My Heart is in the Woods

Crisp, evening air.

Towering pines kissing the sky as they stretch towards the heavens.

The crunch of gravel and cool grass under Chaco-clad feet.

The loons call in the distance, the waves lap. A guitar is being tuned.

The chatter of children is heard as they bundle up against cool breezes and relentless mosquitoes.

Conversations about tomorrow’s schedule and the events of the day fill the air.

Brilliant colors painting the sky-golden yellows, deep indigos, rich reds, pinks, and oranges.

The faint glimmer of stars in the darkening sky.

The crackle and snap of a fire.

The smell of wood smoke mixes with the scent of the trees, water, and the clean Minnesota air.

And the familiar chord progression breaks through the symphony of evening sounds,

As the camp rouser begins.

Familiar words are sung with enthusiasm. Clapping and hand gestures accompany the tune.

The camp cheer rings out, loud and clear over the lake—

—followed by the sound of complete and utter silence (until someone giggles!)

Silly songs, words of praise, a message, Scripture readings.

Community. Friendship.

Time for rowdy energy, giving thanks for the day.

Some moments of reflection and thoughts to ponder.

And quiet chords of love, grace, and peace send us on our way.

Sending tired bodies to snuggle into their sleeping bags-perhaps clutching a beloved stuffed animal, a letter from Mom, or the hand of a new friend in their dark cabin.

Worship materials are collected, guitars returned to their cases, and the fire extinguished.

It is the end of another campfire, another day.

These evening campfires, the sights, sounds, scents, and memories are forever ingrained on my heart and my mind. The smiles of campers, the feeling of a small hand in mine, the joyful noise that proclaims the glory of God; the picture of dusky clouds framing the northwoods as evening falls; I can picture these evenings with perfect clarity.

I have been to countless campfires during my time as a camper and staff member at Voyageurs Lutheran Ministry. And each worship service is powerful, rich, and Spirit-filled. I can see the tie-dyed t-shirts, the painted faces from all-camp game, the dozen pairs of Chacos, and the orange blaze of the fire. I can hear the brave voice of the camper who volunteered to read scripture or teach a song, the echo of the camp cheer, the power of God’s Still Small Voice speaking through moments of prayer and silence. I can feel the warmth of that fire, the love of community in the midst of a hug prayer, our petitions mixing and mingling above us, and pure, inexplicable joy & peace.

As I remember these beautiful, precious moments, there is a twinge of sadness about not being at camp this summer. That’s hard. But far exceeding any disappointment or heartache is a vault of deep gratitude for my time at camp, the lessons that I learned, the relationships build, the safety of community, and the way I have grown into myself around those campfires.

Even as I write this, eager staff members are preparing for camp. For some, it’s familiar and exciting. For others, it’s a little scary. So too, are the many campers anticipating their time at camp this summer; there might be some who have complete confidence, along with others who harbor some fear and uncertainty. That’s okay! What I’ve learned during my many summers in God’s Great Northwoods is that it’s okay to bring your excitement, your fears, questions, and joys to camp. Camp is a place where you can just be yourself-and you will be welcomed, loved, and affirmed as the beautiful child of God that you are.

There are countless other moments I could have reflected on—Bible Study, morning worship, overnights, weekends with staff, all camp game—but for me, campfire really embodies what camp is. It’s a time in our lives for us to slow down, be ourselves, worship our Creator, nurture friendships, be silly, grow into ourselves, marvel at the beautiful gift of life, and rest in the knowledge that we are loved.

And so, even though I have a couple more months before I will find myself on the shores of Deer Lake, gazing up at Grandfather Pine at Camp Hiawatha, or in the forested wilderness of Camp Vermilion, gazing up at the stars that take my breath away, I know that I carry the memories, lessons, and love of camp with me. My heart is in the woods.

It’s Great to be Alive in God’s Great Northwoods!

The Emptying and the Filling Up

"I have learned that I cannot always expect my life to be full. There has to be some emptying, some pouring out, if I am to make room for the new. The spiritual journey is like that - a constant process of emptying and filling, of giving and receiving, of accepting and letting go." -Joyce Rupp

The last month or so has been challenging for me. Not so much because of trouble here in Beit Jala, though I think it’s safe to say that all YAGM have encountered some bumps along the way from time to time, but because of what I’m missing out on. If you will, the challenges I am facing right now have less to do with the filling up, but with the emptying out & letting go.

