Found this old reflection I wrote as I was trying to share some grad school files with a friend who graduated from the Organizational Leadership program. Was written probably in late 2011, early 2012, as I was in my Economic Development for Developing Countries class... abridged version:
"As I begin to reflect, I can't help but let out a deep sigh. In this short year that we have been studying development, I can hardly fathom the amount of information that's been presented to us, the number of scenarios and circumstances that we've presented and analyzed, the vast array of cases that we've studied or offered in our responses to a discussion post. Yet as much as I feel as though we've learned/covered throughout the course of this year, I can't help but feel slightly deflated as I grasp one inescapable reality: we've only but scratched the surface. And I guess that's as fitting an analogy as any to development work in general. No matter how much you know, no matter how hard you work, how many projects you put in place, you'll only have scratched the surface, really. I'm not saying that working towards development of an area is futile--I wouldn't be in this field if I really felt that way. Rather, there is this inexplicable sense of there that we seem to be working towards.
Only thing is, I can't tell you what it will look like when we've arrived. I don't think anyone can. Is there having everyone in Southeast Asia above the international 'poverty line'? Is it when 90% of all young Kenyans attend and graduate from high school? No--this work is never done. Christ said it Himself, you will 'always' have the poor among you. We can't and won't change the world. Only God can do that...even on a smaller scale. I think the best that we can do as Christian development practitioners is to try and find our own sense of there, do our best to get there, and thank God for whatever change He allows us to bring about in this world. Is that pessimistic? I'm not sure, but I'd like to think it isn't. I think it's a realistic assessment of ourselves, and our role as practitioners. If I had to express this sentiment with the help of a Scripture, it would most likely be Philippians 3:14: '14 I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. (KJV)' Regardless of the 'state of the developing world', I think it is our goal to press on through it all.
If we don't, then who will?"
...Here's to striving toward your there.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Friday, September 7, 2012
2 Miles
How long would it take you to drive two miles? To walk it? That's just under 11,000 feet, you know. That's only twenty city blocks, for crying out loud. And that's exactly how far our high school in Camden and one local Catholic preparatory high school in the suburbs sit from one another. How positively insignificant are two miles? I'll tell you.
But maybe I should back up a bit first: our organization has partnered with our high school's football team to provide character education, leadership development, and a host of positive activities aimed at making our players well-rounded individuals. Since this partnership started during the long, sweltering days of this past summer, I have been bent on getting these young men everything I could possibly scrounge up: food, off-the-field uniforms, anything.
They battled through July and August.
Some came to practice hungry, hustling 4-5 hours in the debilitating sun on an empty stomach. Some literally left behind lives lived in the streets, shelving more "lucrative endeavors" for something that didn't pay in pockets wadded full of cash, but in hearts filled to the brim with strength and dignity and self-determination. Even still, it's not an easy sell. As one prospective player phrased it to our Coach: "Sorry, Coach, I get what you're trying to do here, and I appreciate it. I really do. But every minute I spend here, I'm losing money on the streets--and I have to eat." Unfortunately, this young man made his choice. I can't blame him, he had to. Yet the good news is that a handful under the same circumstances...found the strength to choose differently.
Do you believe that? Some of these kids would go hungry in order to be a part of something. Do you know what that tells me? They have another type of hunger that burns far more than any stomach-deep hunger pangs. They're hungry to prove themselves, to show that they're worth something, to show that 50 or so black and hispanic young men from the inner city of Camden, New Jersey are far more than the statistics you may read or the perceptions you may have, however unfounded they are. They're hungry to show us--to show themselves.
So imagine my absolute heartbreak as I watched all that these kids had worked for, all they had earned, all but slip away on tonight, their first game. As the clock ticked down, I had a knot in my stomach. The scoreboard read, in loud, blaring red numbers: "26-6."
It wasn't fair.
Not just the score--everything. It's not fair that our kids crotch on that 50 yard line wearing 12 different shades of white jerseys, some so unabashedly tattered, staring down eleven perfectly pressed, gleaming jet black vestiments with shiny, new matching helmets. But it's much more than nice, new uniforms, or facilities, or even chipper tailgaters crowded around brand-new RV's in the parking lot. Our kids are bruised, dirty, broken, and destitute long before they ever set foot on that perfectly manicured, suburban turf field. What I'm trying to say, and just can't put into words, is that it doesn't matter what that scoreboard said tonight. In the game of life, our kids are getting shut out.
How stark a contrast I witnessed this evening, amidst my Camden brothers and sisters in the bleachers, separated by far more than just a turf field from those (mostly) rich and comfortable across the way. It's really ideologies that separate us from them. It's the same ideologies that place two armed police officers on our side of the field, and not even a security officer on theirs. It's the same ideologies that compels a young kid from the opposing side to take one look at me and my (African American) friend on the way to the concession stand and "whisper" to their mother with regressive shock, "She's with a white man!"
Do you really know what two miles can mean? It can be the gap between dimensions, the distance between worlds. It can be the almost insurmountable interval between our society and any real hope and change for the future. Bleak as the picture may seem at times, I always have hope in my God that this future-tense hope can one day turn into present-tense progress.
But maybe I should back up a bit first: our organization has partnered with our high school's football team to provide character education, leadership development, and a host of positive activities aimed at making our players well-rounded individuals. Since this partnership started during the long, sweltering days of this past summer, I have been bent on getting these young men everything I could possibly scrounge up: food, off-the-field uniforms, anything.
- - -
They battled through July and August.
Some came to practice hungry, hustling 4-5 hours in the debilitating sun on an empty stomach. Some literally left behind lives lived in the streets, shelving more "lucrative endeavors" for something that didn't pay in pockets wadded full of cash, but in hearts filled to the brim with strength and dignity and self-determination. Even still, it's not an easy sell. As one prospective player phrased it to our Coach: "Sorry, Coach, I get what you're trying to do here, and I appreciate it. I really do. But every minute I spend here, I'm losing money on the streets--and I have to eat." Unfortunately, this young man made his choice. I can't blame him, he had to. Yet the good news is that a handful under the same circumstances...found the strength to choose differently.
