing them where I will allow them to hold their ground. Of deciding there is space for them, but only on my terms, only where I will let them cause reaching, not despairing.

Because it's my year(s). Mine to surrender, mine to give, mine to live in the freedom of a God who says come and who calls with the sweetest of whispers.

there has been much room for whispers in this year of mine. much space for silence and quiet and being stuck in thoughts that run in circles without ends.

this year of mine has not been easy. it has not even necessarily been happy. but it has indeed been good.

in its own ways, in its own shapes and sizes and expressions. there is no one form of good and this year has held many varying shades of that deep hue we hold in our eyes and hearts and hands.

so as this year of mine comes to its final month, I am letting there be honesty in my reflection. I am not painting in wide strokes that cover, but in the small ones that speak of details- minutes and moments and thoughts.

I am letting this year of mine exist.

all over and back

2012-01-18T07:29:00.004+08:00

we drove somewhere around 3,700 miles in the past three weeks.

i was home for Christmas for the first time in three years.

i visited an abundant wealth of old friends and dear friends and family and more family and new friends.

and i shared all of it with T, who has up until this point been unmentioned on this blog of mine. Mainly because it's not my place to tell his story. But our stories are about to become a whole lot more intertwined, so maybe someday soon I'll tell more of what that story is becoming.

it was a whirlwind of driving and pictures and food and empty cornfields lit by fading sunlight.

it was the chaos of gatherings and the quiet sleepiness of cups of tea as darkness falls.

it was exhaustion and elation and long runs in my favorite park.

it was sunshine and football games and a long bike ride on a beautiful trail.

it was hugs and conversations and dreams.

it was such a sweet, sweet time of grace and mercy.

i'm still drinking it up, still enjoying it even as I transition back to work and routine.

because...I'm terrible at taking time off.

And the depth of these blessings isn't one I'm going to forget anytime soon.

brief moments

2011-12-13T09:56:00.002+08:00

after worship a few weeks ago, i was heading up the aisle to leave, bible and notebook in hand.

i was lost in thought, in reflection, in my own circling worries and prayers and fears.

and he dashed down the aisle, through the crowd and slammed into me at my knees, hugging me so tight I almost toppled over, surprising me with his strength.

four-year-old boys are strong huggers.

all i could think was...

thank you Lord, for your mercy.

thank you for having mercy on me.

oh, thank you for loving me enough to meet me where I am.

thank you for using a four-year-old to remind me of your sweet mercy and grace.

mingling the muddled with Advent

2011-12-06T09:30:00.002+08:00

we lit candles yesterday. not just the Advent wreath, although those two candles burned brightly as well.

but a line of members and visitors and strangers that approached the altar and lit a candle and spoke a name.

after communion we were invited to reflect on the reality that Advent brings us towards Christmas in anticipation. And that it also brings the knowledge that there are hurts tied up in the waiting as well. That we wait not only in joy, but also in sorrow. That in living, we know struggle and loss and the unexplained. And that sometimes the bright light of expected joy makes the rawness of the hurt that much more tender.

as i sat and watched the procession unfold, i couldn't help but give thanks for a congregation that is willing to give voice to this tension.

we light candles because we believe and we trust that God brings light to the darkness. we light candles because we trust that in Christ coming to dwell with us that we have been saved from the darkness. and we light candles because even as we struggle with the joy of Christmas and the sorrow of our hearts we pray that the hope of Christ would mend us.

Advent instructs us to wait and reflect and ponder the coming of Christ. To think about how the holy came to enter into our messy, broken world. That the baby wrapped in cloth took on the struggle of a sinful world.

All is not always calm. All is not always bright. And yet he comes to heal, to pick up our pieces and to love us for who we are and not who we are not.

This season I'm grateful that Advent is as much about the muddled things within us as it is about joy and peace.

where we are is where Advent meets us. just as it is with Christ.

reflecting

2011-12-02T04:50:00.004+08:00

"Jesus knew that going into the barren and uncomfortable places isn't about proving how holy we are or how tough or how brave. It's about letting God lead us into a landscape where we don't know everything, don't have to know everything, indeed may be emptied of nearly everything we think we know. Giving ourselves to that place frees us to receive the word, the wisdom, the clarity about who we are and what God is calling us to do."

-pg. 142, In the Sanctuary of Women

I can't recommend this book enough.

misadventures in preaching

2011-11-14T02:22:00.002+08:00

I could never totally remember my preaching schedule in Mongolia. Some weeks I was responsible for the children's sermon, some weeks the teenager's sermon, some weeks both, some weeks Sunday School.....I tried to keep track of what week was what and I usually managed to get it right. Or I at least managed to be cautious and prepare a sermon on weeks I thought I might have to give one. Always be prepared, right?

Until one Sunday I was sitting with the kids in the children's service and it came to sermon time and Ogii announced my name. Oi.

Racking my brain for something, anything I stood up, smiled and walked to the microphone to meet Dashka (who translated for me).

And then I talked. I talked about Thanksgiving in the US (it was near Thanksgiving) and told the "historical" story of the Native Americans and pilgrims. I managed to connect it to some biblical lessons (or tried) and then I sat down.

Knowing you have to give the sermon is usually the most important step to avoiding some of the possible preaching disasters.

But then again, sometimes there are things that just happen.

Like the other week when I was a guest at a church that happened to have a very early morning service. Just as I was beginning to preach, I heard a phone ringing in the congregation. As I kept talking and listening to the ringing that wasn't stopping, a growing sense of dread rose up in my throat.

It was my cell phone. My cell phone alarm that I had forgotten to turn off.

I internally debated what to do- Should I walk down into the pews and turn my phone off? (Ugh, how embarrassing!) Should I ignore it and pretend I don't hear it? WHAT DO I DO?

I ended up deciding to ignore it and pray it would shut up eventually. Which it did after fifteen looooooooong minutes of going off.

No one said a word about it even though I'm pretty sure they must have figured out it was mine.

I was horrified.

Today, I wore my Mongolian del for the first time in months. I slipped my black tights on, buttoned all of the little tricky clasps and headed to church.

As worship began I looked down and realized my tights need to be replaced. Right under the hemline of my del was a huge worn spot where you could clearly see there should be black tights material instead of a clear vision of my skin.

So then I had to stand-up and preach all the while knowing my tights were basically see- through.

At least maybe the traditional Mongolian dress distracted from the tights issue?

Note to self: prepare back-up sermons, double and triple check cell phone alarms and buy some new tights.

lessons from October

2011-11-06T07:31:00.000+08:00

1.) blanching and freezing vegetables for winter is less scary than anticipated.

2.) it is good for the soul to occasionally buy a pretty dress, go back to where you used to live, eat lots of good food, dance with your friends, watch them get married and remember what it meant to be in college.

3.) 3 intensive days of learning how to be a doula are good, good stuff. conversations with women who also want to become doulas are encouraging and provide lots of good things to ponder.

4.) making meals with church folk will always be one of my most favorite things. ever.

5.) New Mexico is beautiful.

6.) there is such a thing as having too much of one kind of food (re: eating out in New Mexico every day and having New Mexican food for practically every meal) but there is no such thing as too many sopapillas.

7.) the presence of mice is not a moral failure but a normal occurrence for the general population.

8.) borrowing a farm cat from a kind friend is a good way to deal with mice panic.

9.) sometimes all of the paperwork and letters and stamps and fees do work together for good. Hooray for visa approval!

10.) it's been approximately 10 years since I gave my first sermon. craaaazy. even crazier, I still love preaching.

11.) being in charge of apple bobbing is fun until you run out of apples.

12.) it's true that the intercultural senior center has the best enchiladas ever.

13.) garden snakes. soil samples. and girly screaming.

14.) for 31 days, it went awfully fast.

the tension of future and present

2011-11-04T05:25:00.002+08:00

in my time as a member of the United Methodist church, I have been privy to many, many conversations about the state of the church.

whether it be church council meetings in the basement of my home church where we fretted over budgets and checking accounts or annual conference meetings or jurisdictional meetings or general conference or general agency meetings, the theme doesn't change much.

where we are is broken and where we're headed is unknown.

I was at an annual meeting of United Methodist communicators a few weeks ago where we had a panel discussion with leaders of various general church agencies. During the question and answer time, one of the communicators asked the panel members about what it means for us to not forget to tell the story.

And in my mind, every time she said "the story," she meant "The Story." The story of Jesus, the story of the Gospel, the story of redemption and grace and life in Christ.

But the answers did not talk about the Story. The answers were about telling the story of United Methodism, of reminding folks that our churches do good things, of sharing about our larger church's efforts with malaria and missions and connectionalism.

where we are is broken and where we're headed is unknown.

There were lots of questions about what is going to happen at General Conference this spring and how things will be restructured and what we are going to do about all of the things that seem to be falling apart around us.

That's the tension we live in. As a church, as an individual, as humans.

We know where we are in the now, we know it's not working, we know our sin, we see the way the things around us are not as they should be.

And yet we are afraid. Afraid of change, afraid of risks, afraid of what will happen when what is becomes what was.

And that is not wrong. It is not wrong to fear.

It is wrong to allow our fear to prevent us from following where Christ is leading us. It is wrong to pretend that if we stay still enough nothing will ever change. It is wrong to pretend everything is okay when it is so clearly not. It is wrong to stand and complain and whine instead of moving forward into what could be different.

The story is in the tension.

The Story is in the refining of our hearts, the transforming of our lives, the messy, gritty process of surrendering ourselves before our Creator and being made into who we have been created to be.

It is in the in between space of beginning and end, start and finish, birth and death.

The church is found in the place between.

I have heard so many sermons about how the church must change. I have listened to so many seminars and presentations about how we must grow and adapt or we will die.

But when we talk about it as something that will happen in the blink of an eye or the snap of our fingers, we forget that our Story is one of the process of grace and sanctification.

Christ did not create the church so that it might undergo a structural face lift every few decades.

Our practices might change, our worship styles might adapt, our understandings of the life of the church might expand, but we cannot shed who we are now when we look at who we want to be later.

The church is a testament to the ongoing journey of walking with Christ. We will try to be faithful and we will not always succeed. And so we will keep on, we will walk the in between and we will find grace in the tension.

For the Story we have to tell isn't about a perfect church or a perfectly holy heart.

It's about our cracks, our holes, our wounds and the Christ who fills them.

where we are broken and where we're headed is unknown. Thanks be to His holy name.

out of dust

2011-10-28T02:57:00.000+08:00

working to believe this today...

a mouse in the house

2011-10-24T08:55:00.002+08:00

there's a mouse in the house

and it showed itself today.

there's a mouse in the house

and I screamed.

there's a mouse in the house

and I sat on the top of my couch.

there's a mouse in the house

and I called my oldest friend.

there's a mouse in the house

and I made a list.

sticky traps, gloves, cleaning supplies,

a candle for good measure.

there's a mouse in the house

and I'm thoroughly grossed out.

there's a mouse in the house

and I want to be strong.

there's a mouse in the house

and every movement makes me jump.

there's a mouse in the house

but oh dear Lord now there's two!

there are mice in the house

and I need a cat.

fear and loving

2011-10-08T03:18:00.003+08:00

"Fear chokes out love. We don't become people of love unless we have faced our fears. This doesn't always mean resolution. Overcoming fears can be the work of a lifetime."

-Pg. 30, Radical Hospitality

asking questions, telling stories

2011-09-28T09:04:00.003+08:00

some interviews will always be a part of me.

the woman who held church services for former gang members and was involved in the christian rap scene. we sat outside of a coffee shop near campus and she shared her stories and her losses.

the tall, lanky non-profit employee in bolivia who gestured with his hands a lot. we sat in a dark classroom on chairs meant for 5-year-olds and he explained his views on gender roles.

the phone interview in a tiny conference room in the journalism lab with a former student who had been raped while on campus. the quiet as we listened and wrote and heard the unimaginable.

the daughter and her grandparents as we sat in their living room, a gaping hole covered by plastic from where a driver had crashed into their home that morning. their words about chance, circumstance and provision.

the students wearing hijab and discussing religion and high school with me, a stranger in their classroom. their experiences of community, struggle and difference.

being a journalist is about asking questions and collecting facts. it is also about observing, about being present, about taking note of all the things that aren't said, all of the things that happen that aren't put into words or discussions.

there are days where I miss being a journalist in the professional sense. i miss hearing and absorbing the stories and words of people and communities and then telling those stories. i miss digging through stacks of documents and finding a way to share what they say with a larger audience. i miss that moment when you're listening to someone talk and you know what they've just said will tell the story more perfectly than anything you could have ever written.

and then I remember being told to call the police and ask about the possible meth lab found in a dumpster and I don't miss it so much.

i am a journalist who loves feature stories, profiles, covering religion and writing investigative pieces. there's not much in the way of jobs in those possibilities these days.

some days my job here means i get to slip back into my hypothetical journalist trench coat and sit and listen and then arrange the words to tell the stories of what's happening in backyards, parking lots and neighborhoods known more for their violence than their peace.

some days i get to sit and watch people gather for a meal made from a garden.

some days i get to listen to how the stories of days past are enabling the stories of today to keep unfolding with the provision of food to those in need.

some days i am grateful that i get to keep writing, "official" journalist or not.

it doesn't take a press pass to observe a garden growing.

confessions of a returning missionary, part 3

2011-09-19T05:51:00.004+08:00

1.) laundry with a big huge washing machine that has it's own water hook-up and doesn't require me swearing while trying to hook a water hose up to a shower head is AWESOME. realizing that the dryer shrinks my jeans every time i wash them is not so awesome.

2.) tater tots are one of America's greatest advantages.

3.) the 13 hour time difference is a killer when it comes to trying to set up Skype conversations. it's always 5 o'clock somewhere, but usually it's 5 a.m., someone's in pajamas and you're trying to remember how to talk in sentences after being awoken from a dead sleep.

4.) yelling "ARE YOU THERE?" in Mongolian at the top of your lungs at 5 a.m. in your pajamas while trying to get Skype to work will make you either laugh or cry. I aim for the laughing ratio to be higher than the crying most days.

5.) making Mongolian food with my friends here is still one of my very favorite things to do. it brings my worlds together in one tiny, beautiful way.

6.) hulu and netflix are another two of america's greatest advantages.

7.) sometimes i wonder where a belonging or article of clothing is and then I realize I left it on the other side of the world.

recent life in a list

2011-09-15T08:46:00.003+08:00

- the omaha half-marathon is in 10 days. TEN DAYS. yikes. i'm getting nervous.

-visiting houston for labor day = so excellent. i even went bike riding for the first time in some 15 years. and I only almost fell off the bike a handful of times.

-we have a rural community garden that spoils us in the office with almost weekly boxes of tomatoes and eggplants. it is one of the best perks of working with community gardens ever.

-bought lumber for building raised beds this week. can't say I've ever done that before.

-have had some really good and encouraging conversations about my experiences with New Day and new monasticism lately.

-the beginning classes of doula training are continuing and I'm learning so much. i love being in class again even if it's only one day a week. i'm also getting excited for the three-day intensive in october.

-have recently been watching Mad Men (season 1) and Bones (on season 3). the two have pretty much nothing in common but so it is.

-i am head-over-heels in love with the weather cooling off and it starting to feel like fall. plus we've had some awesome thunderstorms.

