Journeys

It has occurred to me lately that it is possible to be too educated. To know too much. While that may sound like a preposterous statement, it has nonetheless felt very true for me these past few months. Your professors teach you so many things, but they do not tell you how hard it will be to face coworkers, family members, and strangers who have not had the privilege of being in class with you when professor so-and-so led that one discussion that forever changed your perspective. They do not teach you how to converse with a world that has forgotten how to question and how to allow space for new ideas, or for growth or change. 

In my time as a student, I have learned that it is a dangerous thing to stop studying, to arrive at a point at which you are no longer teachable. Yet this is what I’ve found has happened to most of us as time has gone by. We receive a diploma, we leave the classroom and we forget that this doesn’t certify us to stop thinking critically, to stop asking questions. But we do. We fall into routines that are, if not easy, at least well-known. In the endeavor to survive, it becomes us vs. them. Odd phrases creep into our language, we talk of those people over there. We continue on with our traditions, make statements and arguments that would never hold up in any undergrad research paper, and we don’t stop to wonder why. 

Tonight I sat across the dinner table from my dad, expressing some of my frustration about numerous conversations I’d had recently that had left me feeling disappointed and sad. I thought I wish we would all just be willing to learn from each other. To be students of a person whose experience is completely different from our own. What would that be like if we asked ourselves how it felt to be a man/woman, person of a different ethnicity, speaker of another language? 

I have a dream. I dream that one day we wouldn’t be too proud to be students without expiration (or graduation as some say) dates. I dream that the next man who tells me he’s worried for my safety as a woman traveling to a foreign city would ask himself why violence against women is so high. And in so doing, he might become concerned, not just for me, but for all women, and seek—not merely to warn me of danger—but to become part of the solution to the problem. 

I dream that when I walk into the place I work, what I hear won’t be the gossip of women who have nothing better to do than complain about their husbands, their children, or the girl who just walked out the door on lunch break. Instead, I dream I’d hear quiet. A quiet that comes not just from knowing how to keep your mouth shut, but from knowing a God who is full of peace, who knows how to quiet our hearts. 

I dream of the time that when dinner with my dad is over, he won’t have to drop me off at my mom’s house and say goodbye. I dream that one day they’ll be in the same room together again and I won’t have to feel anxious about a fight breaking out because we will no longer let bitter roots grow up between us (Hebrews 12:15). 

I dream we would stop shifting blame onto others and strive, along with Maya Angelou, to understand that “I am a human being, nothing human can be alien to me,” and therefore know the responsibility is ours to accept the wrong we’ve done and dare to change it. 

I dream the day will come when we know the words redemption, healing, forgiveness, adoption in action. That each of us would not be too lazy, stubborn, or proud to accept the role of a student so that one day we will learn what Jesus meant when he said “the kingdom of heaven is among you.” 

“Is everything ok?” I asked him, in the moment more out of habit than from real concern. I quickly became more alert as he shook his head, catching the “no” he mouthed, as though creating real sound to go with it was too difficult. “I’ll tell you later,” he managed to add. The warning bells in my head were going crazy, and a sense of dread crept up my spine.

To jump out of the story for a minute, faith is something I’ve been praying about lately. Praying, because I realize that I don’t have the kind of faith I want to have. Praying because if I’m honest, I don’t know where to start when it comes to real faith and I’m not sure I even know what it means. But I want to know. 

Five days ago, my dad announced something that sent our family into a panic. “I lost Faith. She wasn’t there when I came home from work yesterday and we can’t find her anywhere.” To clarify, Faith is our golden retriever. We call her our miracle dog because of the amazing way she came into our lives and the people who have known more love because of her. She was named Faith before we got her, which seemed like even more of a confirmation that she was sent to us for a reason. 

The last five days have been filled with worries, many tears, phone calls, and prayers. We’ve done all the usual things to find our missing puppy. I admit, that while I’ve prayed every night, prayers that God would somehow keep her safe and bring her back to us, today I was about ready to believe that she was never coming back. And if that was true, I was ready to believe my faith was useless. If I couldn’t even trust God with my dog, how would I have faith when it came to bigger things? Disappointment and despair are easy friends. 

But the phone rang. “I have Faith, she’s here!” I could hear my dad’s voice, relieved and joy-filled, spilling across the line as my sister sat in near shock, her happiness uncontainable.

