I'm going back to Rwanda!

Muraho, Rwanda followers! It's been awhile, hasn't it? You read correctly that I am going back to Rwanda :) We (New Mercies Ministries) will depart to Minneapolis on June 10th and returning to Minneapolis on June 22nd.

There's a lot that's going into my decision to take this trip, as before, but I won't get into that right now. What I'm thinking about at the moment is Numbers 13 and 14, which we have been asked, as team members, to reflect on at this time.

Bible Gateway passage: Numbers 13-14 - New International Version

Exploring Canaan - The LORD said to Moses, "Send some men to explore the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites. From each ancestral tribe send one of its leaders." So at the LORD's command Moses sent them out from the Desert of Paran.

In these two books of the Bible, Moses is a leading the Jews out of Egypt and into the "promised land."  They've been traveling for a while, and he sends a team of scouts to survey the land below to see if it is livable. They find that it is, and full of great produce and such, but several strong groups of people are already living there, and that freaks a lot of the Jews out. Caleb, one of the scouts, is not afraid, because he knows the Lord is with them.

 Moses intervenes on behalf of the people, asking God to forgive them (again) despite their ignorance and rebellion. God does forgive them, but says that those who did not trust him all died before they see the promised land, and those who did the scouting and spread panic among the people will be struck down of plague. Moses tells the people this, but the people still do not understand. They decide to go into the land anyway, saying, "we are ready now."  Moses says they should not do this, because the Lord is not with them, having told them to go a different route. Predictably, the people who ignore this instruction and go down into the country all fall.

So what can we learn from this? Obviously that we should follow God's lead, but also that we need to be aware of when plans change and our expectations fall short, or are not even applicable. Adaptation, in life, is as important as — if not more important than — having a plan to begin with.

As I prepare to return to Rwanda, with this new team and a higher level of maturity on my part (as well as more life experience, since most of our team is made up of high school girls), I have to remind myself of who I am, both historically and at present, the "good" and the "bad," in Christ and as a teacher and artist. I think I'm pretty aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a person, but I pray that I would know in the moment, in Rwanda, what is God's will and what is not.

If you are interested in helping to fund this venture of mine, you may do so by following this link. Or, you can purchase some of my recently published books of poetry (one of which includes a poem I wrote about a moment in Rwanda!), the proceeds from which will go toward my trip for the next 2-3 months :)

Turongera (See You Later)!

CMSB

P.S. Here's a silly picture of me in a plastic poncho at Favor Guest House in Kigali when I was really sick but on the mend...so everyone found it pretty hilarious.

Results

Not it!

I didn't win the novel contest. Find out why I'm glad here.

Waiting...

...to hear back after Round TWO of the New Wrinkle Publishing Contest!

If you're interested in seeing how that turns out, stay tuned to my other blog, mistymiscellanea.blogspot.com


That's where I do most of my blog-musing these days.

Trying to publish a novel

Hello again, blogosphere! Long time...

This post is not about Rwanda, or religion. It's about wRiting, and today I need your help.

I'm trying to get my first novel published in a contest hosted by New Wrinkle Publishing, which ends tonight at midnight, Pacific Standard Time; that means you have about 3 more hours to vote for my novel to be professionally edited, illustrated, published and set to an original soundtrack. What an opportunity, am I right?

Now, the winner of the contest won't necessarily have the most votes, since the publishers judge based on the merit of the story synopsis as they perceive it.

"We’ll consider every entry for the grand prize, regardless of votes … but the more votes you get, the more visible you’ll be. Plus, there’s an awesome secondary prize, specifically for the person who gets the most votes!"

The secondary prize honestly doesn't compare to publication of one's novel (a book, a t-shirt, a mug and an Amazon fire tablet), but the point is visibility.

My book (under my pen name, Cate Slader) is titled The Blame Game. I currently have 103 votes and need to break 131 to get into the top 10 (that would also put me at the top of the YA Drama genre).

So without further ado, here's the link to vote! All you have to do is click the heart next to the number of votes for each entry.

https://www.newwrinklepublishing.com/the-blame-game/
Thanks in advance; I'll keep you posted on the results!

Read/Write/Publish/Repeat

Today is momentous.

Today I finished a book called "The Poison Tree," written by English author Erin Kelly. I had never heard of her before, but found the book in an Anchorage, Alaska bookstore called "Title Wave Books." I guess what caught my eye was the review on the front of the book by Stephen King: "I wish I had written it."

I read a Stephen King book as research for my undergraduate English thesis, a creative project, and though I sometimes call him and his work overrated, there's no denying the weight his name carries in the writing world.

The first two chapters or so of "The Poison Tree" had me second-guessing my decision to buy the $10 used book, but I quickly forgot that and found myself engrossed in the book. Kelly drew me into its pages in such a way that made me crave and eventually hate the recklessness of one of the main characters, question my own motivations and feeling in love, and ponder the problems of The Past. I also stopped to note how poignantly she described the violence and promiscuity in the book, thinking, "that's it. That's how you effectively communicate the nuances of 'gritty' situations without going into grotesque detail. That's it."

Now, I enjoy thrillers and crime novels, seek them out for reading pleasure and to develop my own craft. But I am a happy ending type of person. Great tragedy may fall upon my beloved protagonists, but they must find a happiness worth the heartbreak. In this book, the final murder upset me. The perpetrator was not who I wanted it to be. I understood the reasoning, but it was hard to come to terms with the action because it came from the character I wanted most to have clean hands.

But read this: It has been so long since I have felt so impressionable during and after reading a book. I can't remember when I last felt so rocked and impressed by a book. And this is why I want to be an author. This was a book that screamed to me, "YES. YOU CAN DO IT." And then, more quietly, "This is good writing. This is why you write. You can do this." (Plus, it ended with a relevant William Blake poem; Blake is my favorite of the Victorian poets.)

It just so happens that I've been looking a lot more into publishing recently, aching to find a company not too far away from my home that I would enjoy working for. But looking at publishing -- and reading this book, just now -- had made me ache even more to get back into novel writing. I have three significant projects waiting for some love. But which one to tackle?

Meanwhile, I decided to do a search on Amazon for a book I had written a review for -- I am quoted on the back of the book, but the full review was also used as a foreword. Turns out the book was published two days ago, and there I am. My name on and in a book out in the e-book world. That is significant. That is a step.

What am I waiting for?

Running/A time for everything

It's August, 2015. Three and a half years since Rwanda. Yesterday, I ran my first half marathon.

When I started this blog, I thought about adding "running" to the Rs in the title (hence my poem called 'The Fourth R,' which you can read in a previous post), but I thought that would be too confusing. And I didn't want to make it a big part of my writing, my thinking, because the Rwanda trip was about God's work in me and through me.

While in Rwanda, I had hoped to continue training (just running) for whatever sport I would be doing when I returned to Gustavus -- skiing or track (and it ended up being track). But I think I ended up running just twice, short distances.

God did work in me, and I hope through me, though I may never know how I affected or influenced any of the Rwandans I met. I remember walking with pregnant Claire to the bank, holding hands, just the two of us. It meant "nothing," but it also meant something. It was a symbol of trust. It was a symbol of the Rwandan culture. It was a moment I can't imagine I'll ever forget.

Nor will I forget when Willy came to see me after I had been sick, and I complained about having to stop writing my blog, mid-sentence, to say hello. Karen chastised me for being childish. I was overwhelmed with guilt and even shame. I think that criticism in particular has always been the hardest for me to take, the most humiliating. But perhaps it teaches me to be kinder. Reminds me that people don't always see things, situations, the way I do. Intolerance of differences in perspective can forever damage relationships, and it makes life just plain hard, harder than it has to be. Especially if one side does not understand or really believe in true forgiveness.