-been reading Radical Hospitality and In the Sanctuary of Women. Both are ah-mazing. Been listening to a free Itunes podcast called the Nerdist Writers Panel. Each week they host a round-table discussion with a different bunch of TV screenwriters and it's fascinating to hear them talk about how they write scripts, create characters and shape television series.

-experienced/watched my first Nebraska Cornhuskers football game. i need to buy a red shirt if i am going to make it through this season.

-i still miss mongolia. i would still like to eat a huge bowel of tsuivan.

-getting excited to start cooking lots of cold weather soups and chili and potatoes all the while continuing to eat hummus by the gallon.

-trying to commit to writing more reflective, informative blog posts in a timely manner.

we'll see how that goes.

roots

2011-09-02T21:17:00.002+08:00

from In the Sanctuary of Women:

...I am from women less quiet,

women of the shout and the stomp,

testifying wherever they could make

their voices heard.

I am from Miriam and Mary and Magdalena

and from women unknown and unnamed,

women who carried their prayers

not in books

but in their blood

and in their bones;

women who passed down the sacred stories

from body to body.

I am from them,

listening to their voices,

aching to hear,

to tell, to cry out,

to make a way for those

yet to come.

- a portion of Where I'm From, Jan Richardson

the beef in the kitchen

2011-08-29T04:54:00.003+08:00

"Wait, I thought I just served you a hamburger. You're a vegetarian?"

Que conversation clarifying that I am only sort-of-kind-of a vegetarian. A flexitarian if you will.

Today one of the church ladies took one look at my potluck plate and said, "Are you a vegetarian?"

With one eye on my assortment of salads and another on my deviled egg she continued, "Because my daughter is one and I can tell."

It's quite the conversation-starter, this decision that isn't really a decision. And it garners all kinds of reactions from folks when they see what I'm eating (or not eating as the case may be) and then respond with tales of their own preferences and relationships with meat.

I grew up eating meat in a household where meat was never the central aspect of a meal. We ate a lot of fruits and vegetables and non-meat dishes.

At some point when I was pretty young I decided I didn't like lunch meat. I actually have no memory of ever eating it so I'm not sure how that went down or what caused me to cross it off the list of edible foods. So I got used to making a vegetarian option when faced with yet another make-your-own-lunch-meat-sandwich event or picnic. Lettuce and tomato sandwiches, anyone?

I watched my sister become a vegetarian who ate seafood (a pescetarian).

I moved away to Texas, land of barbeque, tacos and grilling. I ate in the cafeteria my first two years, not paying too much attention to whether I was consuming meat or not. I had little concept of protein and the many ways you can get it.

I watched my sister start eating meat again. I moved into an apartment and began cooking for myself for the first time.

I started eating a little less meat simply because meat is more expensive.

Then, I started running consistently. I started researching nutrition and recipes and ways of eating that were healthier than some of the pre-packaged foods I had relied on.

I discovered and fell in love with hummus. I started cooking lentils. I started thinking about protein and vegetables and fruits and what I was putting in my body.

The amount of meat I was eating dropped a lot. Quite honestly, I didn't really miss it. I still cooked chicken every once and awhile. If I really wanted ground beef or sausage, I made it. But suddenly a package of chicken breasts and a small package of ground meat could last me 6-8 weeks.

My meat eating was dying out. I considered becoming a vegetarian, but was hesitant to relinquish the occasional consumption of bacon.

Then I received the news that I would be moving to Mongolia. A quick Internet search and a conversation with a professor steeled me with the knowledge that I was not about to enter a vegetable-friendly environment.

Mutton. Horse. Beef. Some rare pieces of chicken.

Meat was the meal for a year and a half. Meat with an occasional side of flour.

There were days that I came home from work so desperate for something green and not coated in oil that I would beg Holli to let us just please cook a plate of vegetables for dinner.

No, being a vegetarian wasn't an option there. (Although I do know a Mongolian who is a vegan which blows my mind- I still have no idea what she ate most of the time).

I came to Omaha and didn't make any hard or fast rules about being a vegetarian or not.

My body led the way and just sort of chose for me. Call it a meat detox or just preference, but I have more or less stopped eating meat in any organized or consistent fashion.

I still eat it, just infrequently. It's been six months and I still haven't managed to eat the 3 chicken breasts and one package of ground beef I purchased and put in my freezer.

Instead I've been hoarding cans of chickpeas and black beans, making my own hummus and experimenting with various vegetarian and vegan recipes.

When meat is served to me, I eat it. When I crave meat, I'll usually eat it.

But less meat feels right to me and my body in this season. I am training for a half-marathon and have not felt at all lacking in protein or fuel.

My relationship with eating meat has been a process of learning about nutrition, discovering my own understanding of how to balance hospitality with personal choice and of figuring out how to listen to my body.

Most of all, the lack of beef in my kitchen has taught me the joy of embracing simplicity in my cooking, eating and food.

I'd like another serving of that, please.

eggplant stuffed with cheese and covered with tomatoes

the misery and faith of job

2011-08-21T07:21:00.006+08:00

a month or two ago, I began the process of reading through the book of Job. T suggested it and so we did it together, reading a chapter each day. I had read Job before and even pondered it in relation to missions thanks to some other blog thoughts written by missionaries with greater insight than me.

but I had never sat down with Job and read it day in and day out for 42-some days.

my prayer journal from those days are filled with verses and reflections, scribbles of where Job and his friends met my own thoughts and challenged me.

it's been almost a month since I finished reading Job and yet I have still found myself tossing and turning over the verses, picking them up again to reflect and examine and toss them back.

the thing that surprised me the most about returning to Job was that his words pointed out flaws in my own understanding of God. Job, the proverbial man who kept his faith, made it clear to me that contrary to Sunday School teaching, he wrestled and struggled and cried out and had a lot of angry conversations with his friends.

And he did it because he knew God to be faithful.

Period. End of Story. There is No Other Option.

Job believed that God was faithful. And so when faced with immeasurable loss and despair and general horrible-ness, he sat on that ground and he fought- internally, verbally (with his many friends who thought they had it figured out) and physically (lots of sackcloth wearing).

I, in my many and frequent moments of fear and doubt and holy-crapola-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life, am unconvinced that I can hope and dream of good things. And that is not simply a crack in my self-identity or self-esteem- that is a crack in my theology and my understanding of God.

Job dared to believe that God was faithful and would grant him good things. He dared to look at the rubble of his life and declare that God was God- our Maker and our Provider- and that He would be Job's sustenance.

Job looked at all that was bad, all that had been stricken, all that was wounded, all that was broken and still he had hope in who God is.

His friends wanted to argue theology, to explain why things fell apart at the seams and Job just kept saying, "Yes, I may want to die right now. Yes, I may wish I had never been born. Yes, I may be mourning like I have never mourned before. But that doesn't change the fact that God is faithful."

After all of the death, destruction and anguish that falls upon him:

"At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship" -Job 1:20

The beauty of Job to me is that while he got 500 steps ahead of me by responding to devastating loss with worshipping our Lord, he also is honest about those losses and the pain they have caused him. He does not glibly talk about how faithful God must be and how he feels no hurt because God will provide.

He looks at this pain, names it and then claims the fact that he is going to cling to the hope of what he knows to be true- God's faithfulness. And that that clinging is going to be enough for him in the midst of all else. He is not pretending to be superman. He is clinging for his life and he's owning it.

"Then I would still have this consolation- my joy in unrelenting pain- that I had not denied the words of the Holy One. What strength do I have, that I should still hope? What prospects, that I should be patient?"-Job 6:10-11

Faced with the words of his friends, which vary from condemnation to misunderstanding to just plain mean, Job brings it back to what it's really about for himself. He doesn't let his friends' agendas muddle what he sees this season of his life to be- a time of introspection, grieving and trying to reconcile his understanding of God with what's happening to him.

His friend Bildad:

"He will yet fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy."- Job 8:21

Job:

"Indeed, I know that this is true. But how can a mortal be righteous before God?" -Job 9:2

He had every reason to throw down his beliefs and pick up the mantle of bitterness and a cynical theology of believing that God is out to punish, destroy and harm. Yet he looks at all that has happened in his life and he sees the power of who God is and he chooses to believe that that power is beyond his comprehension, that his understanding of God's faithfulness must be held in the context of knowing we understand only a whisper of what awaits.

"And these are but the outer fringe of his works; how faint the whisper we hear of him! Who then can understand the thunder of his power?" - Job 26:14

But perhaps my very favorite part of Job comes in chapter 38. After chapters of Job wondering and questioning and claiming faithfulness in spite of what everyone else is shouting at him, this happens:

"Then the Lord answered Job out of the storm. He said:" - Job 38:1

The storm is not over. The storm is still going on and on and on. He's got friends who want to debate God's faithfulness until they've used up all of the words in the universe.

But God answers him out of the storm. And he gives him two chapters worth of examples of his power and might and wisdom.

Job dared to believe in a God who is faithful even when his life looked a lot more like ruins than castles.

Job dared to believe in a God who provides when he had nothing.

Job dared to believe in faithfulness even when everyone around him told him how foolish and ridiculous he was being.

Job dared to be honest about his pain and the struggles he had reconciling his experiences with his theology.

And God answered him out of the storm.

Job revealed to me the fault lines of my own concepts of faithfulness.

Perhaps thinking we understand is more of a risk than choosing to know we don't.

Perhaps hopes and dreams are less about who we believe ourselves to be and more about who we believe God to be.

And perhaps fears reveal less about ourselves and more about how we understand God.

here's to Job. The man who wept the tears of loss and clung to the corners of hope and knew they went together.

a thursday

2011-08-12T05:53:00.002+08:00

lots to write about, but for today i'll stick with today.

morning meeting with community folks interested and excited about starting community gardens in the neighborhoods that we are passionate about.

exclaiming over pumpkins growing from vines winding their way across a side of a hill next to the church.

chatting in the sun about where and how we can work together.

the future a possibility of finding more places to spread tomatoes and eggplants and cabbages the side of my head.

***

an afternoon walk of non-100 degree weather guided by boarded up houses and street corners.

the destination a former strip club where we gathered on the sidewalk to talk about what it's becoming.

the becoming a process of resources and neighbors and churches and people coming together to build something new out of the old.

a demolished inside with no windows, few lights and lots of debris.

someday a place of windows, art classes and safe spaces.

collaboration is good for a thursday.

the simple things

2011-08-02T05:59:00.004+08:00

sometimes going places is less about the going and more about the cracks in between the going.

mountains over denver from a window seat. mountains, that if we want to be honest, made me cry. because I really miss mountains.

quiet parks with fountains, trees, a farmer's market and cheap, delicious indian food.

a lack of humidity, blue skies and sunshine.

giant zucchinis and fruit booths that made me wish I lived in California.

orange trees.

strawberries. oh holy strawberries.

rivers and trains.

old Sacramento.

comfy hotel beds, take-out sushi and a wonderful morning run.

the in-betweens are my favorite part of all.

cultural adjustment fail

2011-07-22T10:45:00.002+08:00

it may be 100 bajillion degrees outside in Omaha but my house is cool.

i may live in the US now, but I still like to wear pajamas that feel comfortable.

in mongolia, it is totally acceptable and normal and practical to sleep in your long underwear.

all it requires is stripping down a layer (or two depending on the month) and ta-da! you are ready for bed.

so, naturally I got used to using long underwear as a form of sleepwear.

well, after a particularly not-so-good day of oversleeping, running late, thunderstorms messing with work plans and other ridiculousness- I promptly came home, took a shower and put on my most comfortable pair of long underwear.

fast-forward several hours and I hear knocking on my back door.

not a problem, I'm expecting a mission team that's supposed to come shower at my house.

as I answer the door and face the male team leader I suddenly realize anew that I am in fact wearing long underwear.

And that this might be a little strange. Or uncomfortable for this poor team leader whom I have never met before in my life.

Who has no idea that this would be totally normal and appropriate in Mongolia. Who has no idea that sometimes my brain gets stuck back in Mongolia mode and I forget what is proper etiquette in America.

You know like WEARING pants to answer the door.

He kindly acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, telling me when they would come shower and inviting me over to join them in worship.

Which I declined and all, citing the fact that I was already in my pajamas.

fail.

literate courage

2011-07-16T04:42:00.003+08:00

it was just the two of us in the meeting room. we made polite conversation as we waited for the facilitator to return from his waiting watch for latecomers to our training session.

talking about what we were doing there, where we were from. He an immigrant. Me just recently returned from my own foreign stay.

training started and we sorted through the paperwork, my own mind lingering on my own claims of home and my inability to answer that question without mentioning that country on the other side of the world.

we came to a pre-test. i started in, answering the questions about proper conduct and behaviors that will not be tolerated by those of us intending to be mentors for high schoolers.

i finished and sat in the silence.

he kept working. reading each question and choosing an answer.

i thought about the questions and the words that were used. i thought about how not simple or easy they were. i thought about the vocabulary knowledge required to answer them.

and I was humbled.

because there is no way my Mongolian skills would allow me to answer a similar test in Mongolian. I would have been done after one question. Or that one question would have taken me one hour.

and here I sat, my mother tongue propelling me through a pre-test without a second thought.

all while my co-trainee was doing this in a language that is not his first. he was doing it. he could do it. he would do it.

i would run straight in the opposite direction of that kind of challenge. i would toss my hands up and throw the "I can't" after about 30 seconds.

i am so cowardly.

***

ipod headphones in my ear, i trudged up the stairs from the YMCA's downstairs gym. i was hot, sweaty and tired after a day of work and a slow slog on the treadmill.

i was thinking about hating treadmills. i was thinking about how i wish i was a faster runner. i was thinking about how i should just give up training for a half-marathon because i'm not capable. i was thinking all sorts of negative, complaining thoughts.

as i walked towards the front desk I slid my headphones out of my ears so i could trade my gym lock for my membership card.

and i heard the director talking to a mom and her son, a translator patiently working the words from English to Spanish and back again.

all of them figuring out how they could make swim lessons happen for a son who doesn't speak English.

all of them trying to make special arrangements so that swimming can occur.

i spent my first day at the Y muttering under my breath and wandering around trying to find the gym room because i refused to ask for help. i avoid trying new classes because i might look like i don't know what i'm doing.

i am so prideful.

***

literacy and fluency steal from me my own awareness of my infallibility.

i get to float around in a self-protected world of knowing and owning and not needing because I can conjugate verbs and don't have to think to respond to questions.

i want to stop giving up before I ever start.

i want to stop refusing to start before I even ask for help.

thinking about stories

2011-07-05T08:40:00.001+08:00

"I've wondered, though, if one of the reasons we fail to acknowledge the brilliance of life is because we don't want the responsibility inherent in the acknowledgement. We don't want to be characters in a story because characters have to move and breathe and face conflict with courage. And if life isn't remarkable, then we don't have to do any of that; we can be unwilling victims rather than grateful participants."

-Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, pg 59

it's been over a year since I first read this quote in a car that was driving through rice fields in the Cambodian countryside.

i may not be in Cambodia, but these words still ring true to me in the here and now.

i want to be a grateful participant, not an unwilling victim.

and it's my prayer that we would all have that choice, that we would be working towards a world, a country, a space where no one has that choice taken away from them.

because I am privileged to be able to make that choice.

may I never forget that.