As it turns out, Faith hadn’t been dognapped like we’d thought. She had dug underneath the deck and gotten herself stuck, never barking to let us know she was there. She was trapped for five days without food or water, while we prayed for her to be safe wherever she was, not knowing the real danger she was in. 

Today she was found, and those prayers were answered. My cousin happened to hear a faint whimper and scratching noise as he left the house. After a lot of digging and tearing up boards, they were able to get her out. God kept her safe and he brought her back to us. 

When I prayed that God would teach me about faith, I’m not sure what kind of situation I expected him to use. I do know that this was definitely not it. But this week has shown me more about the God I want to have faith in and how much he loves. How much he cares about us. I was praying for more faith. In the end though, there were many, many people praying that our dog Faith would be found. God heard those prayers. And he used them to grow faith in more people than just me. That is a miracle. 

I have been struggling. There are a lot of things I always thought my life would be and at this point in time, it is none of those things. That’s ok. But it makes me feel lost. And so the questions pile up. Far beyond the innumerable questions I ask myself are the questions other people ask me. While they are not as varied in content, it is very hard to attempt to answer the same questions multiple times a day when, in all honesty, you don’t have an answer at all. Not even an idea.

It is very hard when, just a short while ago, I was confident I did have the answers to these questions. Answers that were not only acceptable to me, but to everyone else, too. See, while I don’t always make decisions based on other people’s opinions, their voices are very loud in my head. And the darned thing about it is that they seem so logical. Reasonable. I start to withhold my thoughts
because, I say, if people knew, they would think I am crazy. The problem is that I start to think this, too. 

I have been praying a lot that God would give me answers. After all, there have been many times that he has. It is much easier to do something “crazy” when you are certain that it’s the right thing despite what people think. But this time I don’t know. I have been praying for clarity and for direction. I make rivers in the desert, God says. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know, and still I feel a pull to jump, and to trust that he will catch me.

…but hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not have yet, we wait for it patiently. -Rom. 8:24

My hope is for a good outcome, but I want to see it. I want to know before I climb out of the boat that it will be safe and that everything will be ok. But that isn’t faith. I don’t have that assurance that my plans will turn out well. And I get scared of this lack of knowledge. I want to know the answers so people will think I’m responsible.

I have been praying for a perfect knowledge while God is calling me to faith. I have been frustrated by the lack of yes or no. Trust me, Jesus says. Trust me to take care of you whether you fail or succeed. I make rivers in the desert. 

While I can’t change what people think, I want to trust more the God who makes those rivers. I want to plunge into that water, placing my confidence entirely on him, trusting that if I sink he will be there.

I am a college graduate. I have two degrees. But no, I have not landed a fantastic, impressive job yet. I have been doing my best to keep my cool while many well-meaning people have been adding to the pressure by admonishing me with all kinds of advice which I’m sure is meant to be helpful.

A few weeks ago, I sat in my professor’s office, chatting about my college experience. She asked me what the hardest thing had been for me. After considering for a moment, I realized that it was time. I’d always been busy and never felt like I had enough time to do all the things I really wanted to do. By the time homework, housework, and regular work were done, I had no time left to volunteer, which was something I’d very much wanted to do when I chose my university.

While I was sitting in church on Sunday, God nudged me. “You know how worried you’ve been about finding the right job?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied. “Right now, I am giving you something you’ve wanted for a long time. This time is a gift. Right now you have all the time in the world to do all the extra things you wouldn’t have time for if I gave you a job.” 

I can’t adequately explain how I felt when I heard those words and finally understood what God was doing for me. All I can say is that my heart felt a happiness greater than it has for a while. I felt like I was free. There were so many ideas that flooded my head as I sat meditating on the possibilities. 

I don’t have a job. I don’t have money to spend, but I have time, and that is worth more. I have the ability to stop and love the people around me, to spend time with anyone who needs it. I have time to make other people’s needs my priority, to give of myself. To ask first what I can be doing today to help or serve, not after class or work has ended. That is a gift. 

Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? But if God so clothes the grass of the field…will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? But seek first the kingdom of God and all these things will be added to you. 
Matthew 6:25, 30, 33 

About this time last year, I was getting ready to catch a plane to Mexico. I was almost on my way to one of my favorite places in the world, a place I always find adventure and so much love.