If I had made running more of a priority while in Rwanda for such a short time, I may have completely missed certain revelations, such as these, that God had planned for me. I may even have lost sight of certain truths, at least for a time. I will likely never know What May Have Been, had I run more, but I am sure my life would have been different.

When I returned to Gustavus, it was Touring Week. I had arranged to stay on campus, as had many athletes and students who's homes were far away. But most people stuck to their rooms. I ran every day. And on the seventh day, as I recall, I ran 10.5 miles without stopping. That was the farthest I had run in my life, and it was glorious.

I still don't know quite what got in me that day. I used to think it may have been that I was lighter, and could last longer. (I lost a significant amount of weight in Rwanda, though I don't recall the number. Part of it was getting sick. Part of it may have been though food, though I certainly ate plenty to keep myself full 90% of the time.) But after yesterday's half marathon (if not long before), I doubt that had anything to do with it. I don't know exactly what  happened, but I believe that God knows what's best for us, and when. He knew I hadn't trained, He knows I am stubborn, and could have started the race and hurt myself and had to drop out of the race to learn my lesson. But he also knew it didn't have to go that way. He knew how finishing the race well (well enough, in my opinion), and running with certain people at certain points in the race would empower me.

I have another long race (an 8.5-mile leg of a mountainous marathon relay) coming up in a month, and I won't promise that I'll run 5-6 or even 3 times a week, leading up to that. I won't tell you my half marathon finish has given me a full cup of motivation that will eternally runneth over. But I learned something about the power of will yesterday, about the potential of the human body; if I can endure, and then push myself to a physical limit for the sake of finishing an event I paid money for, just because I paid for it/signed up, how much more can I endure and do by the power of prayer? Why do I not trust that prayer will be more than enough for an equivalent spiritual accomplishment, when it is what the Bible teaches? Why do we rely on our own understanding?

Perhaps I have learned nothing, by the worldly definitions of knowledge -- I have only questions, it seems. But by asking these questions, I feel I have learned something. I'm onto something, and it is more awe-some than frustrating. I experienced Something. In Rwanda I experienced many Somethings. And I wonder about those things. I wonder. And, at least for now, that is enough.

Run. Learn. Wonder. Stand in awe. See where that leads.

Compassion

Amanda, my roommate during my stay in Rwanda, wrote this in January, three years after we traveled there together. She went again. And again. And her words make me want to "start again." I don't know what that means, but I can't get the words out of my head.

www.newmercies.org/compassion-visit

Thoughts on Plagiarism

I came across this essay by Ruth Graham called "Word Theft" on the Poetry Foundation website (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/247130), and I thought it worth sharing (my comments below):

Word Theft

Why did 2013 become the year of the plagiarists?

BY RUTH GRAHAM

Paisley Rekdal got two Facebook messages last January from fellow poets who had some disturbing news: a poet in England by the name of Christian Ward had taken an old poem of hers and published it, barely altered, as his own. Her first reaction was to wonder if it was some kind of experiment. Perhaps by changing the gender of the author of a poem about infidelity and infertility, he was teasing out new meanings?
Then she saw the “new” poem, with its new line breaks and minor but grating word changes. It was obviously a work of deception, not conceptual play. “That’s the thing that enraged me,” she said recently. “If he had just plagiarized the poem and published under his name, I would have been less annoyed. When I saw he wanted to take part in something I had done myself and claim it as his own, I felt kind of violated.”
Rekdal, who responded to Ward with a righteously angry blog post (and later a more melancholy one), is not the only one feeling violated these days. The poetry world experienced something of a plagiarism epidemic last year. CJ Allen withdrew from the shortlist of England’s Forward Prize in September when it was revealed that he had plagiarized some of his past work. Australian poet Andrew Slattery was stripped of three prizes when it turned out he had cribbed from Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, among others. When caught, he claimed the poems were written in the cento form, in which each line is pulled from another source; he also called his work “a cynical experiment.”

The list goes on: British poet David R. Morgan admitted last spring that many of his poems, stretching back to at least the 1980s, had been plagiarized. Rekdal’s perpetrator turned out to have stolen from several other poets, including Helen Mort and Sandra Beasley. Graham Nunn, longtime organizer of a major Australian poetry festival, was accused last September of at least eight instances of plagiarism, which he defended in part as “sampling”; on his blog, he wrote that “[r]eading and listening to music are a vital part of my process” and that “parts of the original text are creatively appropriated in the formation of a new work.” These are all published, and often prize-winning, poets—they are not students or amateurs. Why did 2013 become the year of the plagiarists?

•

Writing is a dance that involves imitation, inspiration, and originality. But all things considered, writerly disapproval of plagiarism has remained remarkably consistent over the centuries—really, even over millennia. The Roman poet Martial accused his rival Fidentinus, whom he called a “miscreant magpie”: “My books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, ‘You are a thief.’” Martial was particularly galled that Fidentinus had mixed in his own inferior work with Martial’s original material. Yes, approaches to borrowing and attribution have shifted over time, but wholesale copying has never been kosher.
T.S. Eliot, who relied on other sources for much of “The Waste Land” (plagiarism or allusion?), famously wrote, “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” Less often quoted is the next line, “Bad poets deface what they take.” This is what seems to gall many victims of plagiarists: to see their poems reprinted in weaker versions than the original.
Ruth Ellen Kocher, a Colorado-based poet and professor, recently learned that her 2004 poem “Issues Involving Interpretation” had been plagiarized online by an Australian named Vuong Pham. Pham kept her line breaks intact but changed a few words and added some new lines. “When he stole my work, he didn’t make it better,” Kocher said. “If my work was going to be taken and pilfered in that way, I would have loved to see it undergo a transformation and evolution.” Instead, she said, it reminded her of a “reverse revision”: his small changes actually made the poem worse.
Since the 19th century, when the Romantics embraced what Marilyn Randall, a professor of French studies at the University of Western Ontario and the author of a 2001 book on literary plagiarism, calls the “authentic poetic soul,” borrowing has become even more cemented as a literary crime. (Rekdal refers to her plagiarist as a Romantic, because “he was trying to tie his own imagination to the poem and claim it.”) Even in our age of collage and appropriation and “intertextuality,” it’s only at the extreme edges of such experimentation that you’ll find even mild defenses of outright plagiarism.
Despite the fact that plagiarism has always been taboo, readers are often more forgiving of historical offenses. As Thomas Mallon puts it in his insightful 1989 book on plagiarism, “Stolen Words,” “Everyone enjoys a good scandal in the present…. What we seem far less able to endure is that plaster cast falling from the library shelf: Its shattering somehow bothers us more than the live body going off the cliff.” Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for example, was an inveterate thief, but he remains firmly in the canon. Hart Crane borrowed heavily from a lesser-known poet named Samuel Greenberg, most notably in his early poem “Emblems of Conduct.” (“No doubt he meant to acknowledge his debt,” James Laughlin wrote in 1939. “It simply slipped his mind.”)
More recently, the British conceptual poet Ira Lightman, who was behind many of last year’s revelations, got involved simply because he didn’t see anyone else doing it. “The poetry world is genteel,” he said. “People don’t like to make any kind of stir.” Lightman has taken it upon himself to comb through suspect work, alert the victims, and publicize his findings.
But even Lightman, who spent untold hours last year ferreting out violators, doesn’t want to banish them indefinitely. “I don’t see them all as these sinister, plotting, Machiavellian characters,” he said. “I see it as a corruption. And we’re all vulnerable to corruption.” He suggests that transgressors retreat to self-publishing for a few years, prove themselves honest, and then return to the fold.
If plagiarists are not sinister and Machiavellian, then why do they do it? This question gets asked every time there’s a fresh revelation of plagiarism, whether it’s in the literary world, journalism, or academia. There’s never a satisfying answer, but there are at least lots of guesses, often somewhat at odds with each other: laziness or panic, narcissism or low self-esteem, ambition or deliberate self-sabotage.
In poetry, at least, everyone agrees it’s not about the money. “One of the hardest things is that the stakes in poetry are not very high,” Kocher said. “I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m not going to cure cancer with one of my poems. I don’t get paid an extraordinary amount of money, and I don’t have any great notoriety outside of the writing community. So to take something that most people engage in as an act of joy and sully it this way—it just seems one of the most egregious offenses.”
But does anyone write just for the money? Laurence Sterne, the plagiarist author of Tristram Shandy, said he wrote “not to be fed but to be famous.” Now, of course, he is. It worked.

