Doing good

In 1989, Pope John Paul II made a trip to Peru.

The indigenous people responded with “We… decided to take advantage of Pope John Paul II’s visit to return to him his bible because in five centuries it has given us neither love, nor peace, nor justice. Please take your bible and give it to our oppressors: they are in greater moral need of its precepts than we are.”

Ouch. That cuts deep.

Christopher Columbus and the conquistadors came to the Caribbean in 1492. Ever since then, the white man has been playing in Latin America for three reasons: God, glory, and gold. Herds of missionaries came to preach the "good news", to offer salvation, to "rescue" a people caught up in bloody human sacrifices.

So where exactly did we go wrong?

Was it when we gave them smallpox?

Was it when we pillaged their villages?

Was it when we forced them into conscripted slavery?

Was it when we looked at them as a thing rather than a people?

I love Mexico. It's no secret. I go there for God, or at least I think I do. I'm not finding gold there; in fact, I'm losing gobs of money with all my travels south. I don't find a whole lot of glory - there's not much that's sexy or powerful about not bathing for a week. Yet sometimes I do get caught up in the pride of it all, in being able to say that I gave up my holiday breaks. Sometimes, starting a story with "So I was in Mexico last weekend and..." is an exciting thing to do - especially when all of my friends back home are eating mahi mahi sandwiches at McKenna's Place or lying in the sand on 27th Ave. Sometimes I start to think that I'm doing something right.

And that's when everything starts to go wrong.

This video has gone viral among my circle of friends over the last couple of weeks. It was made several years ago by a former APU student and takes a harsh yet true look at Mexico Outreach.

Several years ago, students were saying "there's something about the dirt." We're still saying that today.

We come home after a few days, hot, sunburned, tired, probably vomiting and running a fever. We have new profile pictures for our Facebook pages and adventure stories of getting lost, trying strange foods, and sleeping on packed earth. We tell stories of love, redemption, and the new people we've met yet can't remember the names of. We remember how close we felt to God when we were worshiping as a group for the fourth time in two days and think that it's Mexico that did it, not simply the fact that we are taking time for the Lord.

We come home brave, altruistic, and "holy". On Monday we crawl out of our warm beds, sip a latte, scramble to our air-conditioned class in our clean clothes, and go about our day with the occasional prayer for the country we claim to love.

We suck.

500 years after the conquest, we are still feeding them the bible with one hand while holding them down with the other. America cries "liberty, freedom, opportunity, (arguably) Christian" yet we fight over whether fathers should be allowed within our gates to feed their starving children. We go on mission trips as enablers, as spoiled WASPs looking for an exciting story.

I used to always think that when we work in the name of the Lord, it is good. Now I am not so sure. The conquistadors claimed to be working for God - but was what they did "good"? I think I go to Mexico for God - but the people in the video aren't so sure we're helpful.

I don't think all of what we do in Mexico is bad. I think we do a lot of good and that we're still in a process. It's hard to develop a ministry when the life cycle of your generation of workers is only 4 years; by the time our leaders are equipped and trained, they are ready to leave.

I am guilty of going to Mexico without prayer, of feeling like I have an agenda to meet rather than a God to obey. I am guilty of saying I love the people I forget the names of. I am guilty of telling stories of getting pulled over by Mexican police rather than the stories of what God is doing in my heart and in the lives of others. I am guilty of fearing that people will think I am crazy or one of "those" Christians if I tell them my God stories. I am guilty of looking at the Mexican people of something that needs rather than someone who is.

When we work in the name of the Lord, we are doing good. It's a good thing that God has told us what is good: to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly.

Micah 6:8

Those weeks

It's been one of those weeks.

The kind of week where allergies attack without mercy, mail piles up on my desk, midterms roar in fury, work demands extra attention, my room is piled with guests, events and meetings and interviews stack against each other, an abnormal glance sends me straight into judgement, friends are as overwhelmed as I, payments are due all too soon, and my body screams "please, stop neglecting me!"

We've all had one of those weeks.

But these weeks come few and far between and I know that they will soon end. The pollen will settle, the mail will be sorted. Midterms will end, deadlines and meetings will come and go. The guests will return home and my room will once again be lonely, leaving me longing for more squatters. Friends will come out of hiding as their lives slow down too. Work will slow for a brief season between Easter and VBS. Paychecks and fundraising money will come in at the last minute. High-strung emotions will simmer down into contentment and peace.

