Traveling

U2

Last night: Me, Bono, The Edge, Adam, Larry, and 84,000 of our closest friends, hanging out in New Jersey. It was fantastic!

“When I was in college, living two states away from my family, I studied the map one weekend and found a different route home from the one we usually travelled. I drove back to Kentucky the new way, which did turn out to be faster. During my visit I made sure all my relatives heard about the navigational brilliance that saved me thirty-seven minutes.

‘Thirty-seven,’ my grandfather mused. ‘And here you just used up fifteen of them telling all about it. What’s your plan for the other twenty-two?’

Good question. I’m still stumped for an answer, whenever the religion of time-saving pushes me to zip through a meal or a chore, rushing everybody out the door to the next point on a schedule. All that hurry can blur the truth that life is a zero-sum equation. Every minute I save will get used on something else, possibly no more sublime than staring at the newel post trying to remember what I just ran upstairs for. On the other hand, attending to the task in front of me—even a quotidian chore—might make it into part of a good day, rather than just a rock in the road to someplace else.”

-Barbara Kingsolver, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life

It appears that the end of summer left me with little to say. Sorry for the silence of August. I can hardly believe that the long stretching days of summer are over and that Autumn is coming in (at least in Murfreesboro) with rumbling thunder and lots of falling rain. I feel as if September marked the beginning of a roller coaster ride of transitions, hoping that all these twists and turns will land me at last in Southern Sudan. And, like so many roller coasters, this one is proving better as it happens than it seemed in early September when I peered over the edge, anticipating the first drop. Nevertheless, there are moments when I am waiting for my heart to catch up with the rest of me in the middle of all of the rushing around.

This last week I’ve been driving through Kentucky, Ohio, and Tennessee, connecting with friends as a part of this in-between time spent telling the stories of when and why I am moving back to Africa. After hours in the car, lots of coffee, and wonderful conversations around the kitchen tables of kind friends, I find myself happy to catch my breath and notice a new season before I travel again on Thursday.

So, here are a couple of Rilke poems to welcome Autumn, to acknowledge the restless wandering that can mirror the falling leaves , and to remember that  “there is Someone, whose hands infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.”

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go free.

Command the last fruits to be full;
give them just two more southern days,
urge them on to completion and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, will never build one.
Who is alone now, will long remain so,
will stay awake, read, write long letters
and will wander restlessly up and down
the tree-lines streets, when the leaves are drifting.

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,

as if orchards were dying high in space.

Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling

away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.

And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands

infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Wedding Toast

St. John tells how, at Cana’s wedding feast,

The water-pots poured wine in such amount

That by his sober count

There were a hundred gallons at the least.

It made no earthly sense, unless to show

How whatsoever love elects to bless

Brims to a sweet excess

That can without depletion overflow.

Which is to say that what love sees is true;

That this world’s fullness is not made but found.

Life hungers to abound

And pour its plenty out for such as you…

-Richard Wilbur

Recently, I spent the weekend in Chattanooga, witnessing the marriage of my dear friend Meghan to Jason Thompson. While there are obvious jokes about the number of times I’ve been a bridesmaid (8 times so far, but who’s counting?), it is still a privilege to stand up and watch two friends commit their lives to one another.

There is always something delightfully excessive about weddings-fancy dresses, fluffy cakes, life-long promises, ribbons and flowers and wine. Though it’s fun, I can get a little thrown off by the sheer extravagance of the celebration.

But for some reason, especially in this season of preparing for life in Sudan, I really relished a day that abounded with beauty and fullness. Maybe it was because I know chocolate-covered strawberries and beautiful hydrangeas will not be a part of my landscape in Mundri. Maybe I’m a little too romantic, and so enjoy pretty clothes and poetic words. But more than that, I think it was good to remember that, as Richard Wilbur says, “whatsoever love elects to bless/ Brims to a sweet excess/ That can without depletion overflow.”

Meghan and Jason’s wedding was a reminder of the generosity of God’s love. Their love for one another overflowed into our lives, and yet wasn’t depleted as it spilled over onto us. In fact, their love for one another seemed to grow as they shared their wedding day with friends and family.

As I wait for the resources to come in that will carry me to Southern Sudan, as Mundri waits for transformation and recovery from war, and as the whole earth groans with the expectation of things being made new; there is hope in the picture of a wedding’s abundance and the truth that Meghan and Jason’s wedding day offered a small taste of the extravagant celebration that is promised when Jesus returns.

“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.