•

The Internet has made both plagiarism itself and its detection much easier for everyone. But the major cases that came up in 2013 have all concerned British and Australian poets, often, but not always, cribbing from American ones. Despite some speculation that our national character makes us less likely to plagiarize—Americans are obsessively respectful of private property! American egos are too big to rely on other people’s work!—there’s also the possibility that Americans have simply been lucky enough to not be caught in the current dragnet.
For one, the primary detective is British, more familiar with the Commonwealth scene than the American one. And it’s not as if Americans haven’t been caught in the past. An Iowa poet named Neal Bowers, a former editor of Poet and Critic magazine, wrote a 1997 book about tracking down the Illinois elementary school teacher who published work copied from Bowers in 13 journals over the course of a few years. “It’s a very uneasy feeling,” Bowers told the New York Times at the time, “a bit like having a stalker.”
The gut reactions of the plagiarized are hard to predict. The poet and essayist H.L. Hix, for example, found out in October that his work had been lifted by Graham Nunn in an Australian anthology of love poems. He said his first reaction to getting the news from Lightman was sheer surprise: “As a poet one gets used to being completely ignored.”
Some victims feel moved to reach out the perpetrators. Kocher sent a note to Pham through Facebook after he posted a brief apology, which has since been removed, on his blog. She hasn’t heard back. (Pham has defended himself by saying he was simply naive and not taught about proper attribution; he also recently wrote that he has become a victim of cyberbullying.)
After Paisley Rekdal posted her open letter to Christian Ward on her blog, she also asked online for an apology from him. She got one: a one-sentence email that she recalls as something to the effect of “I’m sorry, I’m not this kind of person.” It’s the kind of open, vacuous statement that could make you hate someone, or feel sorry for them, or both at once. “He gave me what I asked for,” she said, “but he gave me no more than what I asked for.”
Is there such a thing as a resolution to a plagiarism story? Plagiarism isn’t a crime, there’s no universally accepted punishment for it, and the perfect expression of contrition may never come. Hix, for his part, says he has no plans to get in touch with Graham Nunn. “These were love poems that are being stolen,” he said. “I don’t have any more interest in speaking with Mr. Nunn than I would with the person who had broken into my house and stolen my property.”

Originally Published: January 7, 2014

First of all, I guess I'm surprised that there are poets like out there like Paisley Rekdal (who I've never heard of) who are willing to give plagiarizers the benefit of the doubt in making their original work better. I for one have always been fairly protective of my creative work, probably for two reasons: 1) my dad is cynical, paranoid, and has had many negative experiences with copyright-sort-of-related issues, and 2) one of my professors (of whom I am fond and in admiration as a writer) has indeed confirmed the stereotypical "mature"writer in his well-known catch-phrase, "that's stealable". So I'm no stranger to the "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal” idea. I hadn't heard the “Bad poets deface what they take” part, but is anyone surprised? Is the original author/poet ever going to think someone else's adaptation of their work, their literary/artistic baby, is better than the original? Rekdal (among others) might say they would accept another rendition, but I am, to say the least, skeptical of the principle in practice.

On another note, I've never heard of the "cento" form myself, but if the poem is clearly established as such in written form—a footnote or preface, for example—I don't really see a problem with it. I've experimented with other people's work—I frequently jot down good lines or stanzas in my journal for later use or reference—but when I think I'm even CLOSE to stealing someone else's idea, it makes me quite uneasy, usually enough to make me keep the work to myself or else make a notation, a head nod in the direction of the author, so to speak.

A good reminder to me, however, are the words attributed to Laurence Sterne, that the poet writes “not to be fed but to be famous.” It makes sense. Don't we all know this? I've been told by my professors time and time again. You "can't" make money writing poetry. And yet, sometimes, we do, and I guess that's enough to drive people to these desperate measures. You may be thinking, 'really? they're going to write a poem to get rich?' whether on recognition or actual dollars or pounds or whatever the case may be? But if you think about it, it's quite possible that all those people don't really want to do anything "bad". They're not looking to sabotage, really. I think most people would not like to commit a heinous crime to get what they want, whether they do or not (although I do wonder about Graham asserting that plagiarism is not a "crime"; maybe not in the typical sense of the word, but don't people sue—and succeed in getting money—for this sort of thing all the time? Especially in the music industry?). But this small "criminal" act, this little stab at society for the "injustice" of being overlooked as a writer/artist, is perhaps enough for the desperate poet.

I suppose this is speculation, since it hasn't happened to me in either direction, but it's worth thinking about, I think, to try and understand the world. More than that, perhaps, the little niches that you always feel yourself looking in on, not a part of the elite. Maybe you're elite in something, but not everything. As for my work and me, I intend to file this essay away for the future when I'm really in the thick of it, out in the real world and trying to make ends meet. After all, it's looming closer everyday.

Anyway, I hope all my readers find some little nugget of wisdom in that, whether you're a writer or not.

Good luck :)

Waiting on me?

I don't when I'll be posting to this blog again, but if you want to see what I'm up to these days, check out my other blog, "Psalm 139 East" to read about my adventures in Japan!

http://psalm139east.blogspot.jp/

Home

As usual, so much has happened since the last time I posted that I'm probably going to have trouble organizing coherent thoughts--at least, in the correct order--so bear with me and my disjointed paragraphs.

I realize I never got a chance to say anything about the Passion and Purity conference I went to near St. Cloud during the first weekend of November, but there's really only one thing I want and have time to put forth in regard to that, at the moment: at some point on Friday night, an image of my heart encased in shiny metal was revealed to me--my heart was hard. At first it was discouraging, but I accepted that God was going to work in me and help me remove that metal, to soften my heart, if I was willing to ask him, to work towards that end. I drew a picture of it in my journal; one tiny section of flesh near the left ventricle (my left) was free, and as the weeks passed chunks of metal began to fall away. Nothing truly momentous occurred to me as this happened, and yet I saw my heart be freed and grow softer, in my mind. I will return to this momentarily.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I've been increasingly homesick--and physically sick, for one of those weeks. During this time, I've had a flood of memories hit me at seemingly-random times during the day, concerning anything from past Christmas events to Rwanda to good times had with my ex-boyfriend. While they made me smile at first, all these memories ended up troubling me more than anything, saddened that those time are now irretrievable, essentially. I thought that God was trying to tell me something, but I still haven't figured it out.