24 and expectations

2011-06-30T09:22:00.000+08:00

no matter what year you are turning, someone always inevitably comments on how old you are and then in the next moment, how you are so incredibly young.

it is the conundrum of birthdays celebrated in community. it is caused by a society that dictates our frequent segregation by date of birth and the number of years we've blown out candles on a cake.

it is the beauty of generations that to some we are ancient and to others we are just beginning.

it gives perspective I think- a moment to realize how blessed we are to have been granted another year and another moment to recognize that if we are lucky that there will be more to come.

I turned 24 last week.

it seems to me that life is marked less by numbers at this point and more by phases.

there are no special privileges attached to 24, no laws governing what is or isn't permissible now that the clock has turned and I have a 4 after my 2.

my driver's license expired. i ate too many rocky road cupcakes. i celebrated my birthday for a full 48 hours thanks to the mongolia time difference. i tried to quickly sew a dress together so I could finish one of my goals for the past year.

but 24 is 24. my life is now marked by other questions.

questions about professions and jobs. questions about long-term plans and relationships. questions about friends who are getting married and having babies and buying houses. questions about choices and pieces and thoughts.

24 is as much about 24 as it is about other people's expectations.

for me. for my life. for my present. for my future. for my professional life. for my personal life.

23 was about learning, breaking, growing and making some really difficult decisions.

i have a feeling 24 is going to be about continuing the process of unlearning my people-pleasing ways.

because my life can't and shouldn't and won't be about what other people want for me or expect for me. I refuse for it to be in the hands of anyone but God and I.

i'm calling an end to pleasing people before I discern what will please God.

i'm calling an end to pleasing the world before I do what is right for the Kingdom.

"What a woman needs is not as a woman to act or rule, but as a nature to grow, as an intellect to discern, as a soul to live freely and unimpeded to unfold such powers as are given to her."

-Margaret Fuller (quoted in Reviving Ophelia)

so hello, 24.

let's do some unlearning and re-learning and new learning.

it'll be fun and probably a lot hard.

that's a promise.

food swamps and farmers

2011-06-29T08:48:00.002+08:00

In high school, I don't remember anyone ever saying they wanted to be a farmer.

I knew several people who lived on farms and who threw parties in the cornfields after dark.

One of these guys was even my biology lab partner lab partner freshman year. Unfortunately for me, his life on a farm did not give him any inclination for biology or answering lab questions. Fortunately for me, it did give him a strong confidence in wielding a knife and cutting open frogs.

Our partnership mainly consisted of me answering the lab questions and him poking through the guts of whatever specimen we were assigned that week.

I complained, but it worked.

To my knowledge he did not become a farmer. I don't know anyone who did.

A few weeks ago I went to a panel discussion about food deserts and public policy, hosted by a local university and a coalition dedicated to issues of food security and policy.

A food desert is any population living more than a mile from a full-service grocery store (fresh produce, etc) or in rural areas, more than 10 miles.

I live in North Omaha, a large portion of which is considered to be a food desert. I'm lucky in that my closest supermarket (an Aldi) is just 1.4 miles from my house, but many of my neighbors are not so lucky.

But I didn't need to go to a panel discussion to be told what I already knew from living in the neighborhood that I live.

As one of the panelists pointed out, food desert is really the wrong word to use. We should call them food swamps. There is food around. There are two Walgreens, a few gas stations/convenience stores and a Sonic all within fairly easy walking distance of my house.

There is food. But it's the not the food that my biology lab partner harvested from his parent's farm. Or at least it's not any recognizable form of those harvested crops.

It's packaged, saturated, made to sit on a shelf food.

It's higher in calories, higher in sugar, higher in processed chemicals.

It's not a desert, but a swamp.

And most of the swamp's contents came from outside of Nebraska.

A state that is known for its agriculture, that has a history of farming and harvesting and working the land- and most of the food purchased here in the middle of America is produced elsewhere.

We have lost the infrastructure of buying and eating locally harvested goods. With that loss the number of farmers have grown smaller, the corporations have grown larger and the number of farmers managing to stay profitable has shrunk exponentially.

It is hip these days to discuss the importance of eating organically and locally for the environment. It is cool to go to farmer's markets (and rightfully so, I love farmer's markets!) and to cut back on meat. Community gardens are growing (hooray!) in all sorts of unique and beautiful corners of cities and wide open plains.

But as the panel participants pointed out, here's the million dollar question:

Who are going to be our farmers?

How do we encourage folks to become or to remain farmers?

We cannot sustain a change or a shift or a movement towards local eating unless we have the local farmers to respond.

And until the infrastructure changes for that to happen, for that to be viable and real, for that to be a choice people want to make....

the swamp is just going to keep growing.

gardening

2011-06-26T07:21:00.002+08:00

it was a good week in the garden world.

lots of visits to happy, growing community gardens.

lots of mucking through wet, muddy dirt that is keeping the plants and seeds happy and wet.

lots of looking at happy green plants that are growing taller in spite of their not-so-happy green weed neighbors.

lots of watching the beginning formations of eggplants and peppers, radishes coming up and carrots growing strong.

lots of conversations about why we garden and how we garden and how we learn and why the rabbits eat everything no matter what we do :-)

i love walking around these gardens in such diverse and interesting neighborhoods and then going to the farmer's market on Saturday mornings and knowing that similar vegetables are being grown right here in our city and their farmers are folks who may have never been to a farm in their lives.

they're being grown on parking lots and in raised beds, in yards and next to playgrounds. they're being grown at churches and food pantries, non-profits and schools, by refugees and children, senior citizens and teenagers.

we all need vegetables.

and for that, I am grateful.

when the tourists come

2011-06-19T06:51:00.004+08:00

in UB it was July.

in Omaha it is now.

in UB it was the telltale sign of non-Mongolian folks carrying backpacker gear as they glanced at maps and stood in the middle of crowded streets.

in Omaha it is college paraphernalia and sun visors and coolers and signs saying baseball this and baseball that.

in UB it was beer "gardens" set up in parking lots promising 3 am showings of World Cup soccer games.

in Omaha it is beer "gardens" set up in parking lots promising cheap beer and food.

in UB it was folks squinting at signs written in the Cyrillic alphabet and paging through their copies of the Lonely Planet guide book.

in Omaha it is folks slowing down as they drive past each stoplight, staring at their windows to read street signs and discern which direction they are driving down a one-way street.

in UB the action was at the very rarely used, gigantic stadium featuring the largest Mongolian flag I ever saw.

in Omaha the action is at the brand new, everyone-is-flipping-out-about-where-to-park stadium in the middle of a possible flooding disaster.

in UB the residents listened to the roar of crowds celebrating wrestling victories.

in Omaha the residents are listening to the crack of baseball bats and to people complain about parking.

in UB the residents couldn't get tickets to the wrestling because the tourists bought them all.

in Omaha the residents can't get tickets because it requires standing in line for 4 years and selling your first born child (or so a friend said).

in UB residents avoided all of the touristy areas for the span of two weeks that anyone actually ever came to Mongolia.

in Omaha everyone is already discussing where to avoid for the next week and a half.

in UB it was Naadam.

in Omaha it's the College World Series.

different contexts, but basically the same. exact. thing (plus or minus a few vital things).

monday.

2011-06-14T07:54:00.002+08:00

some days dinner consists of,

three frozen oreos (i have a thing for cold chocolate)

and a fried egg sandwich with cucumbers and turkey bacon that I cooked on a pan that I later remembered smokes every time I put it on the stove top and thus filled my kitchen with smoke (not the first, nor the last time that will ever happen to me).

some days training runs end with,

raindrops falling just as your path brings you back to your front yard.

some days rain drops make you,

sit on your front stoop, legs tucked under as you smile at the graciousness of God's sustenance.

some days old sweet dogs sleep,

curled up next to you on the floor of the thrift store.

some days you half way eat a salad,

before realizing you forgot to take the sticker off your peppers.

some days are mondays,

just a little off center.

couldn't have said it better

2011-06-07T22:58:00.002+08:00

if anyone is going to get what I'm trying to say and say it better, it's Hol.

her latest blog says it all.

thanks for getting it right minii naizaa.

confessions of a returning missionary, part 2

2011-06-05T08:52:00.005+08:00

1.) i just spent a week at a church conference where I had to answer where I'm from a lot. i never know which version of the answer I should use. The fact that I grew up in PA? The fact that I then lived and went to school in Texas? The fact that I then (and most recently) lived in Mongolia? The fact that I now live in Omaha? Or all of them combined?

2.) a group of teenagers will never fail to ask about eating animal guts when you are sharing about life as a missionary. it's interesting to me that differences in food and eating are one of the things that people everywhere can understand about cultures different from their own.

3.) if you wear a long, colorful dress the day you give the "i'm a missionary" talk you are only reinforcing the missionary stereotype people have of women in foreign prints walking barefoot down dusty roads. oops.

4.) being a missionary will teach you patience for a lot of things. church legislative meetings are not one of them.

5.) i'm a good traveler. I'm an even better homebody.

nebraska umc ac

2011-06-04T03:53:00.003+08:00

there are a whole bunch of things waiting to be written about and reflected upon, but for now I'm still in the midst of that annual week that united methodists love to hate and hate to love.

welcome to holy conferencing, picture-style.

the need we have for one another is so great. the tension that that need creates is greater still. the need for Christ to save us from ourselves is greatest of all.

familiar remnants

2011-05-24T08:25:00.003+08:00

one of my biggest fears in leaving Mongolia was that I would lose certain rhythms of my daily life that I had come to love.

I feared that I would lose the joy of cooking a meal from the basic ingredients bought from the market or the store down below our apartment.

I feared that I would be saying good-bye to the treasured quiet of nights spent reading or writing in our living room, cats chasing themselves in circles around us.

I feared that I would become dependent upon a car again and miss the quieting of my heart that happened on the long walks to and from bus stops and destinations.

I feared that I would accumulate clothes and books and shoes and things because suddenly they would be easily accessible and available and there for consumption.

I feared that the simplicity and creativity that life in Mongolia required of me would disappear into old patterns and habits of convenience, purchasing and distraction.

As I have made my way through this muddled and messy transition, I have struggled mightily with reverse culture shock. It hit me harder and faster and more intensely than I would have ever guessed. It still hits me in new and quieter ways each and every day.

But coping skills are a necessary and vital part of life and I have put them to work as I have made my way through the mire and the waves.

In doing so I have realized the deepest fear I had when I had to leave.

I feared that in leaving I would never be able to reconcile who I had become in Mongolia with who I had previously been. I feared that in returning to America I would be forced to forget and leave behind all of me that had changed, grown and become different.

I feared that I would have to lose me, the person that I was now, at the end of 16 months and a handful of days in the mountains of a far-away country.

In walking this place of coping and facing and transitioning, I have found strength and courage in tying together the parts of America that I remember and the parts of my life in Mongolia that I treasured so much. It doesn't always make a balanced bow and sometimes my effort to reconcile is more failure than triumph.

But adaptation is what made life in Mongolia possible. Surely it can do the same here.

I am grateful for the remnants of Mongolian life that still live on in my daily life here.

For the reality that I can choose to shop at thrift stores just as I once chose to shop in secondhand markets.

For the truth that I can I still take the time to make good meals from fresh food and enjoy the process, even if the stores I buy my ingredients from won't let me buy one egg at a time.

For the fact that I can ignore my dishwasher and take comfort in washing my dishes in hand, following the example of my Mongolian friends and attacking them as soon as the meal is finished.

For the knowledge that my life is and forever will be tied to my friends and loved ones in that far away country on the other side of the world.

Fear cannot steal from me the choice to be whole.

intersecting the -ologies

2011-05-19T08:25:00.003+08:00

"We are indeed made in the image of some God. And perhaps we have no more important theological investigation than to discern in whose image we have been made. Our sociology is predictably derived from, legitimated by and reflective of our theology. And if we gather around a static god of order who only guards the interests of the "haves," oppression cannot be far behind. Conversely, if a God is disclosed who is free to come and go, free from and even against the regime, free to hear and even answer slave cries, free from all proper godness as defined by the empire, then it will bear decisively upon sociology because the freedom of God will surface in the brickyards and manifest itself as justice and compassion."

-pg 8, "The Prophetic Imagination" Walter Brueggemann

If our theology shapes our sociology, what does our current sociology say about the theology of our world today?

bits and pieces

2011-05-15T09:59:00.000+08:00

yesterday I was called ma'am by a group of middle school boys.

an hour later I was called sweetheart by a middle-aged sales clerk.

today marks two years since I graduated from college.

so I'm not really sure what to make of all of that.

(and yes I realize I should stop being stunned that it's been 2 years and that the number and distance is only going to keep getting bigger)

in the midst of a very chaotic work week, we also had a gardening event at one of our community gardens that Sheryl Crow came to.

so there's that.

and yes she is as tiny as she looks. If tiny means you take how she looks in these pictures and than multiply it by about 100 for how she looks in person.

the best part was that the kids who we were doing the event for had totally no clue who she is or why she is famous. They knew she was a "famous singer" because that's what they were told by their after-school counselors, but beyond that they could have cared less. While the media trampled the vegetable garden (way to go camera men) trying to get the perfect shot of Sheryl, the kids just kept on planting, painting and otherwise partaking in the activities we had for them.

all they cared about was the fact that they got to leave school early and had full permission to play in the dirt, to paint with bright colors on fun objects and to dig in the mud.

that was beautiful to see.

and it meant they asked adorable questions to Sheryl, like about what kind of songs she played and why she couldn't play a song for them right now.

(ignore the awful green shirts please)

we also got to go to her concert that night and to meet her during the meet and greet.

as I watched her play all sorts of instruments, kiss her adorable son good-night on stage and sing, I was struck by the joy with which she performed.

it was clear that she has lived her life doing the thing (music) that brings her joy and allows her to feel alive. I hope I can have that kind of joy radiating from me twenty-five years from now.

although hopefully it will not be from a stage with an accordion strapped to my chest (did you know she could play the accordion?!?), because we all know that would not bring me joy, but only panic and embarrassment. :-)

the element of time

2011-05-10T08:02:00.002+08:00

before Mongolia I was almost always early or on time for things.

Class? You better believe I showed up early and claimed "my" desk.

Work? Always tried to be there at least 5 minutes early if not earlier.

Meetings? Early.

Outings with friends? I was the one mentally calculating the possible-traffic cushion necessary and trying to leave in time for that possibility.

I was timely. I was rarely panicked about being late because I made a massive effort to always be on time.

now I feel like I am always, constantly running behind.

I think part of it is just readjustment. I think the other part of it is the strong sense that timeliness is expected again.

In Mongolia, no one cared if I showed up early or on time or late. They were just impressed I showed up and was planning on actually teaching. Points for me!

Here, culture dictates that timeliness is valued and necessary.

I am finding this very stressful. And I think it's part of why I feel like I'm always late, even though I rarely am actually late.

All of a sudden I know that there are 5 other people waiting for me to show up at a certain time and noticing if I don't and WHOA that expectation is kind of messing with my post-Mongolia brain.

Hol and I used to joke that whenever we were on time for things in UB that everyone else would be really late, but whenever we let ourselves let go of that ingrained sense of timeliness that everyone else would get a secret text message to show up on time, and then inevitably call us and ask us where we were as we started hurrying to our destination (I cannot even tell you how many times this exact scenario played itself out).

The same thing is happening here in the States, except now I am always the one not really paying attention to time and then running out the door in a frenzied state as I realize I have not left myself enough time to get where I am headed. And the whole world except for me is getting the secret text message and its not secret because it's normal. Sigh.

I've lost a lot of grace in this cultural transition and by that I mean two things.