I’ve expressed to several people that this leg of the journey, spring and summer, was going to be the most difficult for me, because of the imminent farewells, transitions, and the great unknown that lies ahead, but also because what I am missing now-namely, my sister’s graduation and camp. My family is everything to me and means more to me than I can every articulate. Missing Stephanie’s graduation is so sad to me, but I hope she realizes how proud I am of her!! Knowing that I am not going to camp for the summer breaks my heart more than just a little bit, dramatic as that may sound. Camp is home for me, the place where I am happiest and most at peace. I am confident there, loved, supported, and a part of the family. It’s hard to let go of that part of my life, even though I am so happy here.

This year has filled me with so many things that I didn’t even know I was missing. I have been filled with hospitality, insight, knowledge, wonder, questions…oh the questions. Coming here has required me to give up things, albeit temporarily-time with loved ones, wonderful jobs, the comfort and security of a familiar culture, and freedoms I never fully appreciated. Some things have been given up permenantly: my naivite and my dislike of onions being just a couple (trying to lighten the mood…)! In their places, a renewed pursuit of justice, equality, and peace for all people have found their way into my heart. I now have a taste for stuffed grape leaves, hummus, the aforementioned onions, and green almonds. I have friends who speak little to no English who have shown me so much love and care. I have learned so much.

I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve realized I am much more introverted than I ever knew; perhaps it’s because I am immersed in a culture that is so people- and conversation-oriented all the time that I have realized how much I require quiet, introspective, me-time to process all that I am learning, seeing, experiencing, and living. As my dear friend and mentor, Jon Leiseth (co-country coordinator for the South Africa YAGM program), gently pointed out to me, I am an introvert who values relationships. That continues to be more and more true. Through all of this, seeing holy sights, learning languages, and trying new foods, it is the people and relationships that have made this place home.

This journey-the emptying and filling up-is far from easy. It’s beautiful, complicated, and so rich. I can’t tell you how I’ve changed—some things are easily named and noticed, while others will become more clear in the weeks and months following my return to the States, noticed by me or by others. I love the quote at the top of the page, as it articulates some of what I’m feeling as my heart longs to be at my sister’s graduation and up in God’s Great Northwoods. However, I don’t think it’s quite accurate, as I know that even when it’s hard in moments, life is still full. Even though we move on, we never let go or leave the people and places from our past. We carry these stories and these relationships with us wherever we go, and even though our hearts may ache for the familiar and comfortable, everwhere we are is shaped by where we have been.

I have been shaped by the love of my family, my time at camp, my best friends, the love of my life, my churches, my dance career, Concordia College, and so much more. All of it—the people, places and experiences have helped me to grow into the woman I am today. And now Palestine, the YAGM program, the Qabar family, my fellow Jerusalem/West Bank YAGM, my experiences here, the challenges & joys alike—this place will fill and shape me for the rest of my life.

Thanks be to God for that! 

Awake My Soul

A year ago today, I had the opportunity to preach at Concordia. One year ago today was exactly four months before I was set to leave for Jerusalem. It was three months before I would officially jump into a beautiful adventure called love with my dearest friend and favorite companion. It was Earth Day. Whew! If I knew then what the year ahead would hold, I don’t know that I would have believed the incredible beauty that lay before me; the challenges and changes I would endure, the love and joy that would capture my soul, and the passion to serve that would continue to evolve over the year ahead.

On a whim, I happened to look at my sermon from that day…and I continue to marvel at the way that the Spirit has been at work in my life. The stories I shared that day are stories that have continued to shape me, and encourage me in this journey. And so, I would like to invite you into a glimpse of the “before” or “becoming” Laura of a year ago. This story continues to unravel and evolve, but even though the calendar has changed, questions of holy ground, sacred space, and my role in this world continue to dance around in my busy mind.

Awake My Soul
Sunday Night @ Concordia—April 22^nd, 2012

Awake my soul.