At a bible study last week, we talked about hearing God's voice--how to, what it sounds like, how to respond. Of course no one could give any definitive answers to these questions, but it sparked my intellect, if that makes sense. I went on to engage in what may be termed a superficially philosophical, however brief, discussion (via text/Facebook) with a friend who I did not see as someone actively following Christ, and was pleasantly surprised by their insights and recognition of God as having spoken to them during their lifetime so far. The next day I was equally pleased that I was able to broach the subject in my Buddhist Philosophy class, drawing parallels between the processes of teaching doctrine to unbelievers or skeptics, which led to a short conversation with a fellow classmate I did not know very well, though I had seen her multiple times at a Christian organization event. So these were good things that came out of a great bible study. But that same night, when we were closing in prayer, we all huddled together as usual, and as soon as I closed my eyes, I had the very distinct sensation of someone prodding the backs of my knees, causing them to bend. I didn't want to open my eyes and turn around, for whatever reason (maybe I thought I would be distracted, but then I ended up being distracted throughout the whole prayer anyway, trying to figure it out), so I tried to think of who it could be. My first guess was a visiting alumna who has a sort of prank-ish disposition. Then I had the same sensation again in my right knee. I said to myself, it's a good thing I have two people on either side of me holding me up right now, or I might have fallen over! It was odd, but I imagined that it had been the round end of a crutch that had poked me; there is a young man in our congregation that walks with crutches due to severe lower body paralysis, but I knew he was on the other side of the circle, he was definitely not the type of person to do that to someone who had only exchanged a few words with him, and I would have heard him, besides. I wracked my brain, but when the prayer was over, I turned around to see the two girls I had been sitting next to earlier, who I had never met. One was crying. I hesitated, then asked if either of them had touched the backs of my knees. They said no. I looked around for anyone else looking guilty--and saw no one. My heart beat faster and my face got hot. Was this really God?

As I mentioned this event to a few friends, I got various responses: God wants you on your knees, God wanted you to see those girls (I regret not having talked to either of them, actually), etc. Again, I have yet to come to a definitive conclusion.


Back up a few days. I went to meet with a Christian org that I haven't attended much (just started a few weeks ago, sporadically), but couldn't find them in their usual spot. As I was looking for them, I ran into a friend who was just finishing working out, and we ended up talking for some 10 or 15 minutes about war and truth and how it all worked in God's plan. We were puzzled, to say the least, so my friend says, "I feel like God really wants us to be in the word right now," and, in classic Minnesotan fashion, "you know what I mean?" So we gathered our things, went to a quiet place and prayed/mulled over what to read. I let my fingers move over the pages of my bible and ended up with three passages: Ezekiel 47, Job 31, and Luke 19. I'll let you look into those chapters, but what I drew from this session and the Word was this: I need to reflect on how I spend my wealth--spiritual or financial, I'm not sure, but probably both--I need to be more compassionate, and I need to not be afraid of people seeing my sin. Also, from Ezekiel, there is the important image of a tree with fruit that "will serve for food and leaves...for healing" (verse 12). I think we all need to be that tree.

Yesterday: I experienced a number of computer/software problems that did not really get resolved and took most of the day. I lost five hours of work that had taken time from the more "academic" work that I could have been doing during that time, but I did essentially redo it in about an hour and half, simplifying the project and using a different program. However, I then spent more time with other unrelated computer issues that are still causing problems, and I could potentially lose a lot of important data. When I realized this, I teared up a bit and set my head on my computer. (I had also done a time trial for skiing that morning and, while it was fun at the time, I fell twice in the first lap of four and later found out that I got last on my team.) Needless to say, I was stressed, and decided, okay, it's time to read my bible. I hadn't even really thought about God all day. I ended up reading a chapter from my roommate's book, The Purpose-Driven Life, written by Rick Warren. I can't recall what I read at the moment, but I remember it was uplifting and led to some much needed worship (I hadn't played my guitar in weeks).


And now we come to today. At Two Rivers Vineyard Church in Mankato, there was a baptism service (geared towards children, although two adult women were also baptized). In the worship beforehand, I noticed a girl sitting in front of me, probably 8 or 9 years old: she was flinging her hands out before her and sort of dancing around a little bit in praise. I was surprised at how this moved me, as I've never been particularly fond of working with children, though I smile at them from afar. She then sat down for the next song and seemed very quiet, though she had her back to me. I found myself in awe of how intentionally she worshiped, how intentional her posture was, as this was something we had discussed at Prepare or Cru or something like that a few weeks before. And this girl was younger than 10! So as the baptisms came around--there were seven people, let it be noted--and each person told their story (or those with stage fright had a parent do it), I found myself tearing up with joy and awe and gratitude for God and his unending and unfailing grace and love. All these young people, so on fire...and so supported by older members of the church.
--*I want to break in here for a moment and say that before Rwanda, I never saw myself as an emotional person. In example, when I visited the wreckage of the World Trade Center on a choir trip in 2006, and both our director and choir "president" told everyone at home that there wasn't a tear-less face in sight, I took offense; I wasn't crying! I almost took pride in the fact that I didn't cry as much as others. I was "strong." Then Rwanda came, and I guess since then things have changed. At Passion and Purity (P&P) I cried more than I had in a long time, and I again got teary-eyed when my friends--and others I didn't know, from other colleges--got baptized. So with that in mind, let us resume*.--
Although I was proud of the children in an oddly intimate way, I found myself most moved by two people: a woman just 64 days sober who committed herself to rehab and took the step to be baptized this morning, by her sister. It was beautiful. The second instance was actually the first baptism, when one of our male worship leaders baptized his 7 or 8-year-old daughter, and pulled her out of the water up into his arms, not caring that she was getting him soaking wet too, in his nicer-than-usual clothes. And at that moment when the baptisms were finished, I realized...I LOVE baptism. It may seem like kind of a weird thing to say--I would've thought so myself a year or two ago--but it's so true. I absolutely love seeing people be joined with Christ in such a symbolic way, to be joined with me, even if I never talk to them! It's crazy to me, but I felt connection with those people--in Christ--so substantially that I wanted to reach out and touch them, and say welcome to the body of Christ. We've been waiting for you.


One other thing that happened at church today (two actually): during the ending prayer, I was standing in the back and one of our school's professors' 2-year old started banging on something. I smiled as a few other people chuckled softly, and then I noticed something. In rhythm with her banging, I saw a hammer pounding down the piece of metal that had been hanging off my heart. (I forgot to mention: yesterday, as I was reading the Purpose-Driven Life, I saw some more metal fall away, or bend back at least, from my heart with a wrenching sound; I actually heard the sound of the metal bending in my mind. This was the piece of metal being hammered off.) It's still hanging on, but I made a connection in that moment; first I asked God to take hold of the hammer, as I've had to remind myself to let go and let God, not trying to take things into my own hands, then I thought, is it children? Is that why I read about compassion in Job? About not withholding [spiritual] wealth in Luke? Is this why I've been thinking about the children in Rwanda so much, about my own childhood memories? Is this confirmation that I should apply for the JET program next year, since a professor said you've gotta like kids? I don't know. These questions have not yet been fully answered, but I know there's a reason I have them, that I've made connections between my experiences this semester and where my life is headed, however vaguely in my eyes. But no worries--God's got it covered.

So what does it all mean? Why did you just read through that disjointed novel of mine, besides that maybe I asked you to? Well, I don't know. I can tell you I appreciate it. But you know what else? Through all these trials and joyful experiences together, I came to this realization, which I wrote in my journal:

Even when Minnesota doesn't feel like home, when I long for Alaska, Two Rivers gives me peace. It feels like home. God is here. When I am in God's house, I am home.