First, I have lost the ease with which I used to navigate American culture and cultural norms like timeliness. Being on time was never a challenge or stress for me before, it just simply was the reality within which I lived. I didn't think about it, I didn't analyze it, I didn't feel burdened by it.

I have, for better or for worse, unlearned how to navigate that expectation of timeliness with comfort and ease. It is no longer second-nature. It is something I have to choose to remember each and every day. It is something that still feels kind of odd and foreign to me. It is something that some days causes me a lot of stress. It makes me a bit of a mess in the daily operating category.

Second, I have wrestled with having grace with myself. I don't think anyone around me has been particularly bothered by my tendency to run late these days. I don't think anyone has been silently thinking, "Well, isn't she always a consistent 5 minutes late to such and such." But I have been. I have been beating myself up for not "having it all together." I have been beating myself up for feeling like I'm always running twelve steps behind, shoving all of my stuff into various bags and running out to my car with wet hair and no make-up.

It has been a challenge for me to sit back and look at the situation and realize that I need to have grace with myself. That I need to stop comparing myself with who I was before and wondering why I can't seem to get my crap together. That maybe it's ok I have lost my ability to be timely. That it's ok for me to not get how to do all of this stuff with ease and normalcy.

My normal is different now and that's ok.

the illusion of choice

2011-05-05T08:48:00.004+08:00

I remember being in high school and reading these articles by various church leaders about the importance of young adult ministry.

About how necessary it was, about how people just fell off into this deep hole of not-going-to-church once they were graduated from college ministries and had "real life" to deal with.

Yeah, I used to think, That is so true. (as if I knew)

About how there were so many life-altering and dramatic changes happening in people's lives during this young adult time. Choices about spouses and careers and children or no children and where to live and how to spend paychecks and what to do with their lives.

Yeah, I used to think, that makes so much sense. You have to decide so many things when you are a young adult. (as if I had a clue)

I think I read so many of these well-meaning articles on the state of the church and young adults when I was a teenager that I walked into young adulthood already convinced of all of these things I was supposed to be figuring out.

Hol and I used to spend a lot of time sitting on the floor of her bedroom talking about life. Usually one of us would bring up some huge question that doesn't ever really have an answer (like, when does one really become considered an adult?) and we would sit and mull over our trains of thought, talking through all sorts of reasoning and opinions and general confusion.

A frequent topic of these catch-all pondering sessions was that of the role of choice in our lives.

Combine all of those young-adults-are-in-dire-straits stories and society's general sentiments about the necessity of "settling down" and I was left feeling that I was doomed to have to face all of these huge, big, scary decisions and well, I better not screw it up.

Because we all know where those people end up. And it's not living happily ever after in the suburbs.

And when I sat on the floor of our very cold Mongolian apartment with my cups of tea, usually still in my pajamas at 11 am because it was our day off, those very big life decisions felt like a huge, suffocating pressure.

As we would talk and process and dramatically wave our hands around to make our points, those decisions felt like I was being forced into one of two options.

I was being forced to either succeed at doing everything perfectly and making all of the right choices (forever and ever, amen) or to epically fail and end up a miserable, sad person wondering how in the world she had managed to screw up so completely.

Because that is the construct and narrative we so often hear.

The choices you make now impact the rest of your life.

The choices you make now in your life will shape everything you ever do from here on out.

I wish I had......when I was 20-something.

If I hadn't/had done......then I could have/wouldn't have.......

We create this story that being a young adult is in the only time you have control over the choices you make in your life. That once you make those foundational choices you can't ever make any other choices again.

I get that marriage is a choice that sets the tone and path for your life. I get that choosing a career defines certain things about what will come. I get that having children will change everything.

I get all of those things.

What I don't get is believing that once you turn 30 there is no more changing and choosing and choice-making to be done.

What I don't get is acting as if the 45-year-old sitting in the pew doesn't need discernment and prayer and wisdom and encouragement, just as much as the 23-year-old.

What I don't get is this perpetual sense that we are stuck by the choices that we make. That we do not worship a God who changes us, who calls us, who moves us, who shapes us, who challenges us every single day we awake.

I am starting to make those decisions. The ones the articles talk about. The choices about the future and careers and people and relationships and life.

But I am also remembering that I will need to make those choices each and every day of my life.

That I will awake and choose to be committed to the spouse that I marry.

That I will awake and choose to pursue God through the vocation of my calling.

That I will awake and choose to seek his will and direction for my life, no matter how settled it may seem.

That I will awake and choose to desire learning and changing and being shaped by my Creator.

That I will awake and I will continue to make those big, life-altering decisions each and every day.

And somehow, that makes it less scary.

There is less pressure when I know that I will make those choices today, tomorrow and the day after that.

It becomes more about living than getting it right.

It becomes more about growing than about staying the same.

And that my friends, is reason enough to start making choices that will just have to be made over and over again.

Because is a choice really a choice if it has no end?

warren buffett what?

2011-05-01T09:07:00.006+08:00

"A little cover-up on your Adam's apple will make it look smaller, which will make you look like less like a transvestite."

-Michael Scott to Gabe
(the office)

today is the "hallowed" weekend of the Berkshire Hathaway shareholder's meeting.

which to most people in the world means nothing but does mean something if you live in Omaha (or of course, own stock in the company).

or if you know who Warren Buffett is and how he is not the Michael Scott of the real world. although wouldn't that be fun if one of the most successful investors in the world was also absolutely ridiculous?

my co-workers bestowed upon me an event staff pass to the meeting (we get passes because one of Berkshire Hathaway's companies donates garden gloves to our urban gardening project and we get to collect all of the leftover gloves at the end of the event). it turned out that I didn't have to go help get the gloves, but that they thought it would be an interesting Omaha activity for me to partake in.

so with the learn-more-about-Nebraskan-culture goal in mind, I prepared for a day of warren buffett themed exploring.

point one: I am against paying for parking. This is because I am unashamedly cheap. So I parked at our office and walked the little less than 2 miles to the conference center. The weather was beautiful, I got to see more of downtown and I thought it was a win all the way around.

point two: I don't know what I expected, but I did not expect so many people. The arena was pretty full. Even more shocking, it was pretty full and everyone was just sitting there listening to two old white men talk into microphones. Not exactly a Beyonce concert if you know what I mean.

point three: finance speak is another language. it was however pretty amusing to spot those shareholders pretending to actually be finance people (and probably are) in their suits and then to contrast them with those clearly not trying and just walking around in their jeans and t-shirts.

point four: there's little like watching people buy concession food to listen to two old men talk about a huge corporation that makes billions of dollars a year to make you think about how absolutely bizarre America is. Really, people? We're going to eat popcorn while we watch the dog and pony show that is capitalism? Dear goodness.

point five: in an exhibit hall with such diverse companies represented, Dairy Queen will always be more popular than a deserted display on pipes or some other engineering thing. ($1 baby blizzards!) And people will pay $5 for a package of underwear. Or $20 for a strange teddy bear made especially for the Berkshire Hathaway weekend. Sorry, but I call that weird warren buffett.

point six: If you are currently in the throes of reverse culture shock, it is probably not wise to wander past the luxury RV display, where a couple is indeed in discussions with a salesman about purchasing an RV that costs THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. You will want to vomit up the $1 baby blizzard you just ate at the idea of that much money being spent on a pimped-out bus.

point seven: feeling no strong sense of guilt about leaving the shareholders meeting after an hour of wandering around is quite freeing. it means you can then go wander through Omaha and happen upon a health and wellness expo where you can get the hard sell for a portable mini massage thing that you don't want to buy. And then you can keep wandering until you get to the lawn of the old capital building and sprawl out on the grass...

and write letters coming to a mailbox near you

and wander back to your FREE parking spot as you pass the art museum.

and have an all-together pretty good day in Omaha.

which as it turns out, is probably something mr. warren buffett would appreciate.

the easter tomb

2011-04-28T10:16:00.002+08:00

"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

2011-04-25T08:37:00.004+08:00

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

2011-04-24T04:35:00.002+08:00

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

2011-04-19T09:25:00.003+08:00

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

2011-04-15T09:34:00.002+08:00

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

2011-04-10T03:14:00.002+08:00

"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

2011-04-06T11:01:00.000+08:00

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

2011-04-05T10:13:00.002+08:00

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

2011-04-03T10:46:00.001+08:00

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

2011-04-02T00:39:00.003+08:00

(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.

faint not

2011-03-31T21:24:00.002+08:00

the problem's not a gun, not a color, not a hundred dollar bill

we think the struggle can be worn with simple thoughts like 'come together be good willed'

the gap between the rich and poor is spreading out all the more or so they say

we ignore the claims

o my soul, faint not, no

faint not, o my soul, keep up, up

in love

it's not that we don't know or we're not shown the proof of poverty

it's not that we don't have the tools to go to break this yoke of slavery

we quite because it's not an easy fix and then forget that they are even there

we forget to care

o my soul, faint not, no

faint not, o my soul, keep up, up

in love

where there is hatred, let me sow love

where there is injury, let me pardon

where there is darkness, let the Light come, come

o my soul, faint not, no

faint not, o my soul, keep up, up

in love

o my soul, faint not, no

faint not, o my soul, keep up, up

in love

faint not

- lyrics from "Faint Not" by Jenny & Tyler

amen, amen, amen.

the news

2011-03-28T09:13:00.002+08:00

drum roll, please....

I'm moving to Omaha, Nebraska.

I've known for awhile now and if I've seen you in person you probably already know this now sort-of old news.

But all good things must eventually enter into documentation via the blog world, so here we are Internet and you mysterious readers who have not yet identified yourselves.

The second half of my three year term will find me in Nebraska, serving alongside the awesome staff of United Methodist Ministries (I have yet to meet them, but their emails make me like them already) in the city of Omaha.

There are job titles and descriptions and work plans, but reality is never the same as words on paper, so I'll refrain from speculating about what I'll be doing on a daily basis.

Transition is a topsy-turvy train of emotions, moments, processing and adjustment. I am nowhere near the end of its ride, but I am grateful that the next stop on this journey is Omaha and the work of UMM.

There will be urban gardens and a thrift shop (called the Blue Flamingo!) and mission teams. There will be new folks to know and new corners to get lost in. There will be new stories to learn and new tears to cry.

It will be new and it will be a part of what has already been.

The adventure officially changes location on Saturday. Midwest America, I'm headed your way!

And maybe, just maybe this means I'm ready to begin writing about it all again.

what do you want of me?

2011-03-16T02:37:00.003+08:00

(Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia)

Give me death, or give me life,

health or sickness,

War or swelling peace,

Weakness or full strength,

Yes, to these I say

What do you want of me?

Give me wealth or want,

delight or distress,

Happiness or gloominess,

Heaven or hell,

Sweet life, sun unveiled

To you I give all

What do you want of me?

Give me, if you will, prayer,

Or let me know dryness,

An abundance of devotion,

Or if not, then barrenness

In you alone, Sovereign Majesty,

I find my peace,

What do you want of me?

Give me then wisdom

Or for love, ignorance,

Years of abundance,

Or hunger and famine,

Darkness or sunlight,

Move me here or there;

What do you want of me?

If you want to see me rest,

I desire it for love,

If to labor,

I will die working,

Sweet Love, say

Where, how and when.

What do you want of me?

Yours I am, for you I was born.

What do you want of me?

-St. Teresa of Avila

(Norcross, Georgia, USA)

in this time of contrast, I wish I could speak with St. Teresa.

in this time of in-between, I read her words and I pray that my heart would find in them a prayer, a hope, a belief.

falling off the face of the earth..sort of

2011-03-03T14:26:00.002+08:00

I haven't completely fallen off the face of the earth, although I do sort of feel like that is exactly what I am preparing for.

Except I'm falling off one corner of the world and landing in another, very different one.

Add in an insane week of plans/good-byes/cleaning/hanging out with loved ones and the fact that my computer is non-functioning and our Internet has chosen to stop working....and it does indeed feel like a disconnected time warp.

Excuse me while I continue walking around dazed, teary and lacking sleep.

I shall reemerge in a week or two.

visas and passports

2011-02-26T21:31:00.003+08:00

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.

old letters

2011-02-24T14:23:00.002+08:00

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.

prayers in the time of chaos

2011-02-20T21:57:00.003+08:00

(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!

love from this side of the universe

2011-02-14T17:51:00.000+08:00

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.

surprise

2011-02-12T21:01:00.002+08:00

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.

the stroller debate

2011-02-07T09:34:00.001+08:00

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.

an addendum

2011-02-04T11:21:00.003+08:00

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.

when the spirit doesn't catch you

2011-02-03T09:43:00.004+08:00

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.

way to get to my heart

2011-01-25T21:31:00.002+08:00

i haven't talked about the impending leaving-of-Mongolia I'll be doing here on the blog yet. because frankly, I haven't wanted to and I haven't been ready to and because avoidance is a better means of dealing with the rawness of my current emotions.

but for today, I will make a brief exception.

***

Dishke and I have talked a lot about the fact that I'm leaving. Almost every time I see him it comes up.

He's six. He's also a huge part of my life here and one of my absolutely favorite people in the whole wide world. We play together. We laugh together. We cook together. We chase each other. We listen to each other. We tickle each other. We play jokes on each other. We love each other.

So it makes sense to me that he would want to know about this whole leaving thing. He gets it in some sense- I've left before when I went to Cambodia this time last year and more recently, when I went to the States for Thanksgiving.

He's asked enough that now, when other people ask me and he's around, he answers for me.

"When are you leaving?"
"March 5th" he yells from the background.

But today...today our conversation made my heart weep.

"Erin baghsaw, when are you coming back to Mongolia?"

"I don't know, Dishke."

"You are leaving March 5th, right?"

"Right."

"So....March 10th you can come back, ok?"

"I can't."

"March 11th?"

"I can't"

"12th? 13th? 14th? 15th?........." ("I can't" "I can't" "I can't")

"Za, March 31st you can come back."

"Dishke, I can't."

"Ok then. March 32nd."

"I can't."

"Then when? When are you coming back?"

"I don't know exactly."

(he's quiet for a minute)

"Ok, well you just have to come back, ok?"

***

it's hard not having any answer to those questions. it's hard not knowing when or God forbid, if I will come back. it's even harder knowing that it's not going to be March 32nd (if that were a day) or April 1st or anytime that's going to satisfy Dishke.

and no matter how many words of solace there are meant to be had during this time, i'm not really interested in hearing about timing or knowing what I signed up for or the fact that seasons can't last forever. and i'm not really sorry that I'm not in a place for those things right now. i'm not, and that's the way it is. I'm ok with that.

all i want is to hang out with dishke and my kindergartners and my friends and soak in all of the moments that I do have. so that's what I'll do.

my vs. our

2011-01-21T14:00:00.002+08:00

in English, there is "my" and there is "our."

my house. my work. my life.

"our" is for the things we share.

we might live with our family, our friends, our roommates, but we would still invite someone to "my" house.

in Mongolian, there is "my." there is "our." and there is a "my" that is used to signify things that are mutually shared.

It is this last "my" (shared) that would be used to talk about a house, a school, a family.

***

last week, a dear friend's mom passed away.