I’ve been thinking a lot about holy ground lately: what it is, where to find it, what sets it apart from the rest of the patches of ground that make up our world. How do we know when we’ve found it? In my experience, I know I’ve occupied sacred space, though never have I seen it marked with a road sign indicating a landmark: Holy ground, exit 2 miles, just before the scenic overview in 2.5 miles and gas in 4. No, these places are unmarked, and unfortunately, sometimes (often?) go unnoticed as we hustle about here, there and everywhere. I say everywhere, because perhaps, the entire world, the grass, the rivers, the stones of our buildings, this room—perhaps all of it is sacred space.

We read tonight from Exodus of a man, going about his daily work, when he was awakened to the fact that that ground was holy. Moses was tending his flock, doing his thing, when all of a sudden a nearby bush lit aflame—a notable event, so Moses took a closer look, only to realize the bush had not been consumed by the fire. And it is then that we and Moses heard the words: “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” Holy ground that day was a burning bush. A burning bush from which God called to Moses, instructing him, awakening him, to what he was to do—and Moses, like many of us, longed to stay asleep, just a bit longer. “Who am I” to do all of these things, he asked, I imagine in fairly small voice, for when the God of Jacob speaks to you from the midst of flaming shrubbery, one’s voice cannot help but give credit to the incredible nature of such an event. Yet, God persists, instructing our friend Moses, not only to take off his sandals and listen to God, but to listen to and answer the cries of his people—knowing that God would accompany Moses on that journey. Holy ground.

Another story, this time of two friends, making the walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, discussing all that had taken place in the days prior; all of a sudden, a stranger approached, inquiring as to what they were talking about. They marveled at his ignorance of all that had taken place, the hearing, the crucifixion, the prophecy that Jesus would rise again, and now on the third day, the empty tomb. Never pausing to recognize that the one whom with they were discussing the death of Jesus and the disappearance of his body was he who had endured the cross, raised again, and now was walking with them.

Many of you know, I had the opportunity to study abroad in Lillehammer, Norway last spring. I’ve shared many a story of my time with Anne—the student pastor at the university that I attended there. She and I connected early on in my time in Lillehammer, and nearly every Tuesday, we would meet for coffee and conversation. One particular Tuesday morning, we met just outside my small flat on the hillside across from campus. We set off along my favorite road in the world: Gammelvegen, or the “old way.” This road runs parallel to the main street leading into town; unpaved, and encompassed by trees, this road weaves up and through the hillside, giving way to breathtaking views of the valley city below. I walked this road often, both prior to and following this instance, but this day with Anne stands out: It was early April, nearly Palm Sunday (Easter was later last year). Spring had just come to Lillehammer, the ground was muddy, water running down the mountainside, and the air was damp and chilly; but buds of new life were appearing, foretelling the promises of Easter to come.

Anne asked if it would be okay if we walked in silence the first bit, thinking on this story of the road to Emmaus as we went. We walked along, earth under our feet, chilly Norwegian air in our lungs, the story of Cleopas and his companion in our minds. As we turned around a mile or so later, we broke the silence and began to discuss the story. Together, we reflected that we often find ourselves in the shoes of those disciples on the road: Eager to share our news with one another as we walk along the road of life, welcoming those who venture into our lives asking questions, and often remaining ignorant of the fact that Jesus is one who walks. We often recognize Jesus’ presence in hindsight, if at all. We fail to pay attention to, or even notice, Jesus walking alongside us: within our companions, in the sound of the nearby brook or the chirping birds. That walk with Anne caused my soul to awaken to presence of Jesus in a new way. What we were doing that morning was no different than what Cleopas and his friend were doing—walking, sharing news of our lives, enjoying each others company in the midst of it all. Yet Jesus walked with us, that day, and every day and on every other journey. Holy ground—Gammelvegen.

                This past weekend, I set off to find my future! What I did not expect was to find and occupy holy ground, to experience the embodiment of sacred space and hospitality in such poignant ways, or to understand call in the way that I now do. Last weekend was the Young Adults in Global Mission DIP event: Discernment, Interview and Placement. I, along with 61 other young adults from around the United States, made our way to George Williams University in Wisconsin for this event, where we met with country coordinators, interviewed, prayed, discerned, built relationships, and eventually, received our placements for next year. I was interviewing for Madagascar and Jerusalem/West Bank: both country presentations were phenomenal-I could imagine myself in the world in each of those places! I connected with each set of country coordinators in unique ways, and throughout much of the weekend, I found myself experiencing a sense of dual-call, or in less eloquent terms, indecisiveness.