I am home! "Through the trial and the change, one thing remains: [God's] love never fails"; through the trial and the change, He is with me, and I am home. Always. So wherever I am, and whatever I'm doing, I am in the safest place I will ever be. I am home.

Home is not only where the heart is; it is where God is. And since our hearts, ideally, are with Him, for Him, consumed by Him, well...let's be home. Let's invite people over.

Yeah. Go in His grace :)

Knowledge is...Painful

But so. so. so. SO. important.

I hate to turn people away by getting "political," so hopefully this will be received in the right way.
First,

I'm not going to talk about the marriage or voter amendments that are being contested in the state of Minnesota right now. I'm tired of discussing it.

However, as one of the amendments (you guess) is considered a "big issue" in American politics, some of our on-campus ministry leaders decided to invite some guest speakers to talk about another one last night: abortion. I've solidly believed that abortion is wrong from the get-go, but I saw some astonishing things yesterday, and for those of you who are unsure, who are "pro-choice," or don't think it's a big deal what each person believes about the issue, I challenge you to watch these videos. You can view them on the original website at http://www.abort73.com/videos/

If you don't think you have time to watch the whole video, start at the 4 minute mark; to me, that is the most important part of the video, although all the information is enlightening. Even if you think you know all the facts...this information could be very valuable in any future conversations you might have on the subject. It might save a life.

And let me also add...this is not a "religious" issue. THIS is human rights.

Holy Smokes

Let's take a look at this last week, shall we?

Friday, 9/28: pretty much had the race of my life. That's all.

Saturday, 9/29: well...I don't think anything particularly noteworthy occurred. Oh wait! I performed at the Musical BAR! My set list was as follows: I'll Fly Away (old hymn), Untitled (Simple Plan), Days (Philip Larkin, poet), Dog Days Are Over (Florence + the Machine). Audience was awesomely supportive.

Sunday, 9/30: finally had the conversation/answers I needed concerning [dance] partying (in a nutshell), with a person I didn't expect (although he IS on leadership for FCA...).

Monday, 10/1: Cross Country coach told me I've matured a lot as runner this season (although he seems to think so for reasons I don't exactly agree with) and am having a great season, essentially. Then went and had a killer workout—in the sense that it hurt a lot, mostly because I didn't get a sufficient warm-up, but I still felt super accomplished afterward.

Tuesday, 10/2: Read like 2 1/2 books of poetry since I didn't have class due to the Nobel Conference, didn't do any homework.
BUT ALSO.
Roommate took a guy to the ER to get six stitches after watching him crack his head open while longboarding down the hill behind our dorm and get blood all over our floor and sink.
AND.
Was moved to tears listening to an acquaintance describe the amazing and completely miraculous survival of her roommate in a head-on collision with a guy high on meth, the weekend before school started.
(Oh and you can throw in an hour and half meeting with the Firethorne staff to review works of prose written by our very own schoolmates, which was a little bit awesome.)

Still with me?
K good.

Wednesday, 10/3: Still Nobel, barely got more homework done, but this was probably more due to the fact that I watched my co-worker pass out and start puking up something very strange looking WHILE UNCONSCIOUS, and less to do with me reading another book of poetry. But hey, I wrote a poem about it after I finished watching a lecture on Ethics and the Ocean which completely escaped me for my distraction by the day's events. Poem (minus the name of the girl, anonymized by "---"):


Banana Peppers

rain down on the counter-top
in acidic yellow, scattering
in loops on the floor
that match the perfect O's of surprise
forming in the mouths of petrified bystanders
while my back is turned

one "Oh my goodness!"
rotates my body and suddenly
adrenaline is moving my hands,
flinging aside toxic-yellow peppers,
shoving her shoulders over
to keep the vomit out of her lungs,
kicking myself for forgetting
her name (as if it made a difference)
and no one is coming
and we are alone
and wait it's stopping, "S---..."

She wipes the alien substance
from her face and stares
at me in the stock, wide-eyed terror
of utter confusion, to which I reply,
"It's okay,"
and see the peace and truth of those words
in her acceptance, reflected
in the calm of her eyes,
which neither the supervisors
nor the medics notice
when they ask the girl in the vegetables
if she knows what day it is

"Just so you know," she says,
"the fainting runs in my family,"
as if that really made a difference.



And today? Thursday, 10/4: Read more poetry, but also some entries in a public journal sitting on a bed in the campus center set up for some psych/art project. And what after that? Got up, walked five steps to the Interfaith Space, opened and shut the door, and rattled off in tongues for a good three minutes (I think). Why not yesterday, I asked myself, when I found myself almost completely helpless in the face of a physical crisis of another human being?

Ha. I should know by now, that we don't ever really get answers to these questions. I don't know what I said today either, except for the one English plea thrown in that foreign prayer: "God, love them." Those people who are hurting, but still have the courage to pour out their souls in writing, albeit anonymously. It was just...

Well, let's just say that there's been a lot of "movement" in my life lately. In every sense of the word.


"Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance."

James 1:2-4


God bless.


P.S. Check out "Days" by Philip Larkin (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178046), if you get a chance. It's a short but powerful poem (that I also happened to read for the aforementioned music and spoken word event called the Musical BAR).

The Answer Before the Question

No, not like Jeopardy. Forgiveness. Actually came up in a leadership meeting for Cross Country that I attended today (which no one took seriously). Well, sort of. We were asked to write down/circle four values on a large list which we individually believe are most important in...life as a student-athlete, I guess. Anyway, one of mine was forgiveness, as my experience in Rwanda and reading of both Heidi Baker's book and Donald Miller's (Searching for God Knows What) have recently affirmed as crucial in Christian life.

In my evening ponderings, I remembered a conflict I recently had with my coach over caution versus laziness (basically) in regard to running injured. I hadn't really forgiven him for that, and I'm not going to say that I don't and won't keep returning to my previously angered state at the "injustice" of it all. But as Matt Thiessen so "eloquently" puts it in the Relient K song, "Fallen Man," "because the judge of you is someone I could never be, / Is why you should thank the Lord that it is Him, and it's not me." God's in control. He has it covered. And though I sometimes "want" to be upset that I have been wronged and accused of less than my best effort (a sensitive topic, not just for me, I'm sure), at times like these I remind myself that God is bigger, and that the message of Christ "preached" (try not to add a negative connotation to that word, you who are religious skeptics) is more important than any grievance of my own.

This is why I believe in the power of the answer before the question, the "yes" before the "do you forgive me." Because the fact of the matter is, that question may never come in this life (or after), and if you bear that grudge while waiting for an apology, you'll find yourself in a lonely spot, lacking the shared love of Christ.


Amis be aha.

Blessed are the Peacemakers...and Procrastinators?

Probably not. But I only put off this post because I knew I had some really good stuff to say and I wanted to say it right. (Now, of course, I still don't think I'm going to get it all right but at least I'll get it out. Maybe I'll edit it later. But probably not much.)

Anyway.

So there I was, on Tuesday, August 14th, in the middle of the chapter on the seventh beatitude from Jesus' Sermon on the Mount ("Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God," Matt. 5:9) in Heidi Baker's book, Compelled by Love, when I get a call from one of my ex-boyfriends. And by "in the middle," I mean I had stopped reading in the middle of the chapter on my lunch break at work, and when I got out of my doctor appointment that afternoon, I had a new voice mail from "somebody that I used to know" (Gotye reference completely necessary). It was a fairly big surprise, honestly, but I found I was strangely happy about it, and I called him back on the drive home. He was a bit busy with college prep stuff (as I now I am), so he said he'd call back after dinner. I still didn't know what the conversation was going to be about, but again I was oddly optimistic.