And maybe, just maybe one day my body will get a vegetable, a run, and a nap in.

Rejoice always, pray continually and give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. -- 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Awake

I lay my weary body down underneath the sheets. My muscles whine, but not with the accomplished sore feeling of exercise or hard manual labor. It's the ache of exhaustion and poor care; perhaps this is what it feels like to be old.

I lay in bed for a few moments calculating the exact number of minutes I would have it I fell asleep right now. Six hours becomes five. My body tells me how hard I have worked today but my mind chatter mocks me, reminding me of how much I have left to complete tomorrow.

I crawl out of my warm covers in a search for something to settle my head. Perhaps if I write down my TDL for tomorrow? No, that only shows me how much there is to do. Maybe I could read? No, my mind wanders away from the page too quickly. I could work on a sewing project? No, my eyes are too tired and my brain too foggy and operate machinery.

And then I remember the God I worship. The one who kept my aching muscles going all day. The one who cleared my overwhelmed thoughts as I panicked over deadlines. The one who stood beside me as I completed task after task. The one who is willing to do it all over again with me tomorrow. The one who values rest yet never tires.

"Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones. When you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake." -- Victor Hugo

Daytona 500 in California

I always hated race week and Bike Week.

It makes life an inconvenience.

There's no lazy Saturday trips to the mall.

No running errands. No visiting my friends from school who lived to the north.

Traffic is a nightmare - as it if isn't bad enough in a town where a third of the population is over the age of 65.

Sobriety checkpoints at the Pub wanting to check my provisional license after curfew.

Men with mullets and skullcaps. Chunky women in skin-tight chaps.

Halifax and Bert Fish's ERs overflowing with road rash and collision injuries.

The smell of beer and barbecue. The constant roar and clack of Harleys.

Rednecks, RV parks established on vacant lots, kiddie pools and Daisy Dukes.

Black shirts, tobacco smoke, Sin City making its way onto our otherwise calm island.

Now that I'm not in Florida, I kind of miss these weeks.

They made a rhythm in my life. Race week meant spring break was coming up. Bike Week fell on my birthday. The roar of motors and the smell of pumpkin spice lattes was how I knew Halloween was approaching. I remember being a small child and my parents doing some spring cleaning, the windows open and the Daytona 500 playing in the background. It always annoyed me, both the cleaning and the monotonous rumbling of the engines, but it is a very comforting thing to me now.

Now it's time to establish my own traditions, new rhythms, and continue to find comfort in the things that remind me of home.

Manzanas y Calles

If you've talked to me for more than two minutes, you know that I love Mexico. I love the dry dirt that makes me feel like I'm in the middle of the Dust Bowl. I love the helado callejeros that walk up and down the gravel streets selling ice cream (which I also really really love). I love the warm air in the sunshine and the coolness of the shade.

I love the children with dirty brown hands that hold my soft white hands and tell me that they love me; to them, it makes no difference that I am a foreigner, that I garble their language, that I make strange sounds they cannot understand when I speak to my friends. They just love. Their sweet mothers smile, serving me hot food and doing their best to impress their guests. Most of their fathers are not around, but when they are they smile and stay quietly in the background; perhaps they are unsure of us, perhaps they don't know what to say. Either way, they are gentle; the hands and faces of all of the adults hold the stories of years of hard labor.

Who am I, to be so blessed with their presence, their kindness?

Manzana Lift or Manzanita Sol. Liquid Crack.

Mexican apple soda aka the only soda I really

really like. I brought home multiple bottles.

Don't judge - it's real real good.

The next big, week-long trip is over spring break. My heart was set on team Rescate de Calles, translated as "rescue of the streets". Essentially, the team focuses on "street children"; kids who can't afford to go to school, foster babies, beggars, factory workers, victims of abuse in a system that fails to protect, little people far too young to be abandoned. They're the forgotten children of the streets of Mexico.

I applied for a leadership position. I was denied.

I was disappointed, but did my best to keep Jealous Janet away (I try to not let her come out to play too often). I talked to the leader of Rescate and essentially arranged for me to be on his team; I was excited, I was determined. Two days later, a sweet friend of mine told me she had crazy news for me that I must hear in person. We met outside on the lawn, but I already knew what she was about to tell me; God had placed me on her team. Now, don't get me wrong - I love her to pieces and I know she loves the Lord and the work He has assigned her to in Mexico.