Until Saturday, when the call became unexpectedly clear: unexpectedly and unarguably clear. I had my interview with Jeff and Julie, the country coordinators for Jerusalem/West Bank at 9:00am.  I walked in, feeling confident, excited, eager….I should have known that the Spirit was up to something! I sat down, and Jeff opened our conversation with a prayer. To this moment, I could not tell you what he said exactly. I do know that what he said, some small word, acted as a catalyst: and I wept. Now, many of you have experienced this “Crying Laura phenomenon”, and I have to say, I’ve come to embrace this part of myself; after all, I am nothing if not authentic! After our “amen” I grabbed a tissue, used the tears as an opportunity to tell a little about myself: “I’m a crier!” and we continued. And throughout the interview, dear friends, so did my tears. I wept with a deep longing to be in that sacred place; a place that has long unsettled me…unsettles me. I wept because the Spirit was moving in that room, in that conversation, calling me somewhere I didn’t know if I wanted to be. Our conversation centered on faith journey, call, vocation, suffering, joys: those things that make us all universally human. Needless to say, I will be spending the next year of my life in Jerusalem and the West Bank. Happy tears. Sacred space.

Often, the fact that we occupy sacred space or stand on holy ground escapes our notice until after we are already there or passed. Perhaps we cannot articulate what it is that makes a moment or patch of this world holy; my conversation with Jeff and Julie certainly reflects that.  In those moments, where we find ourselves staring at a burning bush, or weeping at the sudden realization that we are being called somewhere, our souls awaken, or reawaken to presence of God. We do not always know and cannot anticipate what these moments look like, feel like, smell like….I stand before you today, occupying sacred space. This place, this room, this campus, each of you and countless others, have made my time at Concordia holy. I have experience and rejoiced in the presence of God as I’ve lived and learned in this place. I stand before you today a woman who, in four months time will be departing for Jerusalem. I do not know yet what that place look like. I do know that I will find and breathe in sacred space during my year in the Holy Land. It will not look like I expect it to; my soul will awaken in new and necessary ways.

So, dear friends, what is it that makes ground holy? I have a theory. I believe, with all of my soul, that all of this Creation is sacred. People, nature, architecture, music, dance, mathematics, whatever:  all of these things and so much more, embody the holy. We are called to live into the grace of God and recognize that holiness; to wake up from our sleepwalking and pay attention! The creation is crying out with the glory of God! Every conversation, every paper we write, every song that we sing breathes holiness. We breathe in the sacred nature of creation: we breathe out our own grace-filled sacredness, not in the sense that we lose our holiness, but that we share our holiness as children of God: formed from dust, filled with breath, set to walking this holy earth. What is keeping you from paying attention? Have you taken off your shoes and seen the holiness in which you stand? Know that the ground on which you walk, the friend that you greet with a hug, the stranger who we’ve all ignored at times, all of God’s creation is holy. Let us celebrate the fact that we don’t have to journey far and wide to find these sacred places! We embody the holy, for the Spirit of God is in us, in each other. Let us care for one another, and rejoice in the beauty of each day, and the world around us, as we marvel at burning bushes, walk this journey together, and set off to answer the call, wherever it may lead.

Holy ground. Sacred space. Awake our souls.    

A State of Discernment

Over the past week or so, I’ve heard from friends and loved ones who have—drumroll please—received their YAGM letters. For 2013-2014. Which is strange to contemplate….and altogether WONDERFUL!

I have a difficult time articulating fully how much this YAGM year has transformed me, shaped me, educated, inspired, challenged, amazed, humbled, and blessed me; this has been an incredible opportunity. It has been something I feel called to long before an e-mail arrived in my inbox last spring, long before the application was filled out and interviews had…and now, for this year, it is my life. Like my real life. WOW.