Do you believe that? Some of these kids would go hungry in order to be a part of something. Do you know what that tells me? They have another type of hunger that burns far more than any stomach-deep hunger pangs. They're hungry to prove themselves, to show that they're worth something, to show that 50 or so black and hispanic young men from the inner city of Camden, New Jersey are far more than the statistics you may read or the perceptions you may have, however unfounded they are. They're hungry to show us--to show themselves.
So imagine my absolute heartbreak as I watched all that these kids had worked for, all they had earned, all but slip away on tonight, their first game. As the clock ticked down, I had a knot in my stomach. The scoreboard read, in loud, blaring red numbers: "26-6."
It wasn't fair.
Not just the score--everything. It's not fair that our kids crotch on that 50 yard line wearing 12 different shades of white jerseys, some so unabashedly tattered, staring down eleven perfectly pressed, gleaming jet black vestiments with shiny, new matching helmets. But it's much more than nice, new uniforms, or facilities, or even chipper tailgaters crowded around brand-new RV's in the parking lot. Our kids are bruised, dirty, broken, and destitute long before they ever set foot on that perfectly manicured, suburban turf field. What I'm trying to say, and just can't put into words, is that it doesn't matter what that scoreboard said tonight. In the game of life, our kids are getting shut out.
How stark a contrast I witnessed this evening, amidst my Camden brothers and sisters in the bleachers, separated by far more than just a turf field from those (mostly) rich and comfortable across the way. It's really ideologies that separate us from them. It's the same ideologies that place two armed police officers on our side of the field, and not even a security officer on theirs. It's the same ideologies that compels a young kid from the opposing side to take one look at me and my (African American) friend on the way to the concession stand and "whisper" to their mother with regressive shock, "She's with a white man!"
Do you really know what two miles can mean? It can be the gap between dimensions, the distance between worlds. It can be the almost insurmountable interval between our society and any real hope and change for the future. Bleak as the picture may seem at times, I always have hope in my God that this future-tense hope can one day turn into present-tense progress.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Shoeless
I have a story to tell, and I want to tell it, lest I forget. It happened during my trip to Uganda this year. I could go back, re-imagine it, use overly descriptive language and get you embroiled in the sights, the sounds, and the smells. Or, I could copy and paste the email I sent to my parents detailing it, and allow you to read between the lines, to discover the story for yourself, to put yourself in my shoes and process along with me. Forgive me for fixing some grammatical errors and word choices, but here it is, almost untouched, a time capsule, as it were...
July 1st, 2012: "So I just got back from my trip to Jinja, and I wanted to give you a blow by blow of what happened--it's a small-ish town located on the source of the Nile River. What can I say besides I had an amazing time. It was sort of difficult to get there--traffic is pretty rough at times, and towards the end the roads turned to gravel, and then to dirt, and then to just plain soil and rock.
So it is a few hours' journey at the least. When we first arrived in Jinja, we stopped to eat at an Indian restaurant... while we were eating, I noticed some street boys peaking in through the window at us. There were three of them, so I really slickly snuck away from our table and bought them some cokes and naan bread. I spent some time talking to them, and then snuck on back in. I'm pretty sure I told them not to say anything to any of their friends, but sure enough, when we left out of the restaurant there were about 8-10 street boys waiting for us out there. So while we were waiting for our driver, we sat on our little mini-bus talking to them, joking around, and just having a plain good time. The one boy who was a little older was really funny--we have an Indian girl in our program, and he asked her to sing him an Indian song. When she started he was batting his eyes and looked like a love-struck teen.
Anyway, the driver was taking really long, so my one friend whispered to me "Is there a store around here, I wouldn't mind getting them something to eat." So I was like, "Let's do it!!" In a rush of excitement, me, her, and another girl hopped off the bus and told the boys to gather around in a huddle. "Where's the nearest market?" we asked them. The "leader" said there was one close by, so I told him okay, let's hurry before the driver gets back and it gets dark. So we took off speed walking, joking around as we went. As we went along, I asked the "leader" if he was a fast runner, and challenged him to a race. He smiled really broadly and said, "Okay!" So we took off running down the narrow street, ducking and dodging people and stalls packed with merchandise. It was like a chase scene in a movie! Me and him, neck and neck, running down the street with two white girls and a crowd of ruddy street boys chasing after us--oh, and he had no shoes on either. Along the way the locals smiled warmly at us, obviously amused by this street boy and a white guy running full speed down the street. A couple of lady shop owners cursed at us as we zoomed through their stretch of sidewalk, letting out a little screech and hollering "MZUNGU!!!" (mez-oon-goo, a white person) after me. There was a white person or two along the way, and as I was running, I think I heard an old woman say something like "that boy stole something!" but it might've been in my head. All I know is that we were having the time of our lives... all of us.
When we finally got to this little makeshift supermarket, we were all giggling and out of breath. The boys followed us as we walked in, but then all of a sudden got really serious. They followed me down the isle, watching me intently. After a brief, breathless pause, we were just like:
"Go ahead! Get whatever you want!"
All of their worn, dusty faces were blank, staring at us as if we were pulling their leg.
"Seriously... hurry up and pick something!"
One by one, the boys started pointing to stuff... cookies, bread, soda, and other things. Their apprehension quickly turned into excitement as each started loading up on goodies.
"I can have these??"
"YES!"
..."And these ones??"
"YES!"
"These too?"
"...YES!"
We made our way to the crappy wood counter, and stacked a mountain of groceries on top. By the time the man had rung everything up, it came to 93,000 schillings, about $40.00. As they were ringing and packing everything up, the kids were thanking us and hugging us. A few latched on tight to me for a 2-3 second hug--we were all really overwhelmed. As we left the shop, I looked at them all and said "Listen up boys! Just make sure you share with each other, yeah?" And they all smiled and nodded in agreement. We jogged back to the bus, and got on it, out of breath, but full of adrenaline from an amazing experience..."