So he calls me back. After a bit of 'oh, how's your summer been' small talk (I haven't seen the guy in just over a year), he launches into probably a half-hour-long speech (not atypical of him, though that is not to his discredit) of  'I'm tired of hating your guts,' essentially, which finally turned into an apology. As harsh as the first part sounds, I knew what he meant; it's exhausting to harbor so much ill-will against a person, however deep the sentiment is buried.

Now I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a huge relief to hear all those words, but what caught me was his explanation of what spurred this reconciliation on. He was packing for college, of course, and he came across some old memorabilia from me, along with, I think, a program or something for a funeral of the parents of two of our mutual friends, when he recalled a sermon, I believe, on peacemaking. Again I was glad to hear that his inspiration to start our relationship anew (just as friends) came from God, but it was only after I got off the phone with him (we talked for almost an hour, without arguing!) that I remembered I had been reading about peacemaking earlier that day. I smiled to myself. There is no such thing as "coincidence."

But the correlations made between what I read and real-life occurrences this week don't stop there. (Good grammar there, English major. Oh yeah.) At work the day before (or maybe that morning, I don't remember), a man probably in his late forties, early fifties made a purchase of almost $200 at my register, and was bitterly angered that I had the nerve to ask him for his ID when he handed me his credit card. I calmly explained to him that there was no way for us (implying the store/company and all its employees) to confirm that the name on the card was his unless I saw his picture ID; otherwise, there could be liabilities to our store for fraud. Quietly seething, the man took his card back, handed me two hundred dollar bills and said, "I'd buy a lot more here if not for that [standard]," to which I replied, "I'm sorry to hear that, but we have no way of identifying you as the card holder." From there, the conversation was actually quite civil, as I sent him on his way with a "have a good day," which he returned. My heart was hammering in my chest--from fear or power, I have no idea--as I greeted my next customer, but I felt good. I thought, Hm, I handled that pretty well (considering that hard-headedness seems to run in my family). Later, after I had the phone call with my friend (I can call him that again, thank God) and finished the chapter on peacemaking, I remembered the incident and thought, Thank you Jesus for teaching me what it means to turn the other cheek. My belligerent customer felt the need to attack me directly for a policy I did not institute (though I do support it), but by returning it with civility without discrimination, we avoided what could have been a serious bruise to both of our egos, at best, and a nasty shouting match (plus poor store reviews) at worst.

Maybe this doesn't seem like much, but I have one more (related) situation to report. Although I did not read this in the same chapter ("Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness"), I came across a statement which, while seemingly obvious to some, is nonetheless a very important fact: "There is no inherent value in persecution for its own sake, but there can be a blessing through it." Then in the whole chapter, Baker goes on to describe joy in suffering. While I still find this hard to wrap my head around, I am brought back into Rwanda during that quiet moment when I finally lay down in my feverish state and began to praise God, whisper-singing to Him and thinking, "This is what Karen was talking about. This is what it means to suffer, and have joy." Even then, I knew it didn't make any sense. All I knew was that I was happy, that God  loves me more than I have, and maybe can ever love Him. Even in my sickness, my one fear, I found joy. And it was beautiful. So as far as making peace with yourself goes, I think that event is a good example.

Like I said, I'm sure I didn't say all I could have, but let me just give a shout out to the new friend I made at work just a week ago who lent me the book that has so affected my life (though I won't name names). While I didn't agree with everything she (Heidi Baker) claims in Compelled by Love, and I still have some lingering questions, there is no doubt in my mind that God put this guy in my life to give me that book, at the very least; if there is anything beyond that...we shall see.

In the mean time, thank you all for being with me and do await another post soon on returning to college, running, and (ideally) a life lived purely.

God bless.

The Fourth R

Written a few weeks ago, work in progress. Pretty "modern"/avant garde, for me. More to come on the subject later.

"The Fourth R"

Running

through blades of glory

fashioned like sea creatures

flown in on the breeze,

                                            stuck—then,

launching over mud puddles

bitten into the earth by a finger

on the hand that feeds

eternity

                     (MIGHTY over

                                 human matters)

with vomiting rainclouds, purging

me of my disease,

                                           stagnation: excepting

the licentious serpent

only just; three thousand miles

easily evaporates good intentions.

Grief eats away

from sweeter breath

blown softly from a tongue

in cheek reality, once gently mocking

my qualms of losing grace, now

e c  h   o    i     n       g harshly

as a hopeless, despairing “truth”:

           DEATH DEATH DEATH

but the feet move forward,

patiently awaiting

a reminder;

redemption.

Creative Writing Flux

I wrote this sometime in early March for my Creative Writing class, but I put off posting it because I couldn't figure out how to finish it. Still not sure what to do with it, but its Rwanda- AND Writing-related so I figured I'd  put it up :) Enjoy!
(Also, I've been particularly inspired lately, so I'll include a couple poems afterwards that are also Rwanda-/Writing-related.)

"The Banana Tree"

          The slicing of my brother’s skin elicits peals of laughter from a band of missionaries, and even though I know he’ll grow again, I cringe as his living water spurts, threatening to stain the clothes of his assailants. A corncob’s throw away, the one in the sun hat molests my sister’s fruit like it’s hers for the taking, but for a lack of ripeness, the missionary abandons her game. I try to use the sub-Saharan breeze as a propeller for my leafy wings to reach out to my siblings, but nature confines me; I am rooted to the spot, as I have been for the past ten years. The tiers of my sister’s heart remain visibly unharmed, but I see she mourns the disfigurement of our brother. As for me, the most revenge I can hope for is the browning of the missionaries’ coverings, and I wonder if they can see the juices of my frustration slicking my skin like the sweat screaming from the unconditioned American foreheads bobbing through the forest of our youth. Do they know? Do they know that they are being watched? No one knows—but maybe, some have faith.

"At a Choir Concert"

notes dance above the heads
of unseen singers as their songs
echo upward with a shimmer,
like the exchange of a silver baton
in a 1600-meter relay: sharp,
crucial, ephemeral—if not,
disaster

but, perhaps, wearing maroon
robes burned with age and
experience wards off consequences...

in the sea of pew people,
only I'm thinking
of cassava leaves
and African sun.


"Shaken Days"

sweeping slowly, a brown hand
around the wooden handle
of a broom; on the same street,
a chocolate hand in mine
swinging slowly to the rhythm
of our sandals in the sand
with a thousand miles behind us
and a million more to go

when she speaks, I let the r's and w's
roll over me as they bounce off her
protruding belly—one year from now
she'll be teaching those letters
to a mouth more wanting of sustenance

in twenty years, I wonder
if she'll remember the story
I've already misplaced in the mass
of memorialized strangers—
her story of those shaken days.