I’m often amazed at that fact—that I’m actually a YAGM—but hearing from those YAGM whose adventures are just beginning made me stop and contemplate this vast richness of this opportunity again. I feel so humbled and incredibly honored to serve in this way; blessed to learn and discover, inspired to grow and be challenged.

It feels strange to hear about YAGM-to-be; after all, I’m not quite ready to be replaced yet J But I am SO excited for all those who will follow this year’s YAGM, inspired by all who came before us, and thankful for those who have shaped and built this program. I am grateful for the way the Spirit has been at work in this world, preparing us all for our individual callings: some calls are lifelong vocations, others are year- or  six- month or even just week- long opportunities. Some of this preparation comes through waiting: for an answer, for a change, for opportunity. Some comes from disappointment and not being called where we think we ought to go. Sometimes, while everything already seems to be going according to plan, and then out of the blue, life gets even more beautiful than you could have anticipated—a new opportunity presents itself, a special someone walks into your life & sweeps you off your feet, you discover a new passion or talent that you didn’t know you had—the Spirit moves in unexpected, complicated ways.

As I have celebrated with & for those individuals who will be heading to the Discernment, Interview, Placement event in a few weeks, I’ve found myself secretly wishing that there was a Discernment, Interview, Placement event for life after YAGM, for what happens after a life-changing, world-upside-down-turning sort of year. To my knowledge, there’s no such thing…but there’s always the Holy Spirit, nurskur allah!!

Truth be told, I don’t have a concrete plan for what comes next. I have ideas and dreams, but no real plans have been made….I don’t even have a ticket home yet! What I do know, is that I’m here. Today, tomorrow, for the next few months. And a few months will FLY by…and I really don’t care to think about how very quickly time moves, thank you very much.  I just want to be here, to honor the sense of call that has led me to this place, this program, and these beautiful people.

So, as I read messages and e-mails from those who are nervously and eagerly preparing for DIP, I went back to my inbox last night and found my  YAGM letter, dated March 16^th, 2012. As I read those words (which I may have printed out and hung on my fridge in my beautiful little apartment all last spring!), I again found myself energized and excited about where I am, where I’ve been, and all those places and people I have yet to encounter. The last line of that letter caught my attention:

“We look forward to your response and to the opportunity of continuing this discernment journey with you!”

I’m in discernment again; in all honesty, I don’t think we ever stop discerning. I don’t know what the next chapter will bring, but I’m eager to respond to the call, to jump in, to discern my place in God’s world, and to be forever grateful for the many gifts that this YAGM journey has blessed me with. I am becoming more authentically me with every new experience, with every opportunity. And I am so thankful. 

In particular, I’m glad to be here, today, with the sun shining on the still-green Palestinian landscape. What a perfect place to be as I learn, serve, grow, play, discern, and be present in this moment and this place, and in all that I do, grow into myself.

“Our deepest calling is to grow into our own authentic self-hood, whether or not it conforms to some image of who we ought to be. As we do so, we will not only find the joy that every human being seeks--we will also find our path of authentic service in the world.” 
-Parker Palmer

A Problem with My Privilege

Sometimes, I am embarrassed to have a US passport.

Don’t get me wrong—I am thankful for the rights, freedoms, and responsibilities that accompany my US citizenship. I am grateful to live in a country where my voice is valued, I can move freely, express my opinion, advocate for myself and others, and to pursue my dreams and ambitions.

But…

Who am I to hold in my hand this little blue book that permits me to travel freely? To move through the checkpoints without a second glance or to be granted the highest level of security—simply because I’m American?

I get embarrassed to have this beautiful book whose pages tell the stories of my travels through the stamps and visas that fill its pages—Norway, Iceland, Denmark, Israel, England, Germany, France, Scotland. I am embarrassed because this little blessing, something that cost a small amount of paperwork and money, is a status symbol. A very public expression that my country is free—and therefore, so am I.

My passport is always with me. As an American abroad, it’s an at-all-times essential. At any given moment, I can tell you where it is, reach for it, hand it to you, and wait without anxiety about whether or not I will be able to carry on my way. And I am thankful for that.

