Traveling

“My God lightens my darkness.” -II Samuel 22:29

Last night, I saw my city stop and for a small section of an hour, everyone stood still and looked up as fireworks filled the sky.

During my time in Philadelphia, I’ve have been learning about living in a city, or at least about living in this city. There is rarely a pause. People are always moving and always going. There is pressure to keep up and stay ahead.

In the middle of all this moving, to see the world stop because of a simple display of fireworks was surprising. The sky darkened, music faded from a free concert on the museum steps, and the sky was filled with streaks of bright color that splintered the darkness and curved as if to fall on our uplifted faces.

I saw a small girl leaning into the stable safety of her dad, sucking on her thumb and looking both amazed at the fireworks and very glad to be so close to her father. People parked their cars in the middle of the street, and it seemed like conversations stopped, worries paused, and all we did was watch pieces of light spark against the night sky.

I am in a season right now when things seem to be moving too fast. Day tumbles after day, and I find myself in July gazing down the ever-shortening path of summer towards the day when I will leave the busy routine of life here and head into a very different rhythm of life in Mundri, Southern Sudan. I vacillate between readiness to be there now, and reluctance to leave this life I love. It is hard to stop and look up when there is lots to do and change is coming. In the midst of this running around, I was reminded last night to pause and look for pieces of light against the dark canvas of transition.

Recently, I sat in the hospital with Kevin and JD Bartkovich, friends from my time in Uganda. Kevin’s heart stopped for several minutes a few weeks ago, and we didn’t know if he would be the same in the aftermath of that trauma.

But because of God’s merciful restoration, Kevin has made a miraculous recovery.

I spent an afternoon with Kevin and JD in Durham, planning all the things I needed to pack for Sudan and joking about how I had lost all sense of American style after life in rural Africa. It was a conversation very like ones I had with them over Ethiopian food at their house in Bundibugyo, and yet hovering over the whole conversation was this amazement as sparks of hope pushed against the darkness of a world of sickness and loss. Simple things like laughter and popsicles glowed in the face of the fear that darkened those days in the hospital.

I hope I can remember to continue to pause in this season of change. I want to notice the lights in the sky, to look

up and be amazed. I want to be like the little girl I saw watching the fireworks, finding safety by leaning on my Heavenly Father, and watching as light flashes across the darkness. Even in sadness, and waiting for support for Sudan to come in, and living between two worlds, I hope today for a life marked by looking up and seeing the beauty of light that can stop the world and stay the darkness.

Recently, I spent some time in Charleston, South Carolina. Walking through the market, I was struck by the basket weavers who form lovely sweet-grass baskets in the sticky sunshine. The familiar scene reminded me of the many days in college when I walked by these same weavers, barely noticing their work because it seemed so everyday.

During my visit, I noticed in a new way the simple beauty of bringing the pieces of grass together and weaving them into something unexpected. After clumsily attempting basket-weaving in Africa, I have respect for the skill it takes to create a beautiful basket. 

One of the interesting things about baskets is that it involves many grasses of differing lengths being connected to one another. As you come to the end of some of the pieces of straw, you add in new pieces and the basket grows. You are continually finishing with some pieces and adding more. But, unless you look closely, the finished basket looks like a continuous, singular piece and it is hard to tell where one piece ends and a new one begins.

Returning to my college town after being gone for several years pushed me to reflect on what I thought my life would look like after college. I definitely didn’t predict the pieces of St. Louis, Bundibugyo, seminary, or Philadelphia being woven into my story. I didn’t anticipate so many moves, so many hellos and goodbyes, and so many opportunities to walk by faith into new places. I anticipated a life that would feel like a straight line, but it has felt much more curved than that.

My hope is to return to Africa at the beginning of October, so now that June has arrived, I feel excitement mixed with sadness as my departure approaches. It feels like new straws are being woven into the basket of my life even as I am at the end several strands that I love. I am ready for the newness that is coming, and sad to see certain pieces come to an end.

In this time of transition, I appreciated the picture of the weaving of baskets. Even though I am sad to see my season as a student in Philadelphia come to an end, my moving to Sudan will allow what has happened in this season to extend and become something different and something bigger. And though some of the strands end here, many of them continue with me through this next turn of life.

These pieces of life that surprise us, that wrap us around and stretch us, are important parts of shaping us into vessels of faith and places of beauty. And, these small pieces become inextricably connected to create an unexpected continuity.

 So, I would appreciate your prayers for me as I seek to see all the pieces come together that will allow me to head to Mundri in early October. Financial and prayer support, time to share with dear friends and family, and a deepening confidence in God’s just and loving work in the world are all pieces that I hope will be a part of this summer of turning towards Sudan.

Please also pray for the hope of Jesus to be woven into the lives of the people of Mundri, into my community in Philadelphia, and into my own heart.