I took this news in as we sat in the early morning cold of a Saturday teacher's seminar. My heart hurt for her as we prayed and then moved our attention to the topic at hand. We could shift focus, but she could not.

the next day we went to her house for the traditional funeral visitation.

quietly, silently we slipped into the one room as night came upon the city.

it was crowded and solemn and all I really wanted to do was hug my friend and make sure she was o.k.

but instead I sat and I drank the tea and I ate the soup and I accepted the food offered to me.

none of us knew what to do. none of us knew what to say. none of us knew how to break the silence as we watched our friend, our sister, silently ladle soup and wash bowls and start the process over again.

a few men came in who I didn't recognize.

they glanced at our group and asked who we were.

a church member who was there helping spoke up and said, "They are from my church."

"My" (shared) church.

tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about the reality of her words, the beauty of being able to express that we are tied up in this messy life together, that even though we were currently sitting in this room heavy with grief and despair and no idea what to do, that we were in it together. that our connections were not for any one of us to own. that we sat there because we cared, because we loved, because our hearts hurt.

it is there that the story of this journey lies.

that for me it has never really been about "my" work here.

that it has always been about the ties that knit us together, that weave themselves around us, spinning webs of love and connection and care that are difficult and precarious and hard and beautiful and easy to mangle.

so grief pours forth from the roots of those precious threads and we sit together and we say "my" in a way that can never really be said at all.

when illness strikes

2011-01-20T18:56:00.002+08:00

illness has a way of searing memories into your brain, the pain and suffering of being sick making those moments unforgettable, no matter how much you might prefer otherwise.

it also has a way of being intertwined with travel, a curious and unwelcome extra piece of luggage that seems to always inevitably get tucked in at the most inconvenient of times.

like the time Katie and I landed in the darkness of night in La Paz, Bolivia, scared and nervous and thinking WHAT THE HECK have we just gotten ourselves into (or was what just me?) and we made our way to our tiny hostel room for the night and then promptly...didn't sleep a wink.

Altitude sickness struck majorly in those first hours in Bolivia. Swiftly and stealthily the country greeted me with the need to throw up, to pass out (not once, but twice) and to lay in bed really doubting our decision to embark upon that particular adventure. I distinctly remember laying in that hostel bed, nauseous and woozy, listening to Katie try to eat a granola bar and thinking, "Oh dear goodness this is not going to end well."

Or the time when, two months after that initial visit to La Paz, we took a brief trip to Copacabana and I once again was struck down by the altitude sickness gods. As we wandered the little streets of the town and my head pounded, we eventually sat down in a tiny little cafe for dinner. I was so nauseous and so convinced I was going to DIE that I couldn't even bring myself to eat more than one spoonful of the chicken soup that the restaurant owner kept swearing was the best chicken soup in town. For all I know, it probably was. But I felt so voraciously ill at that moment that there wasn't a chance in the world that any kind of soup was making it down my throat.

Perhaps even worse was our return from Bolivia, which found both Katie and I sick out of our minds. We were sick before we even got on the plane and the long flight didn't do either of us any favors. I was so desperate that by the time we got off the plane in Miami I was the girl ripping open her suitcase in the middle of baggage claim, hastily gulping down pills as I sat on the floor of the terminal. Not at all suspicious behavior, right? Sickness while traveling makes all things justifiable, people. Including the fact that about 10 hours after the pill gulping I may or may not have burst into tears while pleading my case to a ticket agent.

There has also been a incident of food poisoning in Cambodia that left me convinced that I am a pretty poor house guest when my stomach is spasming in all sorts of horribly painful ways.

Or the time when my allergies got so bad last spring that I literally couldn't see out of my eyes. I spent two days miserable in bed, convinced something was seriously wrong with my eyesight and imagining all kinds of WebMD fueled theories about impending blindness when in fact all it was a serious allergic reaction to living in the same country as the Gobi Desert (thanks dust allergies!)

And then there has been the past two days...which started with me taking a nap in the middle of the day while out in the countryside (sign #1), continued with me being unable to eat anything for dinner that night (sign #2), and ended in a night of throwing up every hour.

there's just something about sickness that makes you bemoan being able to feel.

I wish there were a way to claim that I handle being ill with grace and dignity, but let's be real. It makes all of us into five-year-olds who just want to cry and be able to eat solid food again.

and now that I'm on the mend again, it has me foolishly hoping it won't come again for a long, long time.

ykylimw #27

2011-01-20T10:37:00.002+08:00

oh so it's been awhile...sorry 'bout that.

you know you live in mongolia when....

...fur coats are less of a fashion/political statement and more of a practical way to stay warm.

winter reads

2011-01-11T21:09:00.003+08:00

after a summer and fall of hardly making it through a few books, I've finally hit the season that makes you want to stay inside, curl up under the blankets and read.

it also helps that I spent a bunch of hours in transit to and from America/Mongolia, which given the atrocious movie selection (come on, United), also provided me with plenty of time to read.

It feels good to be back to my bookworm self. All is right in the world once more :-)

What I've been reading lately...(that which is noteworthy and not embarrassing to confess to- I certainly read some mindless fiction as well)

Foreign to Familiar: A Guide to Hot and Cold Climate Cultures, Sarah Lanier: I ordered this off Amazon because I was curious as to what characteristics she might ascribe to cold climate cultures (considering how cold Mongolia is and all). Interestingly, her explanations end up classifying Mongolia as more hot climate because it is nomadic and more agriculture based (and thus less "developed" in some senses).

The part that was most helpful to me was her chapter on high context vs. low context cultures. Basically, low context cultures make it easier for a foreigner to understand how to do things or how things work- paying at a restaurant would be self-explanatory thanks to signs or written explanations and a foreigner wouldn't need to understand the culture to know what to do. High context cultures are the opposite- they require a high knowledge of the culture (or context) in order to figure out how to do things within the culture. Reading her explanation of this dichotomy gave definition to what has been incredibly true of my acclimation to Mongolia and had me nodding my head over and over again.

Some Girls: My Life in a Harem, Jillian Lauren: Now the wife of a member of the band Weezer, Lauren wrote this memoir about how she ended up a member of the harem of one of the princes of Brunei. It was interesting to read her reflections on how she felt like she ended up there and what made her go back a second time (the lure of the money mostly), as well as how she navigated the intensely bizarre and clandestine environment of living with almost no power over her days, choices or activities. It was a fast read and helped pass a few hours somewhere over the Pacific ocean.

Serving With Eyes Wide Open: Doing Short-Term Missions with Intelligence, David Livermore: If you have done, are doing or want to do short-term missions, you NEED to read this book. Hosting short-term teams in Mongolia has changed my understanding of short-term missions forever and this book does an excellent job of beginning a discussion about some of the basic problems, weaknesses and struggles that come with short-term missions both in our home cultures and overseas. Read it, discuss it, tell me what you think!

Icy Sparks, Gwyn Hyman Rubio: This was a part of a wonderful care package that a church from the U.S. sent me last month. It follows the story of Icy Sparks as she grows up in rural Appalachia with undiagnosed Tourette's Syndrome. It's a beautiful story of her struggle with not knowing what is wrong, of being sent briefly to a children's mental hospital, and of discovering who she is in spite of how the rest of her small town sees her.

The Help, Kathryn Stockett: Somehow The Help came up during our Thanksgiving celebration this year and at least four people gasped and exclaimed over how amazing it was when it did. I'll confess that I agree- I started it this past Sunday and stayed up late last night to finish it.

The story of two African-American women working as domestic help for white women during the 1960s in Mississippi unfolds and intertwines with that of a young white woman aspiring to be an author. As they begin a secret project to record their stories and shed light on the realities of race relations, I couldn't help but get drawn into their lives, the tension of what might happen and the raw ache of that history.

Why Korean American Churches Need a Makeover, Hyphen Magazine blog, Tammy Kim: Oh the things I have learned about Korea, the Korean church, the Korean American church and Korean culture since moving to Mongolia. Mongolia has a lot of Korean influences and there are a lot of Korean missionaries here- hence all of the learning. This blog post caught my eye and was quite an interesting read.

Welcome to Minegolia, Foriegnpolicy.com, Ron Gluckman: A friend sent me this link and while this feels the fifty-hundredth article I've read recently about Mongolia and its mining potential, it does do a fairly decent job of summarizing things. I'll be honest though, the whole mining thing frustrates me.

First, no one is talking about the environmental impact such mining will cause. And in a country where the capital city is plagued by horrible, terrible, no-good, very, very bad pollution with not much (from what I can tell) being done to quell it, I don't hold high hopes that there are going to be strict pro-environment standards when it comes down to the mining and the promise of money. Second, as the article mentions, the risk of the money being thrown down the hole of political corruption is huge and likely.

Third, perhaps the mining will bring jobs. I'm not an economist and I don't know the likelihood of such a thing. I do, however, suspect that it's not going to solve the unemployment issues, it's not going to help my friends and community here who struggle to buy food and pay basic bills and it's not going to drastically improve the education or health care systems. The people who can already afford to shop at the Louis Vuitton boutique are just going to be able to buy another purse, while the rest of the city keeps on in the same patterns and problems of yesterday.

Thoughts? Other books you can recommend for the rest of winter and traveling to come? Other interesting articles or blog posts to share?

icy eyelashes and other random things

2011-01-06T15:10:00.003+08:00

who needs mascara when you have ice to thicken up your eyelashes when you walk out the door?

sadly, it melts when you walk indoors and is rather painful, but on the plus side of things it's free!

Apart from icy eyelashes and worrying that my contacts are going to freeze onto my eyes, winter is just going about it's business here in Mongolia.

I've once more forgotten what it's like to only wear one layer of clothing and I get cold watching movies with people wearing tank tops in them. Life is normal, whether my toes are numb or not.

We went from having zero New Years plans to hosting a party in about the span of 15 minutes (and 5 text messages) on New Years Eve.

A gallon of pasta salad and a hundred pizza bites later, we had a wonderful time hanging out with a bunch of our friends. We played games, almost killed each other playing spoons, ate until we couldn't eat anymore (and still had too many leftovers) and watched fireworks be set off in our parking lot.

Best of all, I managed to stay up until 2:30 a.m. Whew!

And even though we are still eating our way through the holiday leftovers, I am also managing to feel recovered from the craziness that was the past few months, ie: the stressful month of November, a trip to the US, Thanksgiving, traveling like a crazy person, Christmas and then New Years.

It feels good to have rest days that are filled with laundry, dishes, writing and snuggling with our cats.

It feels even better to be with the kiddos at the kindergarten, to play cards with the senior citizens, to teach English and to laugh myself silly with the teenagers.

And to end this random post with yet another completely useless anecdote...

Should you ever find yourself with the need to wash your down comforter, let it be known that it probably isn't the best idea to do so in the beginning of January in Mongolia when you don't have radiators big enough to dry it or any other sufficiently warm blankets to sleep under.

Aren't I just the source of useful information today?

the mess of sharing

2011-01-03T15:00:00.000+08:00

this article has had me ruminating in the few days since I read it.

there are a variety of reasons for this-

for one, it's about a congregation in a neighborhood that I once lived and worked in for a summer. A part of Brooklyn that I love, that walking through (like I did when I returned to NY in April 2009) still causes memories and stories and emotions to rush forward into my present reality. It is a corner of the city that I fell obliviously in love with in spite of the fact that that summer was hard in a whew-I-just-had-my-world-turned-upside-down kind of way. The good kind of way that leaves you exhausted and broken but hopeful.

those sidewalks hold stories for me. those storefronts reflections of who I was, who I've become and who I hope to be. those avenues and traffic lights reminders of conversations, thoughts and long walks.

two, it's about two United Methodist congregations. My feelings about denominations and the larger church are for another post, but the fact remains that my membership is in the United Methodist Church and that I'm currently employed by an agency of the UMC.

third, it's about immigrants, changing neighborhoods and the conflicts that arise between groups dealing with these transitions, emotions and shifts.

It hurt my heart to read the article and to feel the anger and frustration in the words of the leaders, the church members and the pastors.

To mourn the fact that we struggle with sharing space. To mourn the reality that conflict among Christians is more present than it is absent. To mourn the fact that it appears they are more concerned with defending their opinions than truly hearing or listening to their brothers and sisters.

being a foreigner in a strange land is a disconcerting, difficult experience. Admittedly, my experience is limited and I bring with me the advantages of an education, a job, white privilege and a support system. but these past fifteen months have revealed to me some of that which comes with navigating a new country, culture, language and community.

a part of you longs for the safety and security of the familiar. for people who share similarities with you. for the chance to worship in your heart language. for the chance to speak without hesitation and clumsily conjugated verbs self-consciously pronounced with an accent.

i get that that is part of why congregations form based on race and ethnicity and background.

and yet it hurts to read this article about two congregations seeking to share space and wonder why they can't or won't or don't want to perhaps go beyond sharing space and seek to actually form a community together.

language is a barrier. arguments and fighting and frustration are barriers. traditions and routines and money are barriers.

and yet the only way I see for us to tear down those barriers is to start looking at the person standing in front of us and see a person.

and then to see that person become a friend.

and then, when things get messy and complicated and hard and you want to throw things....they are not a "they." They are a part of you, the little girl who sits next to you at the picnic and the man who also likes golf. The family who cooked you dinner one night and the fourth-grader who is best friends with your son.

a member of my church community in Dallas once preached a sermon about racism. he told us that we can sit back and be overwhelmed by its historical roots and vestiges and the attitudes that keep us afraid and separated, or we can realize that the starting point of ending it is friendship.

we're all foreigners and strangers somewhere.

may conflict not be the end. may the risk of conflict not be what stops us. may the difficulty of navigating the way not be what defeats us.

o, that we would risk.
o, that we would reach.
o, that we would share.
o, that we would step forward in faith into that which is neither comfortable or easy.

O Lord, that you would have mercy on us.

a year in images: part three

2010-12-31T20:53:00.001+08:00

part one.
part two.

September 2010: Peace Bridge, UB

October 2010, Khonghor

November 2010: Mars, PA

December 2010: Chingeltei Mission Center, UB

Happy New Year!

May 2011 bring you joy, peace and love abundant.

a year in images: part two

2010-12-30T20:39:00.000+08:00

part one.

June/July 2010: the Mongolian countryside

July 2010: Naadam festival, UB

July 2010: building a ger, Khonghor

little star of bethelhem

2010-12-30T18:44:00.003+08:00

thousands of people probably saw the star that Christmas night in the fields. but the shepherds looked at the star and they knew. They followed it because they knew. And they found Christ in the manger because they knew.

I've been thinking about Christmas in Mongolia being a bit like the star that night so long ago.

it's there for all to see, for all to find, for all to discover but it's also just a day.

some of us know- we gather, we celebrate, we light candles and we rejoice. and then there is the rest, the majority, the large consensus that doesn't. for whom it is a normal day, a day with final exams and work and chores and...life.

society doesn't stand still here. stores don't close. families don't gather. santa doesn't come. reindeer aren't spotted in the sky.

and yet some of us come together, we sit in a crowded room and we light the Advent wreath and we sing of the angels and the shepherds and the baby and we celebrate the birthday of a Savior who was born into the mess.

we are not a club, we are not a secret, we are not hiding.

we just simply see the star and know because in the story of life and its multitudes of ways and God's grace we have come to know.

and so we celebrate even while life continues outside the doors of the crowded room. and we look to the star, to Christmas, to this holiday and we point towards it. we explain and we hope that in explaining we're doing justice to where the star has led us. to how it has changed us. to why we sit around and celebrate the birth of a baby who came into life among animals and hay and parents who were probably scared out of their minds.

it's new here. it is not a tradition or a story or a cultural consumerism event.

there are no yearly family christmas activities or santa claus theories or presents bought and exchanged.