I have to just acknowledge one thing. As a worker and student of development, I know there are a lot of ways in which one could pick this story apart. I can just see it now, the more cynical among us (and I know, because I'm quite cynical myself at times) scoffing at the details of our interaction with these kids. Yes, we could easily be written off as another group of white Westerners coming in to disrupt the social fabric of this area, show wonton disregard for the local culture, and give hand-outs to people as if we're the answer to all of their problems. These could be some legitimate concerns.
But you know what, it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and it still feels like the right thing now. We weren't some detached Westerners engaging in some pity party for a handful of poor little African children. No way! These weren't your average poster children, covered in flies and donning sad, hopeless expressions. They were bright, dynamic, spirited young boys! There's an organization by the name of Mama Hope that has recently started a campaign; I absolutely love their message. "Stop the pity, unlock the potential" goes their tagline. That's a movement I could get behind.
Because what were we really doing as we darted down those jagged city streets? As we engaged in our random shopping spree? As we joked and laughed and high fived and hugged?
We were sharing joy.
I hate to make a blanket statement, but there's no joy in pity. Joy is something you have an equal part in, something that knows no hegemonic structure, as does pity. Romans 14:7 says that the Kingdom of God is, "living a life of goodness and peace and JOY in the Holy Spirit." Tony Campolo has so rightly pointed out in many a sermon that Jesus says the Kingdom of God is likened unto a wedding feast (Matthew 22)--it's not the drab, depressed soup kitchen, nor is it this "half country club" sort of church that some of us attend... it's a place of pure, unadulterated joy!
That time spent with those kids in Jinja was one of the most joyful moments of my life. Not simply because God allowed us to fill an immediate need for them, which was really was a blessing for us, but because we had a glimpse of what the Kingdom of Heaven looks like here on earth. We Christians have a funny sort of view of Heaven. We have this vision that when we get there we'll all just kick off our shoes, leave the cares of this world behind, and run full speed into God's love, peace, and joy.
Well... what's stopping you from doing that here on earth, ya big stiff? (John 15:11)
July 1st, 2012: "So I just got back from my trip to Jinja, and I wanted to give you a blow by blow of what happened--it's a small-ish town located on the source of the Nile River. What can I say besides I had an amazing time. It was sort of difficult to get there--traffic is pretty rough at times, and towards the end the roads turned to gravel, and then to dirt, and then to just plain soil and rock.
Dusty clay roads. Near Jinja Town, Uganda
So it is a few hours' journey at the least. When we first arrived in Jinja, we stopped to eat at an Indian restaurant... while we were eating, I noticed some street boys peaking in through the window at us. There were three of them, so I really slickly snuck away from our table and bought them some cokes and naan bread. I spent some time talking to them, and then snuck on back in. I'm pretty sure I told them not to say anything to any of their friends, but sure enough, when we left out of the restaurant there were about 8-10 street boys waiting for us out there. So while we were waiting for our driver, we sat on our little mini-bus talking to them, joking around, and just having a plain good time. The one boy who was a little older was really funny--we have an Indian girl in our program, and he asked her to sing him an Indian song. When she started he was batting his eyes and looked like a love-struck teen.
Jinja town. Jinja, Uganda
Anyway, the driver was taking really long, so my one friend whispered to me "Is there a store around here, I wouldn't mind getting them something to eat." So I was like, "Let's do it!!" In a rush of excitement, me, her, and another girl hopped off the bus and told the boys to gather around in a huddle. "Where's the nearest market?" we asked them. The "leader" said there was one close by, so I told him okay, let's hurry before the driver gets back and it gets dark. So we took off speed walking, joking around as we went. As we went along, I asked the "leader" if he was a fast runner, and challenged him to a race. He smiled really broadly and said, "Okay!" So we took off running down the narrow street, ducking and dodging people and stalls packed with merchandise. It was like a chase scene in a movie! Me and him, neck and neck, running down the street with two white girls and a crowd of ruddy street boys chasing after us--oh, and he had no shoes on either. Along the way the locals smiled warmly at us, obviously amused by this street boy and a white guy running full speed down the street. A couple of lady shop owners cursed at us as we zoomed through their stretch of sidewalk, letting out a little screech and hollering "MZUNGU!!!" (mez-oon-goo, a white person) after me. There was a white person or two along the way, and as I was running, I think I heard an old woman say something like "that boy stole something!" but it might've been in my head. All I know is that we were having the time of our lives... all of us.
The shops we not-so-delicately cut through. Jinja, Uganda
When we finally got to this little makeshift supermarket, we were all giggling and out of breath. The boys followed us as we walked in, but then all of a sudden got really serious. They followed me down the isle, watching me intently. After a brief, breathless pause, we were just like:
"Go ahead! Get whatever you want!"
All of their worn, dusty faces were blank, staring at us as if we were pulling their leg.
"Seriously... hurry up and pick something!"
One by one, the boys started pointing to stuff... cookies, bread, soda, and other things. Their apprehension quickly turned into excitement as each started loading up on goodies.
"I can have these??"
"YES!"
..."And these ones??"
"YES!"
"These too?"
"...YES!"
We made our way to the crappy wood counter, and stacked a mountain of groceries on top. By the time the man had rung everything up, it came to 93,000 schillings, about $40.00. As they were ringing and packing everything up, the kids were thanking us and hugging us. A few latched on tight to me for a 2-3 second hug--we were all really overwhelmed. As we left the shop, I looked at them all and said "Listen up boys! Just make sure you share with each other, yeah?" And they all smiled and nodded in agreement. We jogged back to the bus, and got on it, out of breath, but full of adrenaline from an amazing experience..."
