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).