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.  


 

So I run

A little over two years ago, my husband and I were at a place where we were ready to grow our family.  We had prayed and waited and talked about it, and now it seemed everything was finally going according to plan.  The only thing that wasn't in our plan was the fact that, unlike my previous pregnancies, I felt like CRAP!  Physically and mentally this time around was not being kind to me.  And I realized that I was going to have to do something.  I knew I needed to find a way of taking care of myself in a new way - primarily by giving myself some feeling of control and "normalcy" in my body and thoughts - if I was going to be strong enough to make it through the next nine months.  

And so I ran.  

One evening I pulled myself off the couch, went down to the basement, dusted off the treadmill we had bought months ago and had yet to use, put on the tennis shoes I had purchased on sale while I was pregnant with Adrian and had yet to wear, and for the first time since I left Granite Falls in 2005, I tried "running" (or at least that's what I called it).   I began with the easiest preset 30 minute routine, which had me huffing and puffing by half-way into it.  But I did it!  And after a few weeks of this, I was up to 45 minutes, and was quite proud.   And so it began.  Layla was barely the size of a seed inside of me, but she (in an unsettling sort of way) was a huge motivation.  And as she grew, so did my enjoyment of running again. 

Two months later, with the encouragement of my extended family, the baby (who still remained a secret to everyone but her dad and I and our clinic) and I ran our first ever 5K.  I set a goal finishing time for myself (I won't say what, but it was not in the low two-figures I can tell you that, as "running" was still a very loose term for what I did), and to my huge surprise I made it with almost 7 minutes to spare.  I was ecstatic!  (Not too bad for a 14 week pregnant woman who hadn't run in nine years and was passed by women pushing strollers on the route!)  

And so I kept running.  

A year later, Layla now a part of my cheering crew, I ran the same race again, beating my previous year's time (along with the new goal I had set for myself for this year) by another big margin. I was once again overjoyed!  (Not bad for a woman who could barely hobble for the first six months after her last race, and almost literally hadn't slept for the six months just before this one!)  

And so I ran harder.  

Tonight, after a few years of running on and off the treadmill and two pairs of worn-out tennis shoes later, I once again ran that race.  And once again, I beat my time and goal. Happy?, you wonder.  Proud?, you ask.  Heck yea!!  But not necessarily for the reason you would imagine.  Sure I'm proud of my finishing and my time and my improvement - all reasons to consider it a success.  But mostly, my feeling proud and successful is because of my motivation. 

The motivation which, however unpleasant (and trust me, it was unpleasant!) it may have been at the time, got me moving a few years ago is the same motivation that had me running my heart out tonight too - my kids!

I started running because I wanted to be strong enough to carry that little baby within me as best I could.  I continue running because I want my kids to have that same strong mother.  

Not a bulked-up, gym rat, super strength or speed kind of mother.  Not even a can-open-a-jar-of-pickles-and-swing-a-sledgehammer-without-blinking-an-eye kind of mother (though that may not be all bad), but strong nonetheless.  Strong enough.  Strong enough to run a 5K, and then some.  Strong enough to make it up steep hills.  To fight against the wind that tries to push me back.  To outrun the neighborhood dogs that nip at my heels.  Strong enough to try something new sometimes, taking on new paths and greater distances.  To out-do my own best.  

But not just physically strong.  I want my kids to have a mother who is mentally strong as well.  Strong enough to push myself up and over challenging spots in life's journey.  Strong enough to keep going when it gets tough and life's storms try to push me to turn around or give up.  Strong enough to get past those others who would as soon hurt me as help me.  Strong enough to try new adventures, taking on risks and challenges that could lead to great things.  To out-do my own best.  

I also want to be strong in confidence.  Strong enough to know that not only am I doing alright, but if I put my mind to it, I can climb mountains.  Strong enough to feel good and proud of myself, no matter what is coming at me.  To recognize and trust in my own strength, regardless of the perceived strength of those around me.  Strong enough to try to find new, deeper levels of love and pride in myself, taking on the me that GOD created me to be.  To believe that I am capable of out-doing my own best.  

And so I run.  

I run because I want my kids to have a strong mother.  I want my kids to have a strong mother, because I want my kids to be strong.

I hope that my children too will be strong people, in all ways.  That they will have the strength to be healthy and happy.  The inner strength to set their minds to great things and meet their lives' goals.  To believe in themselves and rejoice in all they are.  I dream that my children will set ambitious goals, work hard for them, and exceed even their own expectations.  I pray each and every day that they will be far stronger than I will ever be.  

And so I run. 

That motivation which made me take control of bettering my situation a few years ago has led to a new normal for me.  The tiny push to plug in the treadmill that February evening now has me continually moving in new, better, directions.  That little seed started just over two years ago has made me stronger, and continues to do so.  Layla was tough on me, and it has made me tougher.  She was, and continues to be, my motivation, along with her siblings. I want my kids to have a strong witness, because I want them to be strong. 

The hope that my example of striving to grow in strength - physically, mentally and in confidence - will inspire the same, and greater, strength from my children is why I run.  They are there on the sidelines (be it next to the treadmill, waiting on the driveway for me to return or at the finish line of my annual race), cheering me on.  My running is just one of the ways I can strive to be their cheering team as well - letting them know they can climb mountains, laugh in the face of the wind, and outrun any adversity nipping at their heels; my choosing to run is how I can clap wildly for their future selves, trusting that they will out-do their own best over and over again in their lives. 