- - -
I have to just acknowledge one thing. As a worker and student of development, I know there are a lot of ways in which one could pick this story apart. I can just see it now, the more cynical among us (and I know, because I'm quite cynical myself at times) scoffing at the details of our interaction with these kids. Yes, we could easily be written off as another group of white Westerners coming in to disrupt the social fabric of this area, show wonton disregard for the local culture, and give hand-outs to people as if we're the answer to all of their problems. These could be some legitimate concerns.
But you know what, it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and it still feels like the right thing now. We weren't some detached Westerners engaging in some pity party for a handful of poor little African children. No way! These weren't your average poster children, covered in flies and donning sad, hopeless expressions. They were bright, dynamic, spirited young boys! There's an organization by the name of Mama Hope that has recently started a campaign; I absolutely love their message. "Stop the pity, unlock the potential" goes their tagline. That's a movement I could get behind.
Because what were we really doing as we darted down those jagged city streets? As we engaged in our random shopping spree? As we joked and laughed and high fived and hugged?
We were sharing joy.
I hate to make a blanket statement, but there's no joy in pity. Joy is something you have an equal part in, something that knows no hegemonic structure, as does pity. Romans 14:7 says that the Kingdom of God is, "living a life of goodness and peace and JOY in the Holy Spirit." Tony Campolo has so rightly pointed out in many a sermon that Jesus says the Kingdom of God is likened unto a wedding feast (Matthew 22)--it's not the drab, depressed soup kitchen, nor is it this "half country club" sort of church that some of us attend... it's a place of pure, unadulterated joy!
That time spent with those kids in Jinja was one of the most joyful moments of my life. Not simply because God allowed us to fill an immediate need for them, which was really was a blessing for us, but because we had a glimpse of what the Kingdom of Heaven looks like here on earth. We Christians have a funny sort of view of Heaven. We have this vision that when we get there we'll all just kick off our shoes, leave the cares of this world behind, and run full speed into God's love, peace, and joy.
Well... what's stopping you from doing that here on earth, ya big stiff? (John 15:11)
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Unsearchable
I am so desperately wretched. I often look at myself in the mirror, ever so intently, as if I'm staring down an enemy. Curious to me is the fact that, horrid as I am, there is something undeniably good within me. I look into my own tired eyes, squinting, trying to look past their brown dullness and see the light that shines within. I know it's in there somewhere...
Being a Christian is a state of existence that is unlike any other. When you accept Christ into your heart, the Holy Spirit of the Living God takes residence within you. Can you even conceptualize that? The God of this universe, the Creator of all things, lives within you. When you become a Christian, you have an eternal power residing deep within you, magnifying the spiritual you that He created!
The only problem is that you're still the physical you. You're trapped in this disastrous container, wired with arteries and veins and nerve endings--little sensors that fire an innumerable amount of times throughout the day, sending electric signals to your brain. This is that "flesh" we often talk about in Church. Some may scoff at the notion that your flesh makes decisions for you, choices that are contrary to the Spirit living within you. Considering such an intricate system of feelers, electric signals, and biological wires, how can you deny this fact? This bag of bones that carries the real us around is an instinctual, primordial sort of beast. It has an insatiable appetite...it cares only for its continuation, for its self-interest, for its survival and promotion. Sometimes I feel as though my flesh would want to see to it that the light within me is smothered, or even snuffed out. I know that might sound crazy, but it's almost like my flesh knows that it can't get what it wants as long as this light is shining so brightly within. And there's a catalyst for my flesh's desires--the one we call the enemy.
I thank God for the antecedent to this, His Spirit. I picture Him working His way through us in these very times, working almost as an antibody (wow, I just got that pun), fighting our flesh's evil desires, dulling and deflecting the sharp arrows aimed at us by our adversary, strengthening us and restoring us.
And so the battle rages on...
I get in these moods sometimes. I get down on myself for my sinfulness, and I want to run away. I sit around, racking my brain. Where would I run to? That's the only problem, no matter where I go, my flesh follows me. I try to run toward God, but every step I take, my flesh is right there with me, challenging me, testing me, trying to destroy the real me.
But hallelujah, His Spirit is also walking in lockstep with me as well. It's exactly at that moment that God steps in--and there's nowhere that He can't find me. A friend texted me today out of nowhere. She said she had been praying for me this morning out of Jeremiah 33:2-3. And it reads:
2 “This is what the Lord says, he who made the earth, the Lord who formed it and established it—the Lord is his name: 3 ‘Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.’"
Some things in life are inexplicable, incomprehensible, and unsearchable. That's something I have to accept. Those called to ministry sometimes have to go through hell in order to build God's Kingdom here on earth. But hallelujah through and through, God's Spirit never departs from us. Though it might seem like it at times, we are never alone. He'll never leave us alone with our flesh. His Son died for us, His very Spirit dwells within us, and Father Himself is never more than just a call away...
---
Being a Christian is a state of existence that is unlike any other. When you accept Christ into your heart, the Holy Spirit of the Living God takes residence within you. Can you even conceptualize that? The God of this universe, the Creator of all things, lives within you. When you become a Christian, you have an eternal power residing deep within you, magnifying the spiritual you that He created!
The only problem is that you're still the physical you. You're trapped in this disastrous container, wired with arteries and veins and nerve endings--little sensors that fire an innumerable amount of times throughout the day, sending electric signals to your brain. This is that "flesh" we often talk about in Church. Some may scoff at the notion that your flesh makes decisions for you, choices that are contrary to the Spirit living within you. Considering such an intricate system of feelers, electric signals, and biological wires, how can you deny this fact? This bag of bones that carries the real us around is an instinctual, primordial sort of beast. It has an insatiable appetite...it cares only for its continuation, for its self-interest, for its survival and promotion. Sometimes I feel as though my flesh would want to see to it that the light within me is smothered, or even snuffed out. I know that might sound crazy, but it's almost like my flesh knows that it can't get what it wants as long as this light is shining so brightly within. And there's a catalyst for my flesh's desires--the one we call the enemy.