Coming home to a tight schedule of senior-level classes was less than welcoming. It felt like being plunged under the water, afraid you’re not going to find the surface. Time, however, is the best helper. It kept rolling and I breathed again. The passing seconds turned into days and weeks. I didn’t realize then how each small section of time was lifting the weight of homesickness for another place off me. I just thought about time in terms of due dates for projects and papers. Internship and graduation dates. It was all happening soon, but taking forever, too.

Now it’s been almost a year. It took me this whole time to forget about that other place. A year to remember the things I like about my own country. A year to be committed to being where I am. A year to be excited again about studying and working here. Time did its job. I forgot.

My little sister just returned home from traveling in Central America. On the phone, all she could talk about was how much she missed el mercado. She missed blue sky, the women in the streets, fruit vendors. Her words sparked memories the year made me forget.

I am where I am for right now. But I blink and I see images of people, places. I hear words like “street food” and I can smell papas fritas, I can taste helado and té. I hear salsa music and I feel my feet learning to move to its rhythm again.

I am where I am. It’s taken me a year to forget, a year to make peace with staying here for a while. I know now is not the time, but I also know I will be back there. When you love a place, you can’t stay away forever. It took me a year to forget, but only a moment to remember.

This weekend my school took a trip to St. Louis to spend some time learning about refugees. We watched a documentary, went over some statistics and other facts, did some service projects, and, finally, went on a scavenger hunt (meant to give us a snapshot of how it might feel to be a refugee looking for necessary things, such as a job or an apartment).

To give a quick definition, refugees are people who have been forced to leave their own country because it is no longer safe for them to remain there. This is often because of war. In their flight, they many times are able to only take with them what they can carry. Sometimes they are separated from their families in the process of leaving. Sometimes the reality is even harsher and they are sure they will never see the people they love again because those people have been killed before their own eyes.

Everything in the world is against them. They become homeless, shut out and unable to return to the place that was supposed to be safe. Home. They are left to the mercies of a world that is often merciless, left to seek refuge and hospitality in foreign places.

I am not a refugee. I am thankful that from where I sit right now, I have everything I need. But I have lost my home and I do know the despair that comes from knowing you can never go back. It’s a pain that runs deep, something that you carry on the inside even when all the outside circumstances have changed and you are no longer in danger.

I can only imagine how it feels for refugees—physically safe but still lost, still scarred, forced to endure others’ lack of awareness. Experiencing a deep loss without much to comfort.

Their story is sad and dark but I don’t think we should hear about it, feel bad, and then turn away, placing it in the category of things we will never understand or be able to relate to. We all have things we face that scare us, and things that have hurt us profoundly. I’d bet we have each experienced a moment which found us seeking refuge in some way—looking for some escape—even if just emotionally.

This is true for me. I’ve walked through a lot of days—and continue to—where I desperately need to find a safe place. I need refuge, an escape, a sanctuary from the things I’m facing. A place where I can rest without being afraid.

What I know is that Jesus wants to be that place for me. I’ve always heard this, but it never felt like more than a temporary escape—like a tree to stand behind while you’re being shot at—like something that wasn’t supposed to last. Until today. Today I finally found out that this refuge that God offers is for keeps. It’s a place that I can enter and stay. A place to heal. A place where I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore, because when he says them, I know these words are true: you are safe here.

There is a safe place for us, for all of us who are tired and scared and sick, beaten down by the world and running from trouble. But it isn’t to merely escape and be glad we got out. It’s so that we can turn around and find the refugees of the world, who are in our own backyard. It’s so we can tell them—by our actions and words—something very important. From one lost person to another: you are safe here.

“You will see people who hurt in the worst ways,” my professor stated today. This week, we are tackling the topic of trauma. Class was hard to sit through, not only because of the heaviness of the material we’re dealing with, but because I don’t have to stretch very far to relate to it. This idea of having passed through an event that forever marked your life—that holds so much power over you—is still close to home. Just under the surface, actually.

I wouldn’t say that it’s being repressed, as is the case with many trauma victims. I’ve come a long way from there, and am so grateful for the ways in which I’ve started to heal. But when we talk about symptoms like hyperarousal (anxiety, panic), intrusion (memories or nightmares related to the event), constriction (desire to numb feelings in order to not feel the pain), and disconnect (checking out of or avoiding significant relationships), I realize I have experienced all of these things to some degree.

Remembering it is hard. Knowing that some of those elements are still present, like the nightmares, is hard. Thinking about the people I will meet who have experienced trauma much worse than my own breaks my heart.