But I want what I want when I want it.

The perfectionist in me knocked on the door of the closet I keep her locked up in. "Two denials in two weeks. What next? How silly of you to even think you could get a job in Latin America for the summer. What were you thinking? You don't ever understand what God is trying to tell you - you weren't meant to be on that team, or go to Mexico, or travel abroad anywhere else."

That was enough of that. She went back into her closet where she belongs.

I was left a bit disappointed and I simply could not figure it out, why I felt like I was supposed to lead that team, then be in that team - only to be denied. It seemed like such a great fit.

I don't have time to sulk around; the day is just too precious and too beautiful. I spent a few moments in prayer. Then it hit me.

I wanted to be on Rescate because it somewhat reminded me of my own life over the last few years. I connected with it, I empathized with them, I felt like it was almost my duty to protect the unprotected. But it occurred to me that my problem was perhaps that I am too emotionally involved. I'm not healed and therefore not able to heal others. This part of my life is still tender, still an easily opened wound. To be a member of this team at this time in my life would almost be a disservice.

So today I take joy in knowing that I have a God who protects, a God who heals, and a God who provides. I am praying that I not only work through my own junk so I can serve others, but that the Lord will use team Rescate de Calles in beautiful ways as He uses me in others.

Everything

The smog softly hangs low over the mountains. The ground is dry once again from yesterday's rain, bringing life to the blooming flowers and washing the pollen off of their petals. The breeze blows gently, giving the pollen from the landscape a free ride.

This is the only thing that threatens to ruin my day. With burning eyes, impromptu sneezing fits, and a stinging throat, I lie in the soft springy grass to enjoy the warm sunshine against the cool breeze.

I love everything about this land, about this place, about these people whom I live among.

Let that be enough

My phone beeps. I pick it up, slide my bandaged finger across the screen, and open a new email.

Financial Services.

Your payment is ready to be viewed...

A couple of checks sit on my desk, crisp and ready to be deposited. Their little white boxes mention a series of numbers that I have crunched, stretched, saved, and sweat for - but there is so much more to them.

Written on these two muted blue checks is a beautiful fulfillment; it tells me "The Lord has provided for you yet again. You are done, sweet child. You have finished the impossible. Take these and remember Him."

My year of private schooling will be paid off in cash, minus a small subsidized loan.

I do not understand God.

He is so good.

I have been blessed with such a beautiful life; I do not know how I failed to see it for so long. He provides for me who can give nothing. He protects me who is just one in seven billion. He loves me who is so unworthy.

I was listening to my iTunes today and came across Switchfoot's Let That Be Enough. Some of the lyrics really stuck out to me today.

"I wish I had what I needed to be on my own...

And all I see, it could never make me happy.

And all my sand castles spend their time collapsing.

Let me know that You hear me.

Let me know Your touch.

Let me know that You love me.

Let that be enough...

Yeah, who am I?

Just a kid who knows he's needy."

This is such a fitting prayer for the season of life that I am in. The Lord has blessed me with jobs that allow me to provide for myself and be on my own; He is creating a new life within and for me. Dependence on Him brings so much freedom.

But the more He provides, the more I am realizing just how much stuff I have. None of this matters. I have a disgusting amount of shoes, tops I have not worn in years if ever, jeans that I have long-forgotten about. I have beautiful things while others don't even have food. I build up my storehouse, my resume, my sandcastles and in the end they mean nothing. In the mean time, I am simply shrewdly stockpiling, scoffing to the world saying "You do not deserve to be blessed in the ways I have."

I am a glory stealer.

I am a thief of justice.

A hoarder of goodness.

I deserve none of what I "own" and do not have the right to keep it for myself. I do not want these things, these checks or clothing or books to be what I base my joy on. It is mine to give, not mine to keep.

I know that I am needy, oh so needy. I cannot do a thing for myself without the hand of God - that is all I am, a little girl completely dependent on a big God.

I simply want Him to be enough.

"But goodness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that."

1 Timothy 6:6-8

With each passing day, I find myself thinking more and more in terms of that which I never thought I would or wanted to be - a missionary. The Lord has a hold on my heart.