I thank God for the antecedent to this, His Spirit. I picture Him working His way through us in these very times, working almost as an antibody (wow, I just got that pun), fighting our flesh's evil desires, dulling and deflecting the sharp arrows aimed at us by our adversary, strengthening us and restoring us.
And so the battle rages on...
I get in these moods sometimes. I get down on myself for my sinfulness, and I want to run away. I sit around, racking my brain. Where would I run to? That's the only problem, no matter where I go, my flesh follows me. I try to run toward God, but every step I take, my flesh is right there with me, challenging me, testing me, trying to destroy the real me.
But hallelujah, His Spirit is also walking in lockstep with me as well. It's exactly at that moment that God steps in--and there's nowhere that He can't find me. A friend texted me today out of nowhere. She said she had been praying for me this morning out of Jeremiah 33:2-3. And it reads:
2 “This is what the Lord says, he who made the earth, the Lord who formed it and established it—the Lord is his name: 3 ‘Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.’"
Some things in life are inexplicable, incomprehensible, and unsearchable. That's something I have to accept. Those called to ministry sometimes have to go through hell in order to build God's Kingdom here on earth. But hallelujah through and through, God's Spirit never departs from us. Though it might seem like it at times, we are never alone. He'll never leave us alone with our flesh. His Son died for us, His very Spirit dwells within us, and Father Himself is never more than just a call away...
Photo by Rhys Logan
Friday, July 27, 2012
Lint
So I'm sitting in Barnes&Noble/Starbucks with my good friend Holly, and we've stumbled upon some of my old Tweets from a long-deserted Twitter account. They're kind of like lint you find in an old jacket pocket, to be honest. So here's part of a series that I posted when I was still struggling in the early stages of recommitting my life to Christ... It's humbling sometimes to look at where you are in relation to how far God has brought you:
17 November 2009: "This lifestyle is hard. This walk can be unforgiving. But I've had enough of the dank bar, bathed in red light. The wee hours of the morning, the cold clamminess of that bottle condensating in your cool palm. Drugs passed back and forth freely, like the breaking of bread. The fast women who will never remember your name, or care to. The empty streets. The loose morals. the endless night. And oh the shame as your eyes crack open the next morning, head heavy on ur pillow, wondering how you can feel so alone while surrounded by people..."
I wouldn't trade this life God has blessed me with for anything in the world. He means so much to me, how could I even try and put it into words?
17 November 2009: "This lifestyle is hard. This walk can be unforgiving. But I've had enough of the dank bar, bathed in red light. The wee hours of the morning, the cold clamminess of that bottle condensating in your cool palm. Drugs passed back and forth freely, like the breaking of bread. The fast women who will never remember your name, or care to. The empty streets. The loose morals. the endless night. And oh the shame as your eyes crack open the next morning, head heavy on ur pillow, wondering how you can feel so alone while surrounded by people..."
I wouldn't trade this life God has blessed me with for anything in the world. He means so much to me, how could I even try and put it into words?
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Corinth
So I’m sitting here in the midst of a particularly brutal paper for grad school, and I think back to a short story I once wrote called “Advice for Corinth”. It was something I wrote back in either late 2007 or early 2008 to cope with several things that were going on in my life. I was having a hard time processing the transitions we all go through in life, the growth from one area to another, the passing of time and death. I looked back at different stages of my life that were long gone and essentially dead, and I struggled to comprehend what it meant that I would never be back to relive those things, that those times were lost forever.
The whole thing was written in something of a stream-of-consciousness style, starting with me dreaming and passing fluidly between different memories and stages in my life. The details of each event described come from a place of emotion rather than scientific exactitude...but that doesn’t mean the conversations/occurrences didn’t happen in some form or another. The following is the final memory I recorded, a hospital stay with my grandfather as he’s on his death bed. I appreciate reading things like this, because I dedicated my life to Christ in 2009, and since then I’m not plagued by the same kind of worry that my past is lost forever. Instead, I have come to have an appreciation for my past, but a comfort in know that it belongs behind me. The thing is, after I came to know Christ, I’ve become far more concerned with enjoying every second of the present, and working toward the awesome future He has laid out in front of me. Taking stock of everything, I feel evermore blessed by the way He has completely transformed my life...why would I ever want to turn back?
Excerpt from “Advice for Corinth”:
I blink hard, rubbing my eyes with my left hand as they adjust to the brightness of my new environment. My hand is squeezed again, this time by my grandfather. I’m in January of the year 2007, in Philadelphia, PA, in Hahnemann Hospital, in the Pulmonary ICU, in room 1259.
I’m in a chair situated as close as possible to the bed in the middle of the room—any closer and I’d be on top of it. My hand stretches through one of the wide holes of the railings on the side of the bed, which swing either up or down when the bed is in motion or stationary, respectively. Connected to my outstretched hand is a 92 year old man, my grandfather Vincent Panebianco. His eyes are open, even if slightly forcedly, and he is looking at me as intently as he can possibly muster. I glance up at the clock on the wall; 2:45. I turn my head slightly to the right, directing my gaze out the 12th story window. The usually immaculately white Philadelphia Inquirer building is draped in a happy green curtain, a novelty change of flood lights. The Eagles must still be well on their way to another Super Bowl bid—the second in what? Four years? Somehow, I have my doubts of their chances.
Perched far above the milieu undoubtedly bustling in this inner-city hospital’s ER and waiting room, there is the most distinct sense of peacefulness in the air. The darkness that rolls across the city outside muffles all of the nighttime sounds: of cars, of people, of helicopters, of airplanes swooping down to divulge their contents at Philly International, of trains crisscrossing our great city haphazardly, much like the ribbons of a May Pole. It is because of the darkness that, though the random car can be heard zooming down the Vine St. Expressway just at the foot of the building, they sound distant, detached.