I am living in a place where most people do not have passports. Living in the West Bank, I am a 7 mile bus ride to Jerusalem; yet my friends, my host family, and the majority of my community here is not permitted to go into Jerusalem. Why? Because they don’t have permission. Why don’t they have permission? Because they are Palestinian. Once or twice a year, some people are granted permits that last about a month to go and visit the holy sites—to pray or to worship at places that were previously (within the past decade) open and accessible to them. And even then, they must pass through checkpoints, where they are interrogated, humiliated, and dehumanized by soldiers before they will ever be allowed to enter Israel, land that used to be their home. It’s not right, fair, or just in any way.

I am grateful for all the rights and privileges that come from being a US citizen, for the ability to possess a passport and move from here to there….and really, anywhere my heart desires. But living in a place where so many people do not have the same privilege is humbling. Gut-wrenching. Heartbreaking. And so I am a little embarrassed to be holding my pretty blue passport as I go through the checkpoints, inadvertently advertising my freedoms.

And so I ask again: Who am I to have born in a free country? It’s certainly not because I’m a better person than anyone else. Why should I be able to move freely in the Holy Land as a foreigner while the natives of this land cannot even travel the short distance to visit what they consider to be the capital of their land? How is it that some people are born under Occupation, while others are born free? Why have I met relatively few challenges in my life, when children much younger than me struggle world-wide to meet their basic needs? Why do innocent people have to suffer? When will this conflict come to an end? Why should I have the right to carry a passport?

I am having a problem with my own privilege. And it’s a big problem, you see, because even while I am appalled at the injustice in the world, I am still thankful for that passport, for my freedom, for the privileges that I have grown up in….without always recognizing myself as a person of great freedom.  I appreciate my passport & all that it symbolizes, but I’m realizing that along with my rights and freedoms, it has also become a reminder of the responsibility that I hold.

As a passport carrying, well-traveled, educated, young American woman, I have an obligation to tell the story of those whose voices are muffled or stifled by biased media. I can-and must-tell of the hospitality, resilience, hope, and great faith that defines the life of the Palestinian people. These are the people who have loved me, welcomed me, befriended me, and never once judged me for coming from a country that continues to oppress them. What an experience of grace this is.

I do not know why I was born in a free country; I do not know how or why I have been so abundantly blessed in a world where injustice rages rampant. I do know, however, that I cannot keep silent. I cannot close my eyes to the injustices that are present in our world. I must speak, telling stories, sharing experiences, and advocating for those that cannot advocate for themselves.

And so, every day when I check my purse to make sure I have my passport, I will be thankful. I will be mindful of the gift it is. And I will be motivated to speak. 

Learning to Speak (Arabic) Takes Time

Okay folks, here's the truth.

Sometimes, I'm not as eloquent and as well spoken as I like to admit.

Actually, at other times, I am downright tongue tied and confusing to listen to (sorry!!).

At still other moments, I am just plain incoherent in my rambling (you know the moments...where I KNOW I started with a point-something logical, even important, to say-but and in the short instant it takes to get from thought to articulated word, everything gets to be all-a-jumbled in my speaking. AND when I try desperately to recover, to say something brilliant and witty to cover up for my flub, it all gets even more confusing and then, much to everyone's relief, I eventually sputter to a stop and take a breath (sorry, sorry, sorry!!).

Yup, sounds like me (but this doesn't happen too terribly often!).

I pride myself on knowing how to express myself well, both verbally and in writing. Good communication is one of my deepest values, and I like to know that my thoughts are expressed clearly. However, there are moments where that is just beyond me~maybe I'm being silly when I'm supposed to be serious; perhaps I'm rather stressed out or emotional; or, and this is typically the case, I'm too tired to think straight and all of my finely-tuned communication skills have abandoned me in a quest for a nap.

And mind you, that's when I'm speaking English, my friends.

Arabic is a whole other deal.

My first few months here, I was completely illiterate for the first time since I was a very small child.

Illiterate as in, absolutely-for-the-life-of-me-could-not-even-sound-out-the-words-on-the-shop-signs-because-Arabic-uses-a-completely-different-alphabet.