I sat in the back of a crowded ger on Christmas day and I cried because the children of this five-month old church had decorated the circular one-roomed tent by themselves- a pouring out of excitement and joy and....it hit me.

it was their first Christmas.

their rendition of the nativity story left me in tears.

because it is all new, it is all treasured and learned and discovered and suddenly, they've seen the star.

and they are pointing too, journeying towards the manger scene because God has come and told them that a Savior is to be born.

maybe they don't know what that means yet. maybe most of us don't really know what it means. maybe most of us are still following the star, still trusting that we will figure it out one step into the dark night and over the fields at a time.

Christmas is quieter here- a celebration in the midst of a daily life that doesn't pause like it seems to in the U.S.

but the star shines in both places. and no matter what corner of the world we're seeing it from...it's still the star over Bethlehem. it's still Christ in a manger and we can still be the shepherds; walking towards He who calls us, searching for the baby who saves us and inviting others to join us on the journey.

a year in images: part one

2010-12-29T20:25:00.003+08:00

In the spirit of the coming New Year and the fact that New Years is a WAY bigger deal in Mongolia than Christmas, I've decided to do a countdown of sorts.

Over the next three days I'll be posting ten of my favorite pictures from the past year (that I've taken).

I've cheated a bit in trying to choose ones that are not only "good" pictures, but that are also a good representation of some of the highlights of the past twelve months and all they've held. That said, sometimes they are just pictures that I love because of the memories or the people or the beauty of this place.

The first three:

January 2010: Angkor Wat, Cambodia

March 2010: Zaison War Monument, UB

June 2010: Gachuurt, Mongolia

24

2010-12-25T07:13:00.005+08:00

And on the night before Christmas, my true love gave to me...

...five hours of baking- complete with food coloring, cracked eggs, flour messes, fur hats, laughing ourselves silly, cookie cutters and the finished product of 500 cookies and five cakes with chocolate icing.

Bring it on Santa Claus.

We've got ourselves some sugar to enjoy. Or more correctly, we've got a birthday to celebrate.

And the baby being born is going to rock your world.

headless angels, one-armed gingerbread women, slightly crispy stars and all.

23

2010-12-25T07:01:00.004+08:00

And on the 23rd day before Christmas, my true love gave to me...

...nine visits to hospice patients, Mongolian caroling, byy3 eating, tea drinking and a staff party complete with games, too much food and lots of laughter.

crossing cultures

2010-12-18T14:03:00.000+08:00

One would think 27 hours of travel, three flights and lots of waiting would be adequate preparation for returning to your home culture.

One would be wrong.

I was immediately overwhelmed in San Francisco by the customs lines, which were basically mass chaos of people pushing and being crowded into too small spaces after many long hours of traveling and not sleeping. The poor customs guy tried to make small talk with me and all I could do was nod, half-heartily answer and wander out into the airport.

Airports are overwhelming. After all of Holli and I's debating about what food we wanted to eat first when we reached America, I was way too disoriented to take in the endless amount of options and expensive prices and DEAR LORD the number of choices. So? I bought a banana and water and sat on the floor in a corner.

Things that used to be normal tasks that you knew you could do easily no longer are. I felt panicky while signing my name on a receipt for the first time because it felt like I was taking forever and I hadn't done it in over a year. Also weird? Paying with debit cards instead of cash. American money that includes coins.

Everyone talking in English causes brain overload and exhaustion. It is distracting and disorienting and completely nuts to go from being able to tune out a foreign language to suddenly being able to understand EVERYTHING that is going on around you.

Menus are also exhausting. I have no idea how I ever made decisions about anything when I lived in the U.S. I live in a country where everything is a variation on meat and flour. That doesn't exactly equate a lot of food options. My coping mechanism was to just generally order the first thing that sounded good to me.

So.Much.Food. It didn't help it was Thanksgiving, but still.

Grocery stores are a panic attack in waiting. It is also a doubly bad idea for the first time you go to one after over a year to be the day before Thanksgiving. Thankfully my sister, her bf and my dad were with me and they were incredibly helpful in figuring out what we needed so I didn't sit on the floor and cry. I went two more times before I left and it never really got easier. It was too overbearing to really take everything in so I also just kind of put my head down, got what I needed and got out as fast as possible.

Driving everywhere is strange. I missed walking.

Not having to wear lots of layers every time you walk out the door is awesome. SO awesome.

Worship services are so short in the U.S. -shorter than the average length of the sermon at my church every week here in fact. This is not a bad or good thing necessarily, just a weird thing to adjust to when you're visiting.

Fruit and salads ARE as good as I had remembered.

Beds in America are soft. So are couches and love seats and blankets and...yet somehow my back was missing my hard Mongolian bed. Go figure.

Jet lag totally messes with my body.

In two weeks, I:

-flew on nine different flights
-visited three different states (Pennsylvania, Texas and Ohio)
-was in five different time zones
-slept in five different places (thanks for letting me crash with you various friends and family members!)
-visited seven different airports (Chicago wins for being the airport I walked around the most in)
-saw countless friends and family members
-cooked Thanksgiving dinner for thirteen people with my sister
-ate hummus by the gallon, pumpkin by the can and yogurt by the quart
-spent a total of fifty-seven some hours in transit

I also did a lot of pondering of what it means to move between countries, cultures and places. I don't have anything figured out, but I will say that I think it's an incredibly individual and personal process each time that transition takes place, regardless of whether it's for two weeks or more permanently. This time was not like the time when I returned from Bolivia and I have no doubt my next re-entry will be it's own thing as well.

There is no magical answer for how to handle culture shock- reverse or otherwise. It is what it is. All I know is that we have to meet it in the best ways that we know how and that changes according to circumstances and situations.

Sometimes all it means is admitting that we are almost perpetually in transition to somewhere or something and having grace with ourselves in the midst of that.

around the world and back in pictures

2010-12-15T18:37:00.007+08:00

i left this...

and after 27 hours of travel made my way to this...

snuggled with her...

spoke to a full version of this...
hung out and laughed with my two wonderful sisters...
traveled again in order to get here and wear a t-shirt for a day...
indulged in this...
got on another plane and visited with more family...
drove across the Keystone State and watched these...marveled at the snow...

celebrated with loved ones...

took in Christmas lights...took part in another 30 hours of travel...

stopped by here...hi Beijing airport!

and ended up back here....right where I belong for the moment.

(more thoughts to come...eventually)

a big table in the sky

2010-11-26T19:20:00.002+08:00

sometimes I let my mind ponder what it would be like if all of the people I am grateful for, all of the people who have touched my heart and my life and my mind, could gather around one giant table and share in a meal.

it would be a table that would stretch over continents and countries, mountains and deserts, oceans and lakes.

it would be a table that would hold a multitude of mother tongues, languages that hold and bear and give and take and share and receive and ultimately fail to adequately express anything at all.

it would be a table that would speak of change and transition and sustaining and falling and growing and living even when it takes us in a thousand different directions at a thousand different times.

it would be a table that would sing and laugh and cry and probably look at one other at times with confusion and bemusement and maybe even anger.

it would be a table that would hold little hands and feet, wrinkles, wisdom, naivete, simplicity, complexity, snapshots of seasons passed and seasons to come.

it would be beautiful.

yesterday was a pretty wonderful glimpse at what one part of that table would look like.

And I got to sit in the middle of it, to cook with my beloved sisters, to drink tea with women that I adore, to have a serious debriefing on the Harry Potter movie with my younger brother(a brother by life history rather than blood). To laugh over silly conversations and rejoice in the gift of being together for a few hours.

This morning I woke up at 3 am and was wide awake (thanks never-ending jetlag). I sat in our basement and looked at old pictures from my childhood and remembered.

The connections we carry are worth celebrating because they speak to the truth that we are not alone. We were created for community- to be a part of the Body and to know the joy of right relationship with one another. We were created to live life together regardless of whether the together part is done from opposite sides of the world or next door.

My heart is filled with thanksgiving because Christ reveals himself in ourselves as individuals made into a whole.

Because all good gifts come from the one who has created us for Him and for one another.

uh, in america?

2010-11-23T02:51:00.002+08:00

I would like it to be noted that the first conversation I had upon entering America for the first time in 13 some months had me being confused for a native French speaker.

By an English teacher.

Who told me that I had a French accent.

It appears my English has declined far more than I realized.

Sorry in advance?

Also, jetlag is no good. Nor is failing to sleep on a ten hour flight from Beijing to San Francisco.

As a result, I haven't slept in many hours, it's 11 am local time and my body is telling me it's 3 am.

Time to find a corner of the airport and try to nap before my connection to Pittsburgh.

See you all soon!

jeremiah

2010-11-18T13:09:00.002+08:00

I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them.

-Jeremiah 32:39

Singleness of heart and action- that is my prayer today for my life, my community and for the Body of believers all over the world.

May you, O Lord, work in me and in us.

the starkness of truth

2010-11-15T09:22:00.003+08:00

"The truth, the whole truth, tends to be complex, its contentments and joys wrestled out of doubt, pain, change."

-Kathleen Norris, Dakota, pg 79

a man lying passed out on the ground when it's -15 degrees outside

broken zippers on little ones' jackets, no money for new ones

bread that is shared because it may be the only meal eaten all day

a stumbling drunk wandering through the dirt paths as evening is just beginning

a sister, wife, daughter trying to get her brother, husband, father home from the bar

a visit to a friend's mom who is sick, tired, scared, crying

the sadness on a friend's face after a difficult week

the words of struggle, the prayers of those who carry more than they should

and yet still we gather, still we sit in a circle with the sun rising in the oranges and reds of the morning haze outside the window and we hope.

truth carries the weight and fragility of these realities, it shines its light on the starkness of what is, the things that hurt and sting and ache.

we dance and we sing together because if we don't....

if we don't I fear we will crumple under that which truth reveals.

truth frees us, but it also breaks us.
it makes us whole while also placing us within the dichotomy of tearing us into pieces.
it is real and that makes it beautiful.

no rose-colored glasses, no shiny mirrors that reveal ourselves as better versions of who we believe we are, no singing birds making our beds.

joy and beauty still rise up out of those trenches

some days it is more of a fight to find them, some days truth is not even-handed or fair

but it's still true.

"And what of truth? We don't tend to see the truth as something that could set us free because it means embracing pain, acknowledging our differences and conflicts, taking our real situation into account."

-Kathleen Norris, Dakota, pg 82

welcome to cute

2010-11-11T14:25:00.003+08:00

i love that when he realizes his singing is being listened to that he hurriedly stops and starts playing with the toys again :-)

morning exercises with the kindergartners...

joyful things

2010-11-10T17:26:00.003+08:00

*snow, snowflakes, snow-covered mountains

*having a crowd of little ones come running at you yelling, "Sain uu bagshaw!" and wanting to give you a hug when you walk in the door in the morning

*giggling, helping little hands choose crayons for coloring animals

*eating mantuu byy3 with my adorable kindergartners as they each insist on one-by-one telling me to "have a good meal, Erin bagshaw."

*chatting with the female hospice staff and laughing about silly answers to our practice English sentences

*drinking tea and laughing over ridiculousness while playing cards with the women of the senior citizen group

*walking home in the snow and marveling at the gray softness of the end of the day

*feeling the familiarity of winter- in spite of all of the reasons why I shouldn't, I really think winter is my favorite season in Mongolia. It makes sense in a way that nothing else can.

needing winter

2010-11-04T14:23:00.003+08:00

sometimes poetry is not words as much as it is the images that stretch out before our eyes, the colors and realities of what is happening forming prose in our minds, writing the words of a moving memory that will remain for as long as we let it stay.

***

i stand rooted, a few steps from the concrete shelter that passes as a landmark in the middle of nowhere, having paused to take in the place I've come.

watching the grandma and grandpa walk hand in hand in the brilliant white snow, the sun high in the morning sky, their steps steady and slow, the mountains sloping and gleaming in the background.

the snow is new and it will be gone in a few hours as the sun heats it into oblivion.
the couple are old and they will keep walking as I trail behind and then pass them.
I will think of them as I walk, of the things that life brings us and the places it takes us.
of what it means to choose one another and to walk side by side, slow and steady even as the snow melts.

it is white, it is morning, it is cold. winter has come once more.

***

winter has its place among summer, spring and fall. even when in Mongolia it lasts for six months.

I am learning that we need it just as much as we need the others. I am learning that it brings with it things we have forgotten in America.

things like living my life in accordance to the rhythms of the seasons. of understanding and growing in the knowledge that we were not meant to live unconnected and disenfranchised from the realities of cycles and movement and a time that is not found in numbers.

winter is real here. as real as it is in Texas I suppose, except this is an in-your-face-can't-breathe kind of real.

it changes daily life.

it cannot be made easier by driving everywhere or turning the heat up or pretending it isn't dark for most of the day.

winter in Mongolia means changing my life to accommodate it.

it has meant realizing that maybe we are supposed to live in these natural ebbs and flows, these times of seasonal hibernation and wind chill-enforced rest.

that maybe the world won't stop if my life moves in rhythm with the seasons instead of some imaginary threshold of productivity and accomplishment that must be met each and every month.

***

sometimes I wonder if we fear slowing down because of the space it gives us for looking in the mirror.

if winter isn't long because of the nearness it requires of us.

if the darkness of winter doesn't drive us crazy because of the stillness it asks of us.

and if maybe wholeness is knowing all of this and choosing still to enter into it.

***

there is beauty in the mountains in the midst of all of the seasons.

the white of winter reminds me of beginnings, of learning, of falling in love with this place.

the brown of spring speaks to me of the hope of new life, of familiarity, of dust and dirt and renewal.

the green of summer shouts of joy and warmth and wandering.

the orange and brown of fall whisper of change and depth and moments stolen from the quietly chilled winds.

each stand as a testament to the marching forward of time, to putting one step in front of the other and finding yourself somewhere new...

eventually, inevitably, invariably.

***

so they walk together and I walk alone and we all walk towards something in the snow. we all breathe in the cold and let out the warmth. we all squint in the sun and wonder at the footsteps we leave behind.

we all traverse the present while seeing the past and pondering the future.

a few hours later I am walking again, this time with a friend by my side. as we talk I look at the mountains that have turned brown, the snow melting and scattered, its whiteness having diminished as its covering has faded with the sun.

we hear the roar of a motorbike as its driver darts into view. Naraa shouts him our way and we pile on, the three of us settling on a small red motorbike in a sea of rocks and trash and melting snow.

i breath deeply as we navigate past the cows and dogs and sheep and over the rocky hills that lead to the road.

as we move towards where we're going without forgetting where we are.

letting hibernation be what it is and winter a salve to the soul.

paws on the ground

2010-10-28T14:45:00.004+08:00

sometimes I think the best decision we made in figuring out how to make a life here was getting cats.

when you move across the world to a country where you don't know anyone, don't speak the language, don't know the culture and have to spend the first two months in swine flu lockdown, adjusting isn't exactly a walk in a park

in fact, it feels a lot more like running into a concrete wall repeatedly while taking breaks to sit on your behind and cry for awhile and then getting up to do it again.

the good news is it gets WAY better and eventually the concrete wall disappears and you can't believe you used to not live in this place.

in the meanwhile you look around and try to figure out how in the heck you're supposed to make this new place into something resembling a familiar space where you can live, breathe and function.

also, when you're busy trying to adapt and adjust and learn and live? you spend a lot of time dealing with a daily flood of emotions that can be incredibly overwhelming and exhausting.

you need things that pull you away from the land of emotions and freak-outs and processing and place your feet back on the ground.

i claim that as one of the main reasons Holli and I both wanted a kitten.

beyond our undeniable love of all things furry (although I make exceptions for mice, rats, hamsters and guinea pigs- ugh to ALL), I think we both needed something that would anchor us back to the present in front of us. Something that would remind us of life outside of all of this crazy adjusting and bring us back to the simplicity of things that sometimes get forgotten in that mess.

simple things like watching a kitten sleep or explore or want to curl up on your lap.

dobby was all of those things for us. as well as source of entertainment and stories with her antics and adamant desire to wake us up at the crack of dawn, refuse any and all affection and have intense separation anxiety. normal, she is not.