I love them, and the strength I can already see in each of them.  

And so, I run.  

Lord, I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof

It's been another insane attempt at church.  Impatient kids fighting.  Loud baby escaping.   Tired parents trying.  A family failing at prayer.  It's our usual scene.  And amidst all the squealing, the shush-ing, the wiggling, the "stop that"'s, and the frazzling commotion of pew #3 (aka, our pew), I still somehow (miraculously as it seems) manage to hear the priest's words, and I respond instinctively along with the congregation in rehearsed response:

"LORD, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof..."

'Isn't that the truth!,' I think to myself as I respond.  My roof houses three nutsie little kids who I can't even keep quiet and under control for an hour at Mass, let alone for the hours that make up the rest of our week.  My roof sits atop disgustingly dirty floors that haven't been swept in days - a task that was made all the harder to do this morning when the baby pushed her big brother's cereal bowl off the table, splattering milk EVERYWHERE.  My roof covers a husband who's been sick for two months and a me who's been overwhelmed and impatient for almost that long (well, EXTRA overwhelmed and impatient that long, on top of the usual overwhelmed-ness and impatience that have been under my roof since moving in).  No, unless he likes baskets of unfolded laundry, stepping on Duplos, running out of Kleenex and noise (oh, so very much noise!), my "roof" is no place for my LORD to enter!  

"...But only say the word, and my soul shall be healed."

'I wish it were that simple!,' I think to myself, as I barely finish the sentence before having to quickly grab the 17 month old smiling at me as she runs down the aisle, once again having escaped pew #3.  Everything about the chaos that lies under this family's roof screams unworthy.  With no sign of being fixed any time soon.  My child now wailing because I won't put her down again (fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice...ok four times in one Mass, shame on me!), and me frantically searching for her pacifier that isn't where it's supposed to be in the diaper bag which just fell and spilled all over the floor, including rolling back into pew #4.  Oh my!  Thank goodness GOD isn't knocking at my door!  

It is not a worthy place for my GOD.

* * * * * * 

We did it - we made it to the end of another hectic, All-Eyes-on-the-Loud-Family Mass!  As I am trying to find everything that has been spread all over (and under) pew #3 (and 4), while my husband attempts to get three squirrly kids into coats before they dart off to run up and down the sanctuary ramp, I feel a tap on my shoulder.  "You have a beautiful family!," the stranger tells me. 

'Yeah, right,' I think to myself, as I watch my son almost trip and elderly man in his quest for that ramp-run he's been waiting for.  Beautiful?  Don't you mean busy?  That's what we usually hear: "You sure are 'busy.'"  And after this past hour of desperate attempts to maintain order (and a volume level acceptable to the poor worshipers around us), I find it hard to believe she meant beautiful and not busy.  But it is nice of her to offer the pity compliment.    

I smile and say thank you, ready to get out of there as quickly as possible before my kids do anything else worthy of another comment by the strangers, or worse yet the friends, who have witnessed our Sunday morning ritual of mayhem.  I take a long, deep breath - one of disbelief.  And I look at my husband, who just let out a similarly painful sigh.  "How does this happen?"  "I don't know; let's just go home."

* * * * * *

Home, under that unworthy-roof.  Where chaos abounds in unending heaps.  Where tidiness does not (though the heaps part is accurate).  Where noise (I'm pretty sure the neighbors across the street and down the hill can hear us despite closed doors and windows) happens.  Where life happens...

Where my "beautiful" family happens.  

Home, where we raise three ridiculously rambunctious, but incredibly clever, kids.  Where we laugh (oh, their cute little laughs) together.  Where we cry (those heart-breaking cries) and comfort with each other.  Where we pray for one another.  Where we love one another...

Where so much of GOD is present.  

Home, where I am blessed by a loving husband and the three children that came from that love.  Where we enjoy enough food, water, and health to satisfy more than our basic needs.  Where we enjoy enough fun to satisfy a small army.  Where my life is made messy by the daily challenges of life and motherhood, but where those same things also offer me growth...

Where my soul is healed.  

We gather up our kids, the oldest nicely saying good-bye to the gentleman he almost knocked over, the middle jumping up to hug her beloved "Daddy," and the youngest reaching out to hold my hand in her tiny fingers as she wobbles towards the door.  Another long, deep breath of disbelief.  But this time, one of gratitude.

How did this happen - that under my roof lies an abundance of GOD and so much of His grace!  Blessings by the handful, all of which I am completely unworthy of.  And all of which, make me whole.  

"Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof..."  Yet here you are, day after day, entering and abiding with us, showing us yourself through one another.   

"...But only say the word and my soul shall be healed!"  It is, just look at them, it so is. 

* * * * * * * * * 

Tonight I will be taking my children to Mass at a time over-lapping with both their supper and their bedtimes, the longest service we go to all year.  And as if that didn't make me enough of a glutton for punishment, it is also my favorite service of the year.  Why give up my most meaningful night of prayer and community for the usual "Ritual of Mayhem" that is going to church with my kids?  Because...they, like the GOD who gave them to me and the church I give them to, heal me in ways I never knew possible.  Because the reasons why tonight is my favorite (the presence of Christ, the humble service, the feasting and fearing together with those you love) are my favorite things about being their mother too.  

Happy Holy Thursday everyone!