All I could see were squiggles and dots, keys to this beautiful language that was greeting me around every corner. Shway, shway (remember?! slowly slowly), I began to be able to understand what I was hearing around me, and even offer a few phrases in return. My ability to converse and interact with my surroundings was returning to me. Now, nearly 5 months in, I am semi-confident with my far from perfect grammar, decidedly limited conversation topics (I can talk about what to drink, buy fruits & veggies, tell you what I'm wearing, name the colors, direct a taxi, ask the price of something, count, describe where I'm from, where I work, where I live, and say basic greetings...), but only recently have I begun to understand those mysterious symbols that make up the written languages.

***And when I say begin, folks, I really mean, begin. As in, sounding out words slowly, painfully, carefully...only to discover that I've only matched 3/4 (usually less, boo) of the correct sounds to their corresponding letters. Phew. It's SUCH a process!

So if you pair the part of me that likes to express myself with words and communicate well with a rather illiterate and vocabulary-less me, you have quite a paradox, an oxymoron, if you will. I am often stuck in my conversations with people. I am pretty good at convincing people (taxi drivers and other people I interact with for less than 2 minutes, that is) that I speak Arabic, but if the conversation gets beyond a certain point (like, beyond small talk or approaching a topic of any real substance or significance), I'm lost. AND if you ask me to write words, or to sound out the letters in front of me (particularly if I'm tired; see above description of my deterioration into incoherence), there's a good chance that I'll get frustrated, teary or both.

I'm not used to being illiterate. I am not used to having a frighteningly limited vocabulary. I am frustrated by both of those realities, because:

LEARNING TAKES TIME
(and sometimes I'm not the most patient girl in the world).

And so I practice. I ask an absurd amount of questions, I rejoice when I understand the flurry of words around me, I sound out words on signs (first triumphant, then dejected when I realize that there's NO WAY that it says what I thought it said just a minute ago), and I try.

I try really, really hard.
And I'm going to continue trying really, really hard, because communication matters.
Because I want to have a real conversation with someone in Arabic someday (sooner, rather than later, insha'allah!).
Because I want to speak & to read & to write.

Back to studying I go!

Stars

"Home, they say, is where your dreams live. And despite my doubts about the journey I have begun, I know that, for me, there is no better name for this country that has enchanted me for so long. Tonight, with glaciated granite underfoot and stars overhead, I am home."   -Paddle Whispers

This passage speaks of home--specifically, it is describing my home, the great Northwoods of Minnesota. Yet, as I've read these words over and over these past few days, these words not only remind me of where I have come from, but also where I have been, and more so than anything, where I am, right now.

It is January. A new year. I am truly in the midst of a dream that I have dreamed for all of my young adult life: living a YAGM year. Listening, learning, living, daring to jump in, build relationships, and pursue my love for and passion for this vast, complicated world that we are all a part of. Sometimes, throughout the course of my life here in Beit Jala, I find that days are simply just life; ordinary, routine, normal. And sometimes, I find myself feeling guilty about that--as though I must not be doing enough, as though I'm not living up to this dream that I have dreamed for so long. Yet there is such beauty in ordinary life, in simple joys, in familiar rhythms.

This adventure, this journey looks far different than what I had dreamed of for so long. Throughout the past months, there have been moments of questions and uncertainty mixed in with the awe, wonder, and beauty that has filled my days. But here, in this place, is where my dreams dwell; I didn't know that I needed this place, these people, and this pace of life prior to arriving here. I had no idea that this place would get under my skin and into my heart in such an intimate and beautiful way, more than I could have ever imagined.

Here is the place that my dreams fill and become my life. Days filled with questions, conversations, quiet moments and new friendships are more valuable than words can begin to articulate. Though there is so much mystery and mystique to this place, so much I do not know, so much I will never fully understand, this place has enchanted me, captivated my heart and my mind in a way that no other place has ever done before.

Surrounded by the living stones that speak stories and breathe life into this Holy and broken land, with the same stars that shine in the Northwoods of Minnesota overhead, casting light over loved ones near and far, and over all the homes that have captured my heart & provided space to rest, question-ask, and be; here in this place and in this moment, I am home.

***Special love and prayers to all of my Trinity Friends in Faith. As I remember the stars, I know that we are connected in this great and beautiful world, even though we are far apart. I miss you very much and hope you all remember how much you have inspired and taught me. Peace & love.