Hol was on the we need another cat train. And I repeatedly told her that she was crazy. That Dobby was antisocial and afraid enough as it was and would absolutely, positively hate another cat.

Then I found Luna, crying and tiny on my way to church one morning. And I joined Holli's train, kitten in tow and hopeful that Dobby wouldn't hate us forever.

The past few months have not been easy and for a whole host of reasons that are not meant for a blog. It has felt a little bit like I've come back to that concrete wall.

Luna has brought my feet back to the ground again.

Her little tiny self has made me laugh, has entertained me with her insanity (the joke is that her name is short for Luna-tic) and has kept me company when I just need to talk or cry or sit in silence.

Dobby loves her, we love her, my students love hearing stories about her. She has made our little apartment feel complete.

God has used her to pull me back into reality, into the simplicity of getting up and being present to each day even when my heart and head are full. For that, I am grateful.

baby steps leading somewhere beautiful

2010-10-27T17:54:00.004+08:00

it started with a car ride.

mid-swine flu quarantine about a year ago, we got in a car and drove outside of the city with some of our co-workers to look at a town that the mission was maybe thinking about starting a church in.

if you can believe it, we didn't even actually ever get out of the car after driving all the way out there.

we looked at property out the window while scrunched together with 4 people in the back seat of a tiny car and then we turned around and drove back to the city.

that was my first trip to Khonghor.

fast-forward to late spring. land was purchased, my dear friend Naraa chosen to be the lay pastor, and plans were made.

july came and I returned to the village I only vaguely remembered in order to help put up the church. Two days of hard physical labor, fun and laughter and we had a ger. We had a church.

august brought the opening worship service and dedication, complete with an adorable naked baby crawling around and not enough chairs for all of the people who showed up. of celebrating what is born of prayer and obedience in the middle of mountains and valleys.

there was a week of vbs. of camping out and watching the stars and listening to the joyful shrieks of little ones running around. of watching a tent become a church. of watching a church be built upon piles of glitter and little fingers and toes.

and then there was a medical clinic after church one Sunday with a visiting medical team. a chance to go with them. a chance to spend the day catching up with new friends, to share hugs with the kiddos and to have an all-day conversation with a girl and her baby that dug its way into my heart and stayed there for weeks afterward.

there is the now. the Tuesdays. the tiny steps that have led up to the fact that now I'm going to Khonghor once a week. that now I spend my Tuesdays riding the bus into the mountains and walking across the empty, quiet fields so I can enter into a ger and sit on the bed and teach English to whoever comes.

it is the bread crumb trail of grace and learning and discovering that has led me to a new step. to a new routine.

to watching two brothers study as we sit on the floor together. to marveling at how life is these moments that come together unexpectedly and perfectly and exactly as they should be.

of long bus rides and sloping mountains and cows and goats and horses. of Monglish and flashcards and eight girls crowded around a game of pronoun memory. of a motorbike ride with a stranger to the bus stop after a day of teaching.

of knowing that this is what I get to do. that this is the stuff that unfolds when you wait, when you look, when you live.

ykylimw #26

2010-10-27T17:37:00.002+08:00

you know you live in mongolia when...

....the version of The Little Red Riding Hood that gets read to the kindergartners includes the detail of Little Red Riding Hood bringing Mongolian хуушууp to her grandmother.

Maybe that's why the wolf ate her grandmother? I don't know many wolves that wouldn't want to eat fried meat pockets that are also one of Mongolia's national food.

(side note: I'm actually quite impressed that such a cultural adaptation was made- props to whatever random publisher translated the book we have in our classroom)

recent reading

2010-10-25T17:11:00.003+08:00

"The desert monks were not moralists concerned that others behave in a proper way so much as people acutely aware of their own weaknesses who tried to see their situation clearly without the distortions of pride, ambition, or anger. They saw sin (what they called bad thoughts) as any impulse that leads us away from paying full attention to who and what we are and what we're doing; any thought or act that interferes with out ability to love God and neighbor."

-Kathleen Norris, pg 98, Dakota

it all seems simultaneously simpler and more complicated when you're alone, walking across an empty field of snow, in the quiet of a Tuesday morning.

365

2010-10-14T11:03:00.002+08:00

last year at this time I was en route to the airport with my life packed into two large blue suitcases.

well, hello there one whole year of my life. where, o where have you gone?

into the crevasses of dirt roads that wind their way up steep hills, into the peaks of mountains and between the clouds.

into cold rooms and cups of tea and group devotions on sleepy mornings.

into loud gatherings at our apartment, complete with too much food and silly games.

into gers and fires and cooking together.

into singing and listening and worshiping and the beauty of Mongolian tumbling from my tongue into the void that is filled and shared by us all.

into tickle fights and chasing and basketball and little hands.

into the messiness of life and community and loving one another.

into tears and sadness and joy and celebration.

into falling and jumping, being blind and seeing more.

into little ones' voices and dancing in the cold kitchen.

into train rides and camp and splashing in rivers and climbing mountains.

into Cambodia and mission teams and kittens and snow.

into strangers, into friends, into family, into people who became those things.

into the place where I am both supposed to be and want to be.

a good 365 days indeed.

***

I fear sometimes in my desire to share the good that I gloss over the hard stuff. That in my excitement to write about what I'm learning and how grateful I am to get to know and work with my community here that I don't make it clear that it is not all roses and sunshine and fairy tales.

Or that I give the false impression that I have it together, that I have answers (I'm scoffing to myself even writing those words) or that I am somehow capable of the things God has placed before me.

Ha.

I look back on this past year and my heart is overwhelmingly filled with joy. Not because it has been easy or great all of the time. Not because I have it all figured out or am a missionary superstar who can do everything (or anything).

It is joy-filled because God has been so breathtakingly evident in every.single.part. of these past twelve months.

It has not been easy, it has not been without failure and hurt and grief. It has not been without falling apart and being put back together and falling apart all over again. It has been all of those things and more.

This year is leaving me ever more grateful for the call to be present to today. To the Holy Spirit's movements in our lives. To the good and the bad and the wonderful and the awful. To the hard stuff that makes the joy our sustenance.

To the wholeness of knowing that we are not our own but we are the children of the Faithful One.

That is a pretty dang good place for a year to go if you ask me.

things that are different: daily life

2010-10-10T06:00:00.001+08:00

It's five days from it being one year of me being in Mongolia and I've got my second-to-last list.

my eating habits have shifted, my language skills have adapted and my daily life has changed.

It turns out moving to the other side of the world will do that for you.

Things That Are Different: Daily Life edition

1.) No hot water on Sunday mornings.

i don't know why this is so, but we have never had hot water on a Sunday morning. which means I usually spend my busiest day of the week with dirty hair and a bit smelly.

2.) We boil all of our water before we drink it (well, when we remember/aren't dying of thirst).

have you ever had a parasite? if so, you know why we do this. I still cringe when I think back to my parasite in Bolivia.

3.) I take micros or buses to get wherever I want to go. And occasionally, taxis that aren't really taxis.

and through the vast adventure of trial and error, I actually now have a pretty good sense of how to get a variety of places without getting lost.

4.) In Dallas, my daily walk to classes meant passing by frat houses and fountains. Here it means I pass by a pile of sheep skins waiting to be sold when I walk to work from the bus stop.

fun fact: often you can still see the blood on the skins.

5.) I cannot be inconspicuous anywhere I go.

i stick out like a sore thumb with my light hair and blue/green eyes, not to mention my accent. it doesn't matter where I am, what I'm doing or what's happening- I am obvious to everyone around me. People stare, people whisper, people yell various English phrases at me. The introvert in me is still not used to this and probably never will be.

6.) My early bedtime habits have only gotten...earlier.

it was a joke (founded in truth) among my night owl Dallas roommates that we never saw each other because I was always asleep by the time they got home and gone before they awoke. With a lack of daylight during our long winters, my internal clock has only become more intent on going to bed ridiculously early. Like 9:30 p.m. early. Now I'm usually up by 6 and in bed by 9:30 or 10.

7.) It is a daily routine to inform people that I am not Russian and do not in fact understand a word of Russian.

8.) Checking the weather is a necessary part of my morning routine. How many layers? Which coat? Which shoes? The great long underwear or not debate? And then it becomes deep winter and it stops mattering again because the only thing you need to know is PUT ON EVERY PIECE OF CLOTHING YOU CAN.

I cannot tell you how many times I have cursed not being properly dressed for the weather here. When I forget to check the weather for the day is always, always when we get bizarre mid-day snow or dust storms or rain or a 20 degree change in temperature.

9.) I went from a dog and two cats at my parents house, to no pets for four years, to two cats here in Mongolia. Two Harry Potter-themed cats at that.

luna and dobby! They make me laugh, they keep me company and they make our apartment a home.

10.) Cooking is an adventure- of ingredients, of creating, of tasting and of eating. I have the time now to cook and it has become the main activity of my evenings- nothing is fast here and that's a-ok by me.

My daily life is not what it was a year ago. And it's certainly not always the same each day.

Mongolia is nothing if not the provider of variation- which is exactly why I've come to enjoy it so very much.

How is your daily life different from this time last year?

world hospice day

2010-10-09T08:00:00.000+08:00

today is World Hospice and Palliative Care Day.

prior to moving to Mongolia, I knew next to nothing about hospice and palliative care.

And then I had the opportunity to meet the staff of Grace Hospice and to learn about the ministry of the nurses, doctors and volunteers who daily care for Mongolians who need hospice care in their homes.

I have visited and prayed with patients and families, watched as the staff care with love and grace and listened as the volunteers have shared their care for the people they spend time with weekly.

Most of all I have learned.

About hospice care, about death and dying and God, about struggling with our brothers and sisters, about being there when it's hard and impossible and hurts.

I have cried and I have reflected and I have rejoiced in the beauty that is present even in the midst of brokenness, especially when we allow community to be a part of the process.

"We are members of a body, not only when we choose to be, but in our whole existence. Every member serves the whole body, either to its health or to its destruction."

-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, pg 89, "Life Together"

Work responsibilities have meant I have not gone on a hospice visit for quite a few months now. But the visits I have made and the opportunities I have to interact with the staff remind me continually of how important this ministry and work is to our community- and to communities everywhere.

As Christians, death should not be something we shy away from. It is not something we should make people and families face on their own.

Hospice and palliative care form a place where we can meet the needs of our brothers and sisters. It is more than just medical care and it is more than just providing pain medication.

It is about honor and respect and walking the journey with one another. It is about daily life and sharing and being present to everyone involved. It is about family and community and listening.

So today I am celebrating hospices and palliative care units around the world. Today I am celebrating Grace Hospice and its ministry here in Ulaanbaatar.

Won't you join me?

(to support the ministry and work of Grace Hospice in Mongolia you can go here)

things that are different: word edition

2010-10-08T14:26:00.003+08:00

One week until my one-year-in-Mongolia anniversary and the things that have changed lists are continuing.

If there is one thing I've mentioned quite a bit on this blog (beyond the cold and my love of little ones of course) it's the language-learning that this past year has held. Mongolian has hands-down been the hardest language I've ever studied.

Wrestling with it has made me question what it means to lose my words. It has meant learning how to send text messages in Monglish. It has allowed me to receive more grace than I ever thought possible. And it has been an element of change as I have transitioned between cultures and places.

So with almost a year of Mongolian learning behind me, I'll say this.

It's still (so, so) hard. My pronunciation still alternates between being halfway decent and sucking. I still need to practice, practice, practice. I can understand way more than I can speak.

Yet there are still words and phrases that have become so familiar, so normal that I'm sure all of my family and friends are going to be way annoyed with my accidental use of them when I'm back in the States.

So here's my fair warning, ya'll.

things that are different: word edition. (did you miss part one?)

oh and I'm typing everything in Monglish because it's just easier than copying and pasting the Cyrillic into Blogger- and you'll be able to sound it out! (maybe :-))

1.) Yana!

an exclamation akin to "oh no!" I say this one a lot. in fact, I kind of get made fun of for it because I once said it very loudly and dramatically in a skit I was forced to partake in :-) Let's just say it was a remake of the Good Samaritan parable and I was very dramatic in finding our poor injured man.

2.) yassin be?

roughly translated to mean something like "what happened?" this is vital when children are upset or crying. or you just want to know what happened in a certain situation.

3.) sain uu?

"hey, what's up?" version of "hello, how are you?" otherwise known as what you use with friends and in casual conversation. Not for use with adults older than you or strangers.

4.) hoy!

the Mongolian version of "hey!" except mainly used in a "HEY, stop whatever thing you're doing that you're not supposed to be doing" kind of way. Or as in "HEY! where are you going?" You know, that kind of "hey."

5.) zugeer, zugeer

this means both "you're welcome" and "it's ok" or even "don't worry about it." basically it's used all of the time and consequently I say it a lot.

6.) yagaad?

oh how my students hate this one. It's the word for "why?" and I am constantly using it to get people to explain things/answers to me. They all kind of groan when I start a question with this because they know I'm not going to stop asking until they answer.

7.) hamagwi (this is not in true Monglish- but I think it would be too confusing otherwise)

means "it doesn't matter." And I love having to say only one word to express what takes three or more in English. Pro for Mongolian is its propensity for saying lots in not many words.

8.) za, za

"Ok, ok." Said all of the time by everyone. I don't think I will ever stop saying this. It's just so much more fun than o.k.

9.) guchin-hoyer

just means "32" -which happens to be the name of the bus stop that I get off every day when I go to work. Hence I say it multiple times a day and still the micro callers sometimes pretend they don't understand me (sigh).

10.) Saikhan amraarai

"good night" although it literally means something more like "rest well." and then in the morning you use this in question form to inquire about how people rested.

and no, I'm nowhere near fluent. and I'm o.k. with the slow process of getting there right now.

here's to continuing to learn, continuing to inevitably make mistakes and continuing to seek to understand.

if you give us a camera...

2010-10-04T19:24:00.004+08:00

...we will run around our neighborhood taking ridiculous photos :-) But that's the point of a scavenger hunt, right?

The rules were simple: two teams, one hour and five different pictures to take.

1.) At a market
2.) At the school that one of the team members had graduated from
3.) At a different church
4.) With one of the Sunday school children
5.) At the home of one of our church members

so.much.fun.

the best from the inaugural Young Adult Picture Scavenger Hunt this past Saturday:

this picture...won the competition for them. because if the mascara-drawn facial hair didn't do it for you, there is Ganaa dressed up as the mom and two of our little church members playing their children.

love this- Ogii is pretending to preach and they are respectively texting, falling asleep and bored.

at a church members home...pretending to chow down on her food :-)

market stairs picture

and this...is not one of our five required pictures. But it sums up our afternoon pretty well :-)

luna & dobby: maybes and nows

2010-10-02T19:45:00.004+08:00

There once was a morning walk through a ger district, my mind full of early morning dust and jumbled thoughts.