Somehow in our human experience, the majority of us end up hurt, broken. In the worst ways. In ways that, as my textbook explains, we end up referring to as unspeakable because that is how impossible it is to express it.

So what am I doing delving into a field where I will be surrounded with such a depth of pain? It’s something expressed in a poem by Pablo Neruda: “Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,” which literally means “Come see the blood in the streets!” He wrote these lines referring to the atrocities of the civil war in Spain, but the sentiment is universal. Once you’ve been a witness to trauma, you can either turn away or acknowledge it.

This leaves me with a prayer, something that I wrote the day after the Aurora, CO shootings: God, may you make my life one of peacemaking and light in darkness and violence. May my life lead angry, broken people to the peace and love of Christ. Send us to the darkest places, Lord. Send us to be the light, Your light that shines in the darkness and the darkness is unable to quench it or overcome it.

And today I would add: Give me the strength to not turn away.

It happened again today. I was sitting on my bed, trying to focus on the mountain of homework I needed to do, when it showed up. It is not something I like to think about. In fact, I would really like to pretend it doesn’t exist. It is scary, because I have never been able to win an argument against it. And even though I don’t want to agree with it, it can be very convincing. It tends to be something that happens suddenly, like flipping a switch, like returning to default mode. So what is it? It is a thought, a mere suggestion. Well, on second thought, perhaps more of a thought combined with a very strong emotion. This thought, on a very basic level, is why? Why me, why this, why here? Behind this question is a darker one: what is the point? It is all these questions plus an emotion: despair. Despair because it argues that there is no reason. It says there isn’t a point, no purpose. And for whatever reason (or rather for too many reasons) I always believe it. But I try to shut it out, because it does not lead me anywhere good. I try to just push hard and forget about it, even though I know that with just a bit of time, it will come back. 

Today, for the first time, there was another voice that questioned it. “Why do you let it bother you? Just because you don’t have the answers for it? Why do you believe it? Just because you don’t know the reason? You don’t see the point? What if I do? Will you let me take care of it?”

That was a first. This may be the start of the end to it.

Today I found myself struggling unexpectedly with things I thought I’d already worked past. It is an unfortunate truth in my life that I often go back to pick up the baggage and trash I’ve at some point laid down with the intent to leave it there. Fear leads me in this endeavor to carry more pain than I can bear, to hold on to things that pull me heavily down.

At the point of my despair, I was reminded of something. These fights I’m still trying to go back and win over again, these hurts and problems that continue to assail me are exactly the things Christ died for. “For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.” I am still weak, a glaring fact. I am still weak, but he already died.

“And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by canceling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he set aside, nailing it to the cross. He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him.” -Colossians 2:13-15

Thank you, God.

Today was as broken as any day could be. I woke up to my mother’s frantic text, asking if I was ok. Shortly after, I found out the reason for her concern and learned that our internship would be cancelling our plans for the day so we could go support the community in Aurora.

Arriving at Gateway High School, I was unprepared for the scene that assaulted us. News crews filled the parking lot which was sectioned off with police tape. Law enforcement and relief personnel were swarming the area. Upon stepping out of the car we were almost immediately stopped by a reporter from the New York Times, hoping to glean a story or at least some small piece of information to add to his list.

Inside, the mood was somber. People were scattered around, some sitting at the tables that had been set up while others clustered in small groups. Policemen were still taking witnesses’ statements. I was quickly pulled into a circle to pray.

After a while, there was some hectic movement from those in charge and I found myself almost begging an officer to give me something to help with. His only reply was to help herd everyone into a different part of the building, to a room air conditioned and more secure. There was really nothing for me to do. Nothing but pace the floor with the family members who awaited news of their daughter or brother. Nothing but arrange water bottles, fruit, and granola bars on a table, hoping that all these people with a sick feeling in their stomachs would eat something. Nothing but wait impatiently for the officer in charge to gather us into a group for the latest update on the investigation, which never included enough details. 

Today was a broken day, which I was helpless to change. I couldn’t take away one ounce of their pain or fear. I couldn’t answer their questions about the whereabouts of their children, their siblings, their friends, or give assurance that they were ok. I couldn’t fix what had taken place. And yet, the relief workers and police officers thanked us for being there. There was nothing exceptionally special that we did, but they explained to us that our prayers and presence were important. 

From this, I found my prayer to God being that I would have open hands in times of brokenness and pain, that I would offer to Him the control I long to have over this life, and that in turn He would send me to places of darkness to be—through Christ—a small spark of light.