Sitting there in that hospital room with a man who had just recently endured respiratory failure and a subsequent breathing tube removal a few days later, I feel anything but. When my grandfather squeezes my hand a third time, it is as though I am really feeling his touch for the first time, just tonight. Like somehow, all those years I would hug him, kiss him hello and goodbye on the cheek, or help him around in the later years, I was really just handling what I perceived to be a glass doll—someone far too fragile to endure real correspondence, real interaction. After seeing what he endured since he got in the hospital, though, I feel comfortable squeezing his hand right back; firmly, as though he couldn’t possibly comprehend how much I loved him if I told him with words. I am putting all of my love in the palm of my hand, and when I squeeze his back, it diffuses into him and he just knows.
His wrinkled, whiskery tan face twists up into a comforted smile.
“You tired, Pop?” I ask him, looking into his chestnut colored irises surrounded by eyeballs that were not white, but rather yellowing with age, discolored by the many sights those two eyes have beheld in 92 years. The room lay inconceivably silent. The hallways are absent of any doctor discourse or tittering of nurses to and fro. The only sounds that permeate the stillness of the night air are the random smooth zoom of a passing Expressway car, the airy sound made by my grandfather’s breathing, amplified by the oxygen machines he is hooked up to, and the beating of our hearts. The beating of his that I watch and listen for all day and night long, the constant ebb and flow of green mountains on the monitor to the left of the bed. The beating of mine that he listens for in the stillness of the night, once I can no longer endure and have finally surrendered to slumber. The beating that lets each other know that we are still there.
My grandfather nods his head. “Yeah,” he finally manages to offer as a response to my question. His voice, even for a man of his age with emphysema, is raspy and hard to grasp, like the hissing sound of vapors escaping an opened hot water heater pipe.
“I know, Poppy. Do you want to go to sleep? You don’t have to wait up for me,” I hold up the object in the hand he’s not holding, “I brought a book to read this time. See?”
“No…I’m gonna stay awake with my boy,” he whispers hoarsely.
“OK. Is everything alright, then? Are you comfortable? Warm?” I say, issuing a line of questioning that I would repeat many more times, always trying to do what is physically possible to take away from the great amount of pain and discomfort he is already in.
“A little…cold,” he admits, hesitantly. He always hated bothering people. He was self-sufficient and lived alone until he was midway into his 91st year. Getting up from my sedentary post, I grab an extra white cotton blanket from the closet in the far side of the room, returning to drape him in it and tuck him in around the sides. I tuck him all the way in, all the way around his body, shielding him from the harsh coldness that travels the hospital’s nighttime halls, creeping under closed doors, surrounding patients, engulfing them. I do my best to make sure that he always feels an unmitigated warmth.
“How’s that for ya, Pop?”
He nods his head, his face again turning upward into his twisted, contented smile. His eyes are soft and seemingly twinkling as he looks up at me, standing next to his bed. I take my seat once again, taking hold of his hand as well.
“Something on your mind?” I ask.
He waits a second, and again he nods his head.
“Are you…scared?”
Another nod, slower and more deliberate this time.
“I know, Pop. There’s no need though. Look what you’ve been through this past week. I’m not going to lie to you, when we brought you in here last Wednesday, I was terrified. You probably don’t remember, because you were completely unresponsive, but one minute you were with us and,” I stop for a second, trying to hide my emotion. My grandfather understands, a sober expression on his face. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You are with us. It amazes us all how strong you are, Pop. You hear them all, all the doctors and nurses that pull us out the room so you can’t hear them talk about you. They say you’re a miracle case,” I smile broadly, my eyes still wet from the unintended outpour of emotion, “but who didn’t know that, old man?”
He shares my smile, nodding back once again.
“So, you still scared?”
“A little,” he growls in his gruff drawl, his throat still sore from that recently departed breathing tube.
“I don’t blame you,” we sit in silence for a while, him still staring at me intently, me gazing down to where I’m holding tightly onto his hand. “You know what, though? I haven’t a doubt in my mind that everything will be OK, no matter what happens.”
“Me too.”
“Listen to me, talking like I have some authority on the matter,” the smile returns to my face. “We both know that it’s not up to me, or mom, or dad, or Uncle Jimmy, or even that army of ignorant doctors out there. It is between you,” I say poking my pointing finger gently on his chest. “And Him,” raising my finger toward the sky. “No one else.”
He nods again. I can tell that he is beginning to feel more at ease. His breathing is becoming more natural, more relaxed.
“And, Pop,” I say, his calmness rubbing off on me, “whenever it is that you two decide that it’s your time to go, don’t be afraid. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t think of it as dying…think of it as going home.”
“For now,” he finally musters the energy to say, “I’m still staying here with my boy.”
“Well, I’ll be here as long as you are, old man.”
His eyes twinkle as his heavy eyelids begin to slowly drift shut. He is visibly tired—I had witnessed an entire day of him getting prodded, poked, flipped, turned, squeezed, and stuck by a legion of faceless doctors and nurses.
“Go ahead, you rest up, Pop. You‘ve got a lot more to go through before we get you out of here.”
“Alright,” he whispers, his eyes intent on closing and already halfway there. “You just remember what I told you: Chi che…chi che…” He begins to recite an old Italian saying that he taught me when I was a little kid. His grandfather, my great great great grandfather, used to say it at every Easter meal, referring to all those family members who were with them the year before, but had since passed on. I jump in to finish for him what he doesn’t have the energy to say for himself.
“Chi che cambia la strada vecchia per la strada nuova, sa che ha lasciato ma non sa che lui trovera’.” He who changes the old road for the new, knows what he left behind but doesn’t know what he’ll find.
He nods his approval, happy to have imparted some ancient family wisdom upon me.
“You see, Pop,” I say softly, “today wasn’t so bad. You could do for a few more days like this. I know I could.”