(P.S. Check out my recent publications, "Expectations" and "Identity"!  http://www.literaryjuice.com/#/poet-tree-april-2012/4562721175 )

A Monday

Second Monday of Spring semester. It’s snowing, and for some reason I think that’s significant. Mondays are going to be pretty easy for me this semester (sorry to those of you who actually have normal schedules), but this morning was rather…stressful. For my Ethics of Development class today, we read an article on US aid (from USAID, of course)to Nepal for health/medical care in 2002 or so that focused on abortion—do the Nepalese agree to the terms nixing abortion (legally) to get the full $400k+ or disagree and take the $200k+ cut? While the answer was pretty straight forward to me in theory (i.e. on the Moodle discussion forum), in practice (class) I was shakin’ in my boots to say a word to an audience of nonbelievers, albeit “good” and intelligent people. But I did. Mostly because my professor asked me point blank to voice the opinions I had stated on the forum (which my classmates failed to read because of some sort of as-of-yet-unidentified computer/internet error), but still I spoke, and even though no one chastised me for my opinions, it was probably the single most terrifying thing I’ve done in a long time. That might surprise you, but I think it’s true.

So how does this relate? Well, as you might imagine, I felt extremely convicted. Why was it so hard to share in an environment that was genuinely not hostile? I had made most of it up in my head. I mean, the silence as I spoke was deafening (and awkward, for me at least), but it was civil. That’s when I realized that I can do this. That all the things I want and need to say will get said, but only if I take the initiative. In Rwanda, I think I learned this when I spoke in tongues for the first time (and may or may not have said “I want to speak” in two different languages that did not immediately register in my brain). I want to speak, I can speak, I should speak, I will speak. Rwanda changed me, and I know that greater things are yet to come, greater things are still to be done—on this campus, in this country, on this Earth.

As for me, I will serve the Lord.

God bless.

The Results of Great Expectations

The following will be turned in for credit as my final Independent Study project conclusion.

In general, I believe that Americans are of the mind that there are certain expectations--established by the individual--which must be met in undertaking a project, academic or otherwise. Based on my preparations in the several months prior to my journey to Africa, however, I feel that my main principle going into the trip was to expect the unexpected--I had told several people that I expected the experience to change my life, but after talking to one individual, I was hesitant even to hope for that, for the very same fear of failure that has been ingrained in American society. Fortunately, my “non-expectation” was indeed met, albeit not in any way I could have imagined, of course. It was in this way and during this month-long residency in Rwanda that I found God to be the only avenue by which to achieve physical, spiritual, social and academic excellence.

First, there is something to be said for relationships in regard to cross-cultural transcendence. I always thought I had a certain soft spot for designing relationships between characters in my writing, but now I have found that, without solid bonds, it is essentially impossible to move forward. For example, the day that our team visited with members of a village sociotherapy group, we started the day with two hours of shelling peanuts, singing with the locals--us singing in our language, they in theirs--and even teaching them the word “ooftah” and how to count to five in English. At the beginning of the trip, the blisters and dirt and sweat I became covered in might have discouraged me, made me question whether or not the Rwandan people were simply taking advantage of us for a day; and yet, it now seems obvious to me that, if we had not partaken in those activities, had not made clear our desire to identify with them and learn rather than simply hear a story that would stay in Rwanda, they would not have shared the few, short testimonies they did share with us. The fact that we actively made an effort to connect with them through physical labor, socializing and academic interest (at least for me, and as I took notes during their testimonies I believe it is reasonable to assume they understood the concept of our academic purpose at least loosely), even though they could have no idea whether or not we would be back in their country someday, struck me as foundational in creating realistic interactions between fictional characters.

But more than that, perhaps, is the fact that I saw genocidaires seated centimeters from victims with my own eyes, and heard them proclaiming their love of Christ with my own ears. When something that seems so impossible does occur in reality, it makes a person wonder--and yet I know that that sort of supernatural forgiveness is only possible through Christ. In the context of seeing thousands upon thousands of skulls and bones--some of which I physically touched--and probably a hundred graves prior to the revelation of this information, too, speaks to this truth, but the published story of Imaculee Ilibagiza is what truly solidified the idea. Over 90 days she spent in a roughly 5’x5’x10’ bathroom with seven other girls, no electricity, no change of clothes and little enough food to drop her from 115 pounds to 65. Yet she prayed every waking moment--thanks, forgiveness, the rosary, deliverance--taught herself English with one of the pastor’s (in whose house she hid) books, and survived the genocide well enough to become a distinguished employee for the UN, though only one of her six family members (besides herself) lived. It is stories such as these that convince me that God has a way of speaking in any and every context.

For a long time, during the trip especially, I tried to find a theme--fear, suffering, love, isolation, success--that was capable of bringing every single person together. Each one I came up with is all well and good, but as I was convicted--graciously so, of course--by my teammates for every sour attitude, every grudging comment, every denial of personal issues, every preoccupation (such as running and blogging) that kept me from ministering or simply doing the work God had brought us there to do, any temporary lack in faith, I saw that I can hold myself to a higher standard, and I should. To do this, I need God--for anyone to do this, I believe, they need God. It may not explain why atheist athletes win ten gold medals and live a long life, or why tasteless musicians become multi-millionaires, but when I got sick less than a week in--102.6 degree fever, two days of bed-rest and no food, severe back and intestinal pain kind of sick--God gave me the kick in the pants I needed and could not have received or understood any other way. I can see no reason why God would use both my biggest fear and my least accepted Biblical teaching--getting sick in Africa and the spiritual gifts of the New Testament--other than to bring me closer to Him by completely surrendering my expectations so that I would be able to return home to America with my own story to tell, that it might encourage others in their faith.

Though sickness prevented me from training for skiing and cross country (more than once) in the way I intended, I feel as though the few days I did run and do ab workouts and exercise by hauling bricks and playing with kids were enough to allow me to bounce back. More importantly, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand, and realized that some things--mostly related to God--are more important than training or even school sometimes. Due to translator availability, respect of privacy and time constraints, I was unable to personally conduct interviews or hold formal team discussions on genocide, and there was really no quantitative data that facilitated my project objectives. But through the many memorials we visited, peer-led devotionals, and casual conversations with my teammates, I learned more about myself and what it means to be a Christian in the world and not of the world than I ever could have imagined, or achieved without surrendering my expectations.

With all of that in mind, I have drawn these conclusions with regard to my writing, professional or otherwise: 1) the glorification and spirit of God must be the motivating force behind what I write. While that may or may not mean directly referencing him, I know for a fact that I can and should keep the amount of violence, swearing and sexual themes to a minimum. I believe this is possible without sacrificing original and creative plot lines; 2) relationships both between individual characters and with God are key. As such, I will endeavor to create innovative but believable connections and interactions between characters; 3) I have to accept the fact that poetry might be the genre I explore and publish first before undertaking a novel project. As my best creative writing throughout the trip has come in that form at the times where my emotions were most passionate, I know I will have to learn how to channel that skill into prose, and that will take time; 4) I have to accept that it is impossible to please or entertain every person, and if I use my relationship with God as my foundation for all my writing, I must recognize that whoever does not have the Holy Spirit may not appreciate what I write. Still, I hope that they will come to at some point, and I must be content with that.

In the end, the best answers I can give to the questions like “how was your trip” or “what was your favorite part” or “what did you learn” are “life-changing,” “growing closer to God” (largely through discovering my ability to speak in tongues) and “God as defined in the Christian Bible is the answer to everything,” respectively. Some may find that unsatisfactory, but whatever is said, Rwanda changed my life and solidified my passion to become a writer all at the same time, in the course of 22 days. That is what I call a January Interim Experience.

Impossible

It seems impossible, the variety of things we've done in the last four days. It seems impossible the amount we've accomplished in the last three weeks. It seems impossible that tomorrow, we begin our journey home. It even seems impossible that genocide occurred in this place, not quite 20 years ago.

But nothing is what it seems.