I reached the top of the hill and took in the mountains, the sprawling gers climbing up the peaks and into the low, dusty clouds. This, this is my familiar space. This, this place stretching out before me? It is a comfort to the aches of the unknown and the questions that don't have answers, much as I might want there to be straight lines instead of empty blanks.

The tiny crying comes from the overgrown weeds to my right and I peer into the messy brush to see a teeny, little kitten crawling out from beneath them- her little mouth open wide as she fusses.

I'll admit I didn't think, just scooped her up and held her as she hooked her claws into my scarf and climbed her way up my chest to nestle her head into my neck. I tried to call Holli, tried to ask her what in the world I should do with this kitten clinging to me and crying and so very, very small.

She came with me to church, her presence discovered by the rest of the staff in the warmth of the kitchen, her little legs wobbly as she explored and cried and drank some milk. We found a soft hat and tucked her inside, a makeshift bed that she slept the day away in.

Little ones ran away startled when she opened her mouth to protest her interrupted sleep. Adults professed her cuteness and stroked her little nose. And Holli didn't hesitate one bit in saying, "BRING HER HOME."

And now? The kitten has a name-Luna Lovegood to be exact. Dobby has gotten over being momentarily ticked about this new invasion of her space. Luna has taken to sleeping curled up in front of the space heater. And the two of them have been having way too much fun playing with each other, chasing after one another and sharing their food.

Dobby is about 52 times bigger than Luna but she is mostly kind to her little sister. Luna cries to tell her to back off and she has an adorable habit of doing her best attempt at a fierce pounce whenever they play.

It was a morning walk full of thinking about the what-ifs and maybe-so's and oh-my-goodness-when-will-I-ever-knows that was interrupted by a tiny, unexpected ball of fur. A ball of fur that could easily have ended in a disaster when our definitely not tiny, definitely not particularly friendly cat sniffed her little self. A ball of fur that pulled me back into the present, into the daily life of tiny paws and snuggly noses and baby eyes.

thanks, Luna.

ykylimw #25

2010-09-30T10:52:00.003+08:00

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you ask your elementary English students what the date is at the start of class and they easily get through the day of the week, month and date, but when it gets to the year they pause and look at each other.

After some whispered conversing they turn to you and say:

"Monkey."

It took me a minute to realize they were referring to the lunar year and then I couldn't help but grin as I shook my head and told them that I was looking for the answer of 2010.

(also, for those of you who care, 2010 is not actually the year of the monkey. it's the year of the tiger)

a fleeting fall

2010-09-27T08:53:00.002+08:00

a little over a week ago, I took a much needed break and walked the hour down to the river and up the (many) stairs of Saison, the Russian war monument.

it was a gorgeous day and the walk was therapeutic in more ways than one. I couldn't help but stop and soak in the trees, the water and the sunshine as I walked across the bridge- it was as if fall was just shouting from every part of the city.

I sat at the monument and re-read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for a good two and a half hours that Friday. It was time that I could have felt guilty for, time that I could have not allowed myself to have because there is always other stuff that needs to be done. Yet I didn't.

I needed the sunshine and the trees and the breeze and my perch on the mountain with Harry. I needed the two hours of walking and the climbing of the stairs and the sitting.

And after that afternoon? There was a part of myself that was whole again in a way that wouldn't have been possible if I hadn't taken that time.

It snowed on Saturday and Sunday- bringing with the flurries cold winds and winter jackets and the end of a fall that only lasted a handful of days.

I'm wearing long underwear again and piling on the blankets on my bed and contemplating purchasing another space heater for our apartment.

The moments, the seasons, the days- they have been for me in the past few months both fleeting and drawn-out.

And I'm learning the importance of dwelling in both of those places- in both the parts that are hard and feel like they will never end and those that are full of delight and joy and practically pass by in the blink of an eye.

Mourning the end of fall and turning to the familiarity of winter- knowing that both are a part of my soul.

things that are diffferent: food edition

2010-09-23T10:15:00.000+08:00

Almost a year (more like 11 months in) has past since I moved to Mongolia. Things that were once abnormal and strange have long since become normal, every day parts of my life.

I've started thinking about all of the things that are different about my life now and thought it might be fun to share some of them with you all.

And since making lists is one of the things I do best, I've made some lists (for different categories) about the differences between what was normal and what is normal now.

Things That Are Different: Food Edition

1.) I eat garlic and onions almost every single day.

Prior to Mongolia I don't think I had even ever seen raw garlic and I certainly didn't know how to cut it or what food to use it with. I didn't dislike onions, but I never just bought them when I went grocery shopping. Now you can pretty much count on us having both garlic and onions in our kitchen at all times- they are staples that we use constantly.

2.) I use seasonings beyond salt and pepper.

I like seasonings, but have always been a tad afraid of them. Basically, unless I was following a recipe that called for them in exact amounts, I didn't use them or own them. I can thank Holli for this change in cooking- as she has proven that it's ok to bravely use seasonings in all sorts of combinations. Not to mention we now have a very large bottle of red pepper flakes sitting in our cabinet- thanks Korean influence!

3.) I eat mutton and goat and horse.

Yeah, we currently have a frozen hunk of mutton in our freezer. And we eat it/cook it/prepare it pretty frequently. I still don't LOVE meat and would much prefer a big bowl of vegetables, but that's not exactly possible here.

4.) I can make soup broth from scratch.

5.) I routinely make bread, tortillas, etc.

Homemade foccaccia bread, tortillas, English muffins, pita bread, bagels, pretzels...all on the can and have made list.

6.) I rarely if ever drink milk.

I really like skim milk. I drank a decent amount of it in the States. There is no such thing as skim milk here. I use milk in baking and cooking but have drank a plain glass of milk maybe twice this past year. Instead, I (when I remember) take calcium supplements.

7.) I can use chopsticks and eat Korean food on a semi-regular basis.

We've had a lot of Korean mission teams visit us. As a result, we've eaten at a lot of Korean restaurants. I used to have ZERO ability to use chopsticks (as in- please can I have a fork?), but now I can totally eat with them with relatively few mishaps. And now I know I like pulgogi, bibimbap and chop chae.

8.) Chicken is a special and occasional treat.

I like chicken. It's probably the biggest reason why I would hesitate to become a vegetarian. And here....it's expensive, not eaten very often and rarely of good quality. We buy packages of it from a friend of a friend every few months and keep them in our freezer- cooking only little portions at a time and eating it very rarely so it will last for a long as possible.

9.) I drink a LOT more tea.

I drank tea frequently before, but now...now it's a multiple cups a day kind of thing. What else are you going to do when it's -40 degrees outside? We have more tea in our kitchen than you could possibly imagine.

10.) My fruit consumption is way more limited.

I love fruit. On a weekly basis in Dallas I would eat one bunch of bananas, 5-8 apples, one bunch of grapes and a container of blueberries or strawberries. Here, fruits are expensive and difficult to find- especially during the winter months. We usually can find apples, but everything else is way too expensive/non-existent. During the summer we did occasionally get some bananas and nectarines. I miss fruit!

More Things That Are Different lists to come as the one year mark approaches.

What things have changed in your life since this time last year?

scene from a morning run and thoughts on culture

2010-09-16T13:22:00.005+08:00

I sat around a table of gorgeous senior citizen women yesterday afternoon, listening to them sing traditional Mongolian songs as we played cards, drank tea and ate cookies.

As they remembered songs and wrote down lyrics and joined in the sing-a-long, I started pondering my own identifications with culture. They have these songs, these traditions, these stories and cultural landmarks in their lives. And I....well, I'm not really sure what I have.

I know that the majority of my ancestry is German, along with some other mixings of Western European roots. I did not grow up doing culturally German things (unless occasionally eating bratwurst counts for something) and choosing to study German throughout high school and university was less a cultural choice and more of an "I'm a nerd and find this fun" choice.

Which begs the question, what culture do I claim as mine? By not being sure am I (falsely) acting as if my culture is so dominant it need not be defined? By not knowing am I saying that my culture is the standard (also NOT TRUE)?

And then this morning, I read this post on Rage Against the Minivan.

I read her words to Holli and we had a brief conversation about it while we got ready for the day. Living in Mongolia has certainly given me a new understanding of the parts of ourselves and our values that are different from those held here.

It's also made me ask a lot of questions about how these cultural values and traditions are formed and what they are rooted in. Why do we value them? Why do we keep practicing them? Are there certain ones we've let go of over time? Have we developed new ones?

And for myself, how do my values and traditions shift and change as I live in a different culture and create a life here? Will these changes remain for the rest of my life or are they only temporary adjustments born out of the need to live and function here and now?

Read Kristen's post and let me know your thoughts. And make sure to check out the comments on her post- Holli and I particularly related to the comment about the use of an oven being a part of white culture, or as the commenter put it, "My oven makes me white!"

without voice

2010-09-13T18:02:00.006+08:00

Walking through fields and pastures
looking at the clouds
watching the green mountains creeping closer
the rain drops falling briefly as we move.

A sleeping bag on my head,
an admittance of being stubborn on my lips,
and a friend's declarations for me to wait as we walk onward.

Thinking about the silence I can't break and of how my words are not enough to start a conversation or even to maintain one for any length of time (Mongolian is hard, friends).

Have I lost my voice? Does that mean I have lost myself?

Words, communication, conversation are so very important- these precious pearls among the dirt. They are a part of me.

And yet I'm not convinced that they are the same as who I am.

They are ultimately a means of expression, of telling what we are thinking and feeling.They let us and others see into ourselves. But are they me?

I spent that hour-long hike thinking about my silence. Wondering if I had lost myself in it, if it was a wall that could not be torn down, if it was nothing but the big stumbling block I felt it to be in that moment.

As I walked next to my friends, listening to their words, I thought about my own lack of syllables and sentences and phrases. Often I glare at my silence from the corner, angry that it can't be replaced by what I want to say easily and without having to mentally conjugate verbs in my head.

But that hike made me think about how the silence isn't always bad.

It made me think about how words can also be an audio track that does not match the picture, a proposition of who we are that is not always echoed in our actions or our choices. That sometimes our words create contradictions instead of truths, jumbled identities instead of honesty.

Have I lost myself?

Monks take vows of silence and solitude, spending months and years in the absence of words and conversation. And I would bet that they would say they walked away from those times with a deeper sense of self and identity rooted in Christ- not that they lost themselves.

But I am not in silence, nor am I solitude. I live in a city. I spend my days with people. People who I love and long to share and communicate with.

Yes, maybe I have lost my voice.

The voice that I used to have, the one that used words and conversations and a vocabulary that went beyond verbs like "to eat" and "to drink" and "to go."

It's frustrating and it's painful and sometimes it makes me want to stomp my feet and scream.

It is also forcing me to look at my actions and my choices in a whole new way. To look at my actions without the shield of words around to create my own version of myself to present to the world.

Without the masks I create for myself out of sentences and punctuation and elegant phrases.

When my actions are the only things speaking for me, when they are my only voice, they take on a whole new level of importance .

Suddenly what I do is so plainly evident. It is everything. And it shouts into the silence about who I am and what is important and what I care about.

It points to what I value and who I serve and who and how I love.

Suddenly who I am is not constructed out of words but out of actions. And there is no room for disconnect, no place for a gap between what I say and what I do.

All there is to know is what I do. All there is to me is the choices I make each day- of how to respond, of how to love and of how to serve.

I have found in the silence the reality that words are not everything. That they are not all of me.

I have found in the silence the truest voice I have.

dietrich and a prayer

2010-09-11T21:51:00.003+08:00

"When the morning mists of dreams vanish, then dawns the bright day of Christian fellowship."

-Dietrich Bonhoeffer, pg 28-29 "Life Together"

"The peace of God
the peace of God's people
the peace of Mary mild
the loving one
and of Christ,
King of human hearts
God's own peace...

Be upon each thing our eyes take in,
Be upon each thing our ears take in,
Be upon our bodies which come from earth,
Be upon our souls which come from heaven,
Evermore and evermore,
Amen."

-from the Wee Worship Book, pg. 35

Re-reading "Life Together" is a necessary thing I think. It never fails to smack me in the face with reminders of what it means to live together in Christian community- and to do so in a way that reflects what community is meant to look like- full of the mess and sin and redemption and forgiveness.

Never easy and yet always beautiful. Never without struggle and yet always worth it.

ykylimw #24

2010-09-09T09:42:00.003+08:00

you know you live in mongolia when...

...you make pierogies with the senior citizen group and when they tell you that the oven is not working so you can't bake them, they suggest steaming some and frying some.

Which means the pierogies basically become the two Mongolian national foods (steamed dumplings and fried meat pockets) except minus the meat. And then the adorable grandmas who are busily folding the pierogies start referring to them as "byy3" and "horscher" and you realize that instead of making Polish food, you've just made a potato-variation of Mongolian food.

Be proud my fellow Pittsburghers- the members of the Chingeltei Senior Citizen group are totally fans of pierogies, both steamed and fried.

I don't want to be too old

2010-09-06T15:41:00.003+08:00

Ya'll, I have a confession to make- and not a particularly surprising one at that.

I want to be in school.

Classes started here on September 1st and I've spent the past few days watching all of my school-age kiddos put on their super adorable school uniforms (little suits and ties for the boys and skirts and jackets for the girls) and trot to school with their new backpacks and stockings and notebooks. Not to mention the GINORMOUS hair bows the girls put in their hair. Seriously, I'm not kidding- it is as if 80's big hair lives on via BIG bows here in Mongolia.

I've watched as my university students pack their conspicuously cool schoolbags and put on their new skinny jeans and t-shirts and discuss their class schedules and fret about professors and homework. (Three of my most dear students are starting university this year and it just turns me into this anxious mother who wants to hear all about everything from them)

One of my just-starting-university boys and I even went to the market on Saturday so I could help him pick out a new backpack. It took us a bit to find one that was appropriately manly (ie no decorations, weird zippers/pockets/words or any color other than black) but I had fun acting as school supplies consultant :-)

And then I realized that I am 6 years older than him. And that I am already finished with university. And have been for a while now. Oi.

Today, our friend came over in between her classes. As she pulled out her class schedule to check when she would be done this evening, I was filled with this incredible longing to be a student again.

To be figuring out my schedule and attending lectures and taking notes and studying and choosing professors.

I know logically that I can go back to school someday. But there is just something about not being a part of the back-to-school culture this year that has me longing for packages of new pens and fresh notebooks and used textbooks.

It is strange to have spent 17 years of my life with the milestone of the first day of school as a part of each year and to now no longer have that. Now time is not marked by semesters or winter breaks or finals or summer vacation.

Now time has other markers, other milestones, other steps that show the progression of time. I'm ok with that. Most of the time I'm grateful for this new part of life.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I really wish I could buy a new backpack and go to the first day of classes again.

emotional baking

2010-08-31T18:05:00.002+08:00

I bake when I'm happy and calm. I bake when I need to relax. When I am stressed. When I'm worried. When I'm excited.

I am an emotional baker.

Today I baked "My Computer Crashed" Peach Cobbler and "Holy Heck, Some People Really Suck" Honey Apple Bars.