My words were left to his subconscious perception, however, because his eyes are closed and he is now fast asleep, snoozing off the turmoil of the day with words of comfort fresh in his mind.
I sit there, watching him sleep for some time until the droll of his amplified, oxygen-supported breathing overcomes me as well. I fall into a solid slumber, my head lolling against the headrest of the chair, my hand still in his.
I lie there awhile, seemingly sinking more and more into the cushioned seat of the reclining chair I’ve accommodated myself on. Soon though, the sounds of my grandfather’s breathing fade away, and I am left only with my own. I stretch out further and further on the reclining chair, so much so that after a while I am completely sprawled out, on my back. Coming out of my dreaming state, I squeeze my fingers tight into my own hand, yet feel nothing in it. I feel a weight building up on top of me, an overpowering warmth returning to my body. I squirm against the two quilts I find myself under. Rolling over once again onto my back, my hands make their way up from under the covers to rub my face. I open my eyes, the faint dawn light is pouring through my curtains. I sit up in bed, removing the blankets. The nighttime cold has since retreated in the hazy sunlight of the morning. I swing my legs out from under the covers and plant them on the floor, looking out the window next to my bed. Cozy beams of sunlight filter in, laying strands of light across the floor.
I make my way over to the window. A more perfect day one could not find. I press my head against the pane, gazing upward into the clear sky through which the sun is making its ascent. “Cherish every day He gives you,” I think to myself. “Let us eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow, we die.”
1 Corinthians 15:32
The whole thing was written in something of a stream-of-consciousness style, starting with me dreaming and passing fluidly between different memories and stages in my life. The details of each event described come from a place of emotion rather than scientific exactitude...but that doesn’t mean the conversations/occurrences didn’t happen in some form or another. The following is the final memory I recorded, a hospital stay with my grandfather as he’s on his death bed. I appreciate reading things like this, because I dedicated my life to Christ in 2009, and since then I’m not plagued by the same kind of worry that my past is lost forever. Instead, I have come to have an appreciation for my past, but a comfort in know that it belongs behind me. The thing is, after I came to know Christ, I’ve become far more concerned with enjoying every second of the present, and working toward the awesome future He has laid out in front of me. Taking stock of everything, I feel evermore blessed by the way He has completely transformed my life...why would I ever want to turn back?
Excerpt from “Advice for Corinth”:
I blink hard, rubbing my eyes with my left hand as they adjust to the brightness of my new environment. My hand is squeezed again, this time by my grandfather. I’m in January of the year 2007, in Philadelphia, PA, in Hahnemann Hospital, in the Pulmonary ICU, in room 1259.
I’m in a chair situated as close as possible to the bed in the middle of the room—any closer and I’d be on top of it. My hand stretches through one of the wide holes of the railings on the side of the bed, which swing either up or down when the bed is in motion or stationary, respectively. Connected to my outstretched hand is a 92 year old man, my grandfather Vincent Panebianco. His eyes are open, even if slightly forcedly, and he is looking at me as intently as he can possibly muster. I glance up at the clock on the wall; 2:45. I turn my head slightly to the right, directing my gaze out the 12th story window. The usually immaculately white Philadelphia Inquirer building is draped in a happy green curtain, a novelty change of flood lights. The Eagles must still be well on their way to another Super Bowl bid—the second in what? Four years? Somehow, I have my doubts of their chances.
Perched far above the milieu undoubtedly bustling in this inner-city hospital’s ER and waiting room, there is the most distinct sense of peacefulness in the air. The darkness that rolls across the city outside muffles all of the nighttime sounds: of cars, of people, of helicopters, of airplanes swooping down to divulge their contents at Philly International, of trains crisscrossing our great city haphazardly, much like the ribbons of a May Pole. It is because of the darkness that, though the random car can be heard zooming down the Vine St. Expressway just at the foot of the building, they sound distant, detached.
Hannman Hospital
Sitting there in that hospital room with a man who had just recently endured respiratory failure and a subsequent breathing tube removal a few days later, I feel anything but. When my grandfather squeezes my hand a third time, it is as though I am really feeling his touch for the first time, just tonight. Like somehow, all those years I would hug him, kiss him hello and goodbye on the cheek, or help him around in the later years, I was really just handling what I perceived to be a glass doll—someone far too fragile to endure real correspondence, real interaction. After seeing what he endured since he got in the hospital, though, I feel comfortable squeezing his hand right back; firmly, as though he couldn’t possibly comprehend how much I loved him if I told him with words. I am putting all of my love in the palm of my hand, and when I squeeze his back, it diffuses into him and he just knows.
His wrinkled, whiskery tan face twists up into a comforted smile.
“You tired, Pop?” I ask him, looking into his chestnut colored irises surrounded by eyeballs that were not white, but rather yellowing with age, discolored by the many sights those two eyes have beheld in 92 years. The room lay inconceivably silent. The hallways are absent of any doctor discourse or tittering of nurses to and fro. The only sounds that permeate the stillness of the night air are the random smooth zoom of a passing Expressway car, the airy sound made by my grandfather’s breathing, amplified by the oxygen machines he is hooked up to, and the beating of our hearts. The beating of his that I watch and listen for all day and night long, the constant ebb and flow of green mountains on the monitor to the left of the bed. The beating of mine that he listens for in the stillness of the night, once I can no longer endure and have finally surrendered to slumber. The beating that lets each other know that we are still there.
My grandfather nods his head. “Yeah,” he finally manages to offer as a response to my question. His voice, even for a man of his age with emphysema, is raspy and hard to grasp, like the hissing sound of vapors escaping an opened hot water heater pipe.
“I know, Poppy. Do you want to go to sleep? You don’t have to wait up for me,” I hold up the object in the hand he’s not holding, “I brought a book to read this time. See?”
“No…I’m gonna stay awake with my boy,” he whispers hoarsely.
