My Journey, Our Journey

(The following was originally written for my Mission Educator's Bulletin the first week of Lent.  And although it took so long to post it here that my malaria pills are now a distant memory (thank goodness!), our Lenten journey - not to mention our life's journey - is still in process.  And so I hope it may still have meaning for us even two weeks, or two years, later: the journey is hard, yet beautiful!)  

 

I just swallowed down the last of my anti-malaria pills (not the most pleasant experience, I can assure you), signifying the full week it has been since I returned from my trip to Kenya.  Has it really been a week already?! I had similar sentiments when it came time to leave our partner diocese of Homa Bay, after a very short time there—has it really been a week already?!  But albeit short, it was good—well worth the journey (it always is)! 

Journey really is perhaps the best description of this particular visit. With nearly as many days spent in airports to get there and back as was spent in country, and with those brief days in Kenya consisting of a good (no great) deal of driving—to parishes on all ends of the Diocese—it was definitely a time of “journey.” 

And for those of you who have not traveled in Kenya before, let me tell you that “journey” takes on a whole new meaning!  The tarred roads consist of “speed bumps” every few kilometers, so even if you can get up to speed and think you’re smooth sailing—woa, think again, and start all over after coming to a nearly complete stop so as not to bottom out. The dirt roads consist of what feels like more ditch than road, and bottoming out on these is pretty much inevitable. And regardless of what kind of roads you are driving on, you will share them with a good deal of others—other cars, a plethora of piki-piki’s (motorbikes), grazing animals, and the beautiful people walking—often with large bundles on their heads and/or babies on their backs. Sharing the road with all of this (at once!) takes focus and courage.  It’s true, a journey in Kenya is not easy, it does not happen quickly, and it requires much. 

But lest you think that this is a “bad” thing, let me tell you what else a journey in Kenya means.  It means friends!  Some old, some new, but always a friendly “Karibu” (welcome) and a hug offered (usually more than one of each of these things, both at the beginning and end of your greeting). It means seeing beauty—in the grandeur of God’s creation seen in the landscapes you pass, in the grace of God’s mercy in the people you encounter, in the miracle of unity in diversity in the Catholicity we share with those a half a world away. It means growing closer to others who share the journey with you, and the many more who offer “journey mercies” or “safe safari” prayers as you go.  It means feeling closer to Christ than you knew was possible! 

We are well on our way on our Lenten journey. I invite you this Lent to think of your coming days like my journey around Kenya: Remember that it will not always be easy (there may be bumps in the road). Keep in mind that it takes time (don’t expect to arrive at your goals like you’re Mario Andretti).  Recall that bettering yourself, and the church that you share with a plethora and variety of others), takes focus and courage. But know that if you are willing to make the journey, you will come to know the face of God, feeling His friendship and embrace. You will see beauty, finding meaning and miracles in new corners of your life. You will grow closer to others.  You will grow closer to Christ.

So don’t wait! There is an incredible journey waiting for you, but time flies! And I have a feeling that come the end of Lent, we may all be asking, has it really been 40 days already?!  Don’t waste a minute of this precious journey! 

Poems on the journey to Hopefulness

I recently took part in a retreat entitled "How Can We Be Hopeful People in a Troubled World?"  I won't pretend that I obtained all the answers to that question during those few hours, but I also can't pretend that the question has not weighed on my mind considerably over the past year, months, weeks, even days.  Hope - it seems almost as tricky a thing as this troubled world we live in!  And while it is too much to share the many conversations and thoughts that myself and my fellow participants shared that day on this topic (let alone the many reasons why that question is a part of my heart as of late), I can share two poems that I wrote as part of my reflection time at the retreat.  There is of course plenty of back-story to each one as well; but again, that is too much for today and will have to come at another time.  For today, I leave you with these brief statements of inspiration behind each one, and my attempt at finding hope through poem... 



("Proximity" was inspired by the statement "We have to get close to the people on the margins, so we know who they are and what kind of action might help [bridge the gap]" and by my personal experience of tutoring two Hispanic women several years ago)

"Proximity"
I was a young woman, smart but scared
They were young women, smart and courageous,
Coming to a new land,
a strange language,
Babies and husbands, boyfriends and mothers,
together trying to make a place.

I was the "teacher,"
my lessons in hand each week;
They the "students,"
the real important questions on their hearts daily.
Not past perfect conjunction,
but help for job interviews and citizenship paperwork.

We seemed so different at first - 
advanced degree educator versus house-cleaner and factory line worker;
But in truth so the same - 
catholic, daughter, mother (our girls with the same name),
afraid yet courageous,
trying to pay bills and keep house and drive on snowy roads each winter.
The same, though different -
The same love of a cherishing GOD
Though different marginalization from a cruel society.

We were young women,
each smart, but trying to learn,
each scared, but working at being brave,
each a small part of each others' lives once a week,
but they becoming an unforgettable part of me each day since.  



* * * * * * * * * * * * *


("A New Narrative" was inspired by the idea that we can help find hope by "Changing the stories we tell ourselves and each other" and by numerous conversations - with the likes of church workers to children, on topics from mission trips to discrimination - over the past few days)

"A New Narrative"
I'd like to tell a story,
a new story,
One we haven't been told lately.

It is a story about togetherness,
About a Kenyan priest who hugged me and helped me feel at "home" a half-a world away.
About a Bishop in Venezuela who tells me my children are growing beautifully, even when he can't feed his people.
About crossing borders just to meet someone.
And meeting someone who has crossed borders.

It is a story about mothers sharing pictures of their kids growing too fast,
and playing silly non-verbal games with kids across tired airport gates.

One in which we look around a crowded room and see
Not the person who wronged us,
the one who got the job we wanted,
the one who looks different,
the one who thinks different...
But see
the person who has buried a spouse,
who has battled cancer,
who has lost babies,
who has suffered injustice.

A story in which we see each others' hurts, and judge them not according to our own,
but judge them according to the love that all hurts require.

A story about my kids wanting to have "new food Fridays,"
and playing among hijabs, overalls, tutus and flip-flops alike at the mall playground.

I want to tell a story in which my church doesn't "preach,"
but lives,
welcomes,
loves,
forgives.
Where we are concerned less about policy and doctrine,
and more about offering hugs and getting "dirty" with the sheep.

We so often are told the tale of a "dirty" world, 
where dirt is to be avoided,
where dirt diminishes hope.
But I want to tell a new story,
in which dirt is beautiful,
real is Holy,
broken is blessed,
different is embraced,
where judgement is not,
and hopelessness is made hopeful again.