I wasn't planning to be overly "serious" with this post, but in light of recent events, I think you might find it an almagamation of many emotions--take from that what you will.
Alright. So Tuesday, most of the GAC team (meaning Alexa, Amanda, Anna and Emily) went to PEFA for their final day of cleaning and caretaking while the rest of us joined the City Hill team for our last day working at Rusororo, and let me tell you, I felt even more accomplished after that day than Friday. We moved 190 cinderblocks (one of which had a gecko inside), covered the ceiling/floor of half the building with them, cleared excess timber from between all the "walls" and around the perimeter of the building, moved a huge pile of bricks and went on two prayer walks around the whole site (in shifts, of course). So basically, an awesome and fulfilling day.

Wednesday was fairly exciting as far as touristy stuff goes, seeing as how we actually got to go on a safari (that's for you, Taylor) through Akagera National Park as the City Hill team's "fun day" (GAC's was Nyungwe National Park, if you recall). Started out fairly pedestrian (for Africa, anyway), with just some lakes and birds and lots of bushes and bumpy, windy roads (which unfortunately induced enough motion sickness to make half the ride rather uncomfortable), but finally we ran into some real wildlife--baboons, hippos, giraffes, zebras, a jillion antelope type things, warthogs, the whole shebang. Pretty darn cool, but when you're driving under the African sun on the equator in a cramped car for the majority of 15 hours, sucking in enough dust to coat your lungs, face and hair with five pounds of it, and you've been awake since 3:30 in the morning, you wonder if it's worth it.

But don't worry, I'd say it was.

Don't let me leave you under the impression that only the animals made the trip what it was, though--the people in our car entertained us at least as much. While we had some good laughs and enjoyed singing whatever Brittany could teach us, the best part was hearing everyone's testimonies of how/why they came to Rwanda. Sharing mine took enough words to bring back some of my monster allergies or whatever they are (me+lots of talking+lots of dust=cold-like symptoms, apparently), but I'm fairly confident that it was worth it, too, for everyone else to hear it. Plus I just got to know everyone better (both cars were mixed teams, by the way), which was awesome.

Also, I got to climb a tree :) Although doing it in Spanish gauchos/pantaloons was not ideal...

After a large and wonderful dinner at the guest house, some last-minute shopping at the nearby grocery-type shops, and a great night's sleep of about 8 1/2 hours, it was Thursday and the event I had been looking forward to for at least a week was finally here--sociotherapy. That might seem strange to some, as I'm sure I've never expressed any real interest in psychology or anything like that to anyone, but as far as my independent study project goes, I thought this would help me the most in really identifying with the people here. So needless to say, I was pretty pumped when I woke up this morning. Did a core workout with Kelly, ate some delicious French toast with peanut butter, honey and bananas, then got ready to go. Little did I know, we had a while to wait, and some interesting things were to happen in the interim.

We were scheduled to leave at about 9, but found out that our driver still had to fix the car from it's crunch on the way back from Rusororo, and ended up leaving at about 10:30 instead. In the meantime, however, as we sat around a table under the pavilion in front of the guest house (aka the infamous Phase 10 table), we chatted and sang bits of worship songs and even got Willy to teach us the chorus of "Our God is an Awesome God" in Kinyarwanda (which I will happily sing for you when I return to the States if you'd like). As I was sitting on the wall surrounding the area practicing this, I heard a sort of scuffling on the rocks and a serious "OH" and all of a sudden everyone was gathered at the opposite wall. I walked over and found Emily lying on the ground, for some reason asked, "She didn't throw up, did she?" (I guess to make sure she wasn't choking on anything while unconscious?) and after receiving a negative response started sort of pacing and words I didn't recognize--except for one, imana--were pouring out of my mouth. As soon as I would finish the phrase I would repeat it again like I absolutely couldn't stop, and I thought, 'this is real. This is more real than it's ever been.' In a matter of seconds, maybe as much as a minute, Emily was sitting upright, laughing, saying she was fine, felt "good," and then she was on her feet. I'm not saying it was me, but I can't deny the spirit of God. Sorry if you think that sounds cheesy or "preachy" or "too religious," but I've never felt so...affected, I guess, in such a good and powerful way.

Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the sociotherapy group in Nyamata with as cramped cars as the day before. Fortunately, we only had to drive for about an hour (and only that long because we got a little lost on the village roads and had to turn around a couple times) before reaching our destination--a narrow, hidden footpath through some herb-smelling bushes on the side of the road. Everyone piled out, not really knowing what was going on, when some people who had been walking the same road greeted us and led us through the brush onto a peanut plantation (or whatever you call it). There were other crops too, and mostly they just showed us around, pointing at different plants and telling us what they were used for (through our translator from FVA), then we turned right around and walked back out, trekked own the road about 10 minutes or so, then spent the next 2 1/2 hours shelling peanuts.

Um, what?

In case you were wondering, Karen did mention that we would possibly be helping them harvest peanuts, but I don't think any of us were expecting to get blisters from shelling them (although I think that was just me who ended up with actual fluid-filled bubbles on my thumb and forefinger...). It was fun at first, but by the end I was ridiculously sweaty--for whatever reason--not to mention dirty, and my hands felt like they had been rubbed raw. Finally, though, it was time to talk. As the muzungus doing grunt work had attracted quite a crowd, we relocated to a spot under this enormous ubukuyo tree (which I climbed quite enthusiastically--wish I would've gone higher, but it made Karen nervous) and settled into the grass to hear them speak. We took a long time with introductions, and when we finally got to hear some stories, they said there wasn't enough time and I found myself disappointed. Weren't they going to tell us something that could really rattle our American cages of comfort and privilege?

(the best climbing tree EVER)

But I found that there was enough in their body language to show that they had been deeply scarred. Perhaps more amazing, however, was that upon learning that in this group of about 8 people, perpetrators sat so close to victims they were almost touching. And yet, it didn't seem strange or tense--there was just overwhelming forgiveness in the air...but also exhaustion. They all got along, worked for a living, had surviving relatives, but there is no doubt that their minds are beyond the sort of tired that every college student thinks describes them after finals.

And it didn't stop there. One of our own team members shared their testimony, filled with more horrors than I ever expected, and it was that which really struck me. Terrible things do happen all over the world, and all too often, no one sees them. It was then that I realized how alike people can be at essentially opposite ends of the globe, and maybe it is our suffering that brings us together--especially in Christ, as it was with these people.

It was on that note (or perhaps a slightly lighter one, in that everyone was smiling at having come together) that we piled back in the Land Cruisers and headed to the nearby Nyamata Parish Catholic Church Memorial. It was small compared to the other two we went to, but walking down into a 3'x15'x45' crypt full of bones and skulls you can touch is a little bit different than standing in the doorway to a room full of lime-encrusted skeletons. Not necessarily more powerful, but when you see them by the thousands, scattered over so much of one country...it makes me tired. It made me a little bit angry today. But I think it's just that, right when you think you've seen every side of a tragedy (if that's even a synonym for genocide), there's something else in front of your face.

In the next couple hours people generally had some to time to be in their own heads before we moved on to our next and final event of the night, the beginning of our goodbyes--dinner at the house of Karen's good friends and the heads of FVA who have been working with us throughout the month. The food was deliciously Rwandan (I am seriously going to miss some of the meals here), the company was great, and gifts were given all around. It was generally a happy time. But sitting in that beautiful, big house really made me--as well as several others--wonder at what I had seen earlier in the day. Could these really be two parts of the same tiny country the size of Maryland? It seems impossible.

Imana ishyimwe (God be praised).