I have been thinking that, at its best, counseling should have a poetic bent to it. Over the past couple of years as a counselor, I’ve been surprised at how wordy I can be, how I can say nothing in the middle of lots of language.  I want to become a counselor who is precise, and descriptive, and creative. I want to say more with fewer words.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been drawn to poetry this year. Poets speak truth precisely, descriptively, and creatively. I hope a little of that can rub off into my counseling here and soon in Sudan (where I will be forced to use fewer words as I stumble around in a whole new language).  

I’ve been enjoying Living Things by Anne Porter. Here are a couple of her small poems to remind us to say more with less.

Four Seasons Carol

The barbs of cruel Auschwitz

Grow back again and again

Hiroshima’s poison

Gluts the arsenals

While tyranny and famine

Are withering Africa.

Our coldness greed and war

Multiply past counting

The deaths of children

And the wounds of the poor

Whose bitter wants and sorrows

Are splinters of your Passion

Jesus, hunted Child.

Then grant us grace to bring them

More than stale crusts and empty prayers

That hinder your just kingdom.

Burning

There is a hidden kind

Of humble goodness

I love in others

Only an aeon

Of refining fire 

Could make it mine

But sometimes it’s as if

I were already burning.

I spent part of Memorial Day with Carol and Claire, two former interns in Uganda. Even though we live far apart, it was a lovely reminder to me of the bountiful friendships I received through my time in Uganda. It was fun to remember our time in Bundibugyo and to talk about my upcoming move to Sudan. It was also cool to hear how they are serving in their communities as Carol studies medicine and Claire serves in a non-profit organization. 

Pat Abbott, one of my housemates from Uganda, recently flew through Philadelphia over her birthday weekend. It was a gift to see her and be reminded of her creative and compassionate care for those around her. She continues to winsomely model the power of investing deeply in relationships. I’m thankful for even a few short hours with her spent wandering around Fairmount, enjoying coffee and conversation, and eating a celebratory Brazilian feast with the Learys and Catharine. Her presence brought a little sunshine to Philadelphia, which may have been a part of keeping the rain at bay for most of my Broad Street Run the day after I saw her.

On this sunny, breezy day in Philadelphia, I find myself missing my mom, and family, and the flavor of home. I apologize for again posting a Wendell Berry poem. You can blame The Writer’s Almanac for feeding me with its daily dose of poetry.

 This poem is a bit strange to dedicate to my mom since I am a girl, and it is clearly from a son. But, I find in my own heart shadows of a prodigal son and with my mom I am always “safe found, within your love.” 

So, here’s a piece of poetry for my mom, who offers forgiveness for everything from my pre-teen angst, to my cross-cultural transitions, and even to the many absences from days and things I should be present for. 

Mom-thanks for loving me in a way that is “the vision of that Heaven of which we have heard.” May this Mother’s Day offer you a taste of the coming day when “all is untangled and all is undismayed” 

“To My Mother” by Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed. 

Nantucket lighthouse

The end of things is never easy. This past week, I enjoyed several days away on the island of Nantucket. I found rest in biking around the sunny island, putting my bare feet in warm sand, spending time with friends, and reading silly and serious books. I relished the days away, and found myself longing to stretch them out.

Yet, they did come to an end, and I have come back to the reality of my everyday responsibilities. I looked forward to my time in Nantucket and I had an amazing time while I was there. After all the anticipation of going and the delight of being there, I found it sad to leave.

I think my journey to Nantucket has, in a small way, mirrored my experience of Easter this year. I spent much of this Lenten season reflecting on the cross, and why it matters to me and to a broken world. I reflected on the benefits offered to us because Christ “did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing.” I looked forward to resurrection day and Jesus’ victory over death. And then, on Easter morning, I rejoiced to say “He is risen indeed.” I celebrated in church, feasted with friends, and remembered that death is not the end of the story.

And now I find myself, on the rainy Tuesday after Easter, feeling like the celebration long anticipated is over. Like remembering the resurrection was a pause in normal life, but now I have to get back to back to my everyday responsibilities.

I don’t really think that is the best way to mark Easter.  Though in some ways Easter is the end of somethings, much more it reveals the beginning of things, of all things being made new. 

One of the books I was reading last week suggested that in the same way we consider giving something up for lent, we should consider adding something to our lives for the days following Easter. It said that life viewed in light of the resurrection should be marked by more prayer and more parties. Prayer that longs to draw near to the Father and see His kingdom coming, and parties that celebrate places where tastes of his kingdom are already here. 

So, I guess that’s all the encouragement I need to take more trips to Nantucket, or enjoy more celebrations with friends, or to look for opportunities on rainy, responsible Tuesdays to live in the hope of the resurrection.

“The frustrating thing, as always, is that I don’t know and you don’t know how God is going to do new things here, in our own lives or our own communities. That is why we need to cling on for dear life to the story of Jesus, and to learn as best we can to see the story of our community, and the story of our personal lives, like two musical lines held in between the story of Jesus and the deep notes of the Old Testament which explain it and give it depth. And that is why we shall stand at the foot of the cross on Good Friday, to bring our griefs and sorrows, our bereavements and our puzzlement, to the one who has gone down into the darkness on our behalf. And as we learn to do that for ourselves, for our neighbors, for our community, we learn the lesson which we as Christian folk need to learn again and again: that unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies it remains a single grain, but if it dies it will bear much fruit.”   NT Wright, Christians at the Cross

I’m slipping away until Easter, but hope that the rest of this week finds you clinging to the story of Jesus as you listen for the music of redemption and resurrection. 

Recently, I spent the weekend in Murfreesboro, visiting my family and speaking at Trinity Pres.’ missions conference. It was a wonderful time in Tennessee. I ate sushi with my dad, walked on the greenway with my mom, had lunch with Sarah B, and enjoyed connecting with people at the conference. 

After the church dinner Friday night, my mom and I stopped by the local Kroger to get OJ for the ladies’ brunch. Imagine my surprise when, stuck somewhere between the toothpaste and the toaster streudel, I saw The Prodigal God by Tim Keller. 

I must admit, I was surprised. And not in a good way.

Sometimes, I am a bit of a snob. I often think that something is better simply because it is obscure. This is true of music, health foods, clothing brands, and especially books.

Perhaps you understand my problem. I like Tim Keller. I like his sermons, and I enjoyed reading The Prodigal God. Now, they are selling his book in the Kroger right next 100 Inspirational Quotes for Your Troubled Teen (OK-I don’t know if that is a real book, but it was something like that). And so I wondered, “Did I get wrong? Is TK only as profound as inspirational quotes for troubled teens? Should I rethink my position on his book?”

I realized that much of my life is reflected in that visit to the grocery store. I keep looking for insights and clues to God’s work in the world. I take seminary classes and read never-heard-of books and think I will get closer to God if I can only feel smarter. If something seems too obvious, I am suspicious.

But most often, God’s work shows up somewhere between the toothpaste and the toaster streudel. God’s not hiding in the dusty Westminster library. “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen.” How often I miss what is clearly seen because I don’t think I can kind what I need in the Kroger.

This weekend, I had a small seder celebration with some friends. A meal that reminds us that hope is hidden in everyday things. Bitter herbs and salt water to remind us of the bitter slavery and the tears of the Israelites. Wine and a feast to remind us that God brings His children out of slavery and sadness and into a celebration. A cherished group of friends that reminds us that God gives us family all along the way. And a lamb bone to remind us that this movement from sadness to celebration can come only because of the ultimate sacrifice of Another.

Through the celebration, there is one place left open, one glass unfilled. This place is set for Elijah, who is expected to return announcing the coming of Messiah. Near the end of the evening, a child goes and opens the door, looking to see if Elijah has come. I found myself expecting someone to be there, looking for someone to come in. 

I’ve carried that image of the open door with me. As we celebrate Palm Sunday today and anticipate Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I want to continue to leave space for Elijah moments. May there always be an open door to my heart, and an open place at my table that expects evidence of the returning Messiah.

May we all open our lives in expectation that the Kingdom is coming quickly. And may we encounter, and truly see, precursors to the returning King everywhere from the dinner table to the aisles of the local Kroger. 

Spring is coming out in spurts and then disappearing, so I have to take the warm weather when I can get it. This afternoon, the morning’s rain rolled away to reveal sunny skies and 70 degree weather.

I contemplated going for a run, but made the wise choice to hit up Philly Flavors instead.   The Bradford family came too, which was great because they are awesome, and also because they have 6 boys, so I could act like the excitement over the ice cream was “for the kids.” I actually don’t think I fooled anyone but myself into thinking there was selflessness involved in my ice cream consumption.

On the way, they asked what I would do in Mundri when I wanted water ice or ice cream. My obvious answers were dream about it or try to make some homemade version of my own. But, on further reflection, I think the best plan is to convince Philly Flavors to set up a small satellite store near my new house in Mundri. I mean, I eat enough in one summer to keep them in business, and I’m sure others in the area would also delight in banana split water ice or mango gelato. 

As I continue to get ready for Sudan, I enjoy the unplanned times of sweetness and community and lots of water ice, in case it takes longer than I hope for Philly Flavors to show up in Mundri.

As quickly as it came, the warm weather ran away again. Catharine and I got caught in a crazy hailstorm (I think I might be bruised) and had to book it back to the Bradfords, looking sheepishly for a ride after getting soaked in the rain and pounded by the hail for about a minute and a half. I got home thoroughly soaked but grateful for sunshine and friendships in between the storms and hoping to not get caught in hail again any time soon.