“OK. Is everything alright, then? Are you comfortable? Warm?” I say, issuing a line of questioning that I would repeat many more times, always trying to do what is physically possible to take away from the great amount of pain and discomfort he is already in.
“A little…cold,” he admits, hesitantly. He always hated bothering people. He was self-sufficient and lived alone until he was midway into his 91st year. Getting up from my sedentary post, I grab an extra white cotton blanket from the closet in the far side of the room, returning to drape him in it and tuck him in around the sides. I tuck him all the way in, all the way around his body, shielding him from the harsh coldness that travels the hospital’s nighttime halls, creeping under closed doors, surrounding patients, engulfing them. I do my best to make sure that he always feels an unmitigated warmth.
“How’s that for ya, Pop?”
He nods his head, his face again turning upward into his twisted, contented smile. His eyes are soft and seemingly twinkling as he looks up at me, standing next to his bed. I take my seat once again, taking hold of his hand as well.
“Something on your mind?” I ask.
He waits a second, and again he nods his head.
“Are you…scared?”
Another nod, slower and more deliberate this time.
“I know, Pop. There’s no need though. Look what you’ve been through this past week. I’m not going to lie to you, when we brought you in here last Wednesday, I was terrified. You probably don’t remember, because you were completely unresponsive, but one minute you were with us and,” I stop for a second, trying to hide my emotion. My grandfather understands, a sober expression on his face. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You are with us. It amazes us all how strong you are, Pop. You hear them all, all the doctors and nurses that pull us out the room so you can’t hear them talk about you. They say you’re a miracle case,” I smile broadly, my eyes still wet from the unintended outpour of emotion, “but who didn’t know that, old man?”
He shares my smile, nodding back once again.
“So, you still scared?”
“A little,” he growls in his gruff drawl, his throat still sore from that recently departed breathing tube.
“I don’t blame you,” we sit in silence for a while, him still staring at me intently, me gazing down to where I’m holding tightly onto his hand. “You know what, though? I haven’t a doubt in my mind that everything will be OK, no matter what happens.”
“Me too.”
“Listen to me, talking like I have some authority on the matter,” the smile returns to my face. “We both know that it’s not up to me, or mom, or dad, or Uncle Jimmy, or even that army of ignorant doctors out there. It is between you,” I say poking my pointing finger gently on his chest. “And Him,” raising my finger toward the sky. “No one else.”
He nods again. I can tell that he is beginning to feel more at ease. His breathing is becoming more natural, more relaxed.
“And, Pop,” I say, his calmness rubbing off on me, “whenever it is that you two decide that it’s your time to go, don’t be afraid. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t think of it as dying…think of it as going home.”
“For now,” he finally musters the energy to say, “I’m still staying here with my boy.”
“Well, I’ll be here as long as you are, old man.”
His eyes twinkle as his heavy eyelids begin to slowly drift shut. He is visibly tired—I had witnessed an entire day of him getting prodded, poked, flipped, turned, squeezed, and stuck by a legion of faceless doctors and nurses.
“Go ahead, you rest up, Pop. You‘ve got a lot more to go through before we get you out of here.”
“Chi che cambia la strada vecchia per la strada nuova, sa che ha lasciato ma non sa che lui trovera’.” He who changes the old road for the new, knows what he left behind but doesn’t know what he’ll find.
He nods his approval, happy to have imparted some ancient family wisdom upon me.
“You see, Pop,” I say softly, “today wasn’t so bad. You could do for a few more days like this. I know I could.”
My words were left to his subconscious perception, however, because his eyes are closed and he is now fast asleep, snoozing off the turmoil of the day with words of comfort fresh in his mind.
I sit there, watching him sleep for some time until the droll of his amplified, oxygen-supported breathing overcomes me as well. I fall into a solid slumber, my head lolling against the headrest of the chair, my hand still in his.
I lie there awhile, seemingly sinking more and more into the cushioned seat of the reclining chair I’ve accommodated myself on. Soon though, the sounds of my grandfather’s breathing fade away, and I am left only with my own. I stretch out further and further on the reclining chair, so much so that after a while I am completely sprawled out, on my back. Coming out of my dreaming state, I squeeze my fingers tight into my own hand, yet feel nothing in it. I feel a weight building up on top of me, an overpowering warmth returning to my body. I squirm against the two quilts I find myself under. Rolling over once again onto my back, my hands make their way up from under the covers to rub my face. I open my eyes, the faint dawn light is pouring through my curtains. I sit up in bed, removing the blankets. The nighttime cold has since retreated in the hazy sunlight of the morning. I swing my legs out from under the covers and plant them on the floor, looking out the window next to my bed. Cozy beams of sunlight filter in, laying strands of light across the floor.
I make my way over to the window. A more perfect day one could not find. I press my head against the pane, gazing upward into the clear sky through which the sun is making its ascent. “Cherish every day He gives you,” I think to myself. “Let us eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow, we die.”
1 Corinthians 15:32
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Ex-Pat
I get it now.
I understand those people who one day just up and move--uprooting themselves and their spouses to look for greener pastures in some tropical, third world locale. I know why they come down here to a place like Uganda, content on passing the rest of their days with this as their be all and end all. England? The U.S.? Der Nederlaands? "Yeah, we go back from time to time. Usually on holidays." I get them--I understand those people.
Everything here is so scary and fascinating for a Westerner.
No, people aren't all living in huts and painting each others faces. Not where I'm at just south of Kampala, anyway. To be honest, situations like that seem to be the exception rather than the norm from what I've been able to glean from the few residents of the continent that I've spoken with in depth. Yes, there are people living in absolute, dire, what you might call "rural" squalor, but I haven't encountered any yet. What I do see is a place that vaguely resembles a modern day Western civilization--mixed in with definitive qualities of the Old West. There seems to be a fine balance between security and lawlessness, and I get the feeling that no one really knows to expect once they walk out their door.
It's about a 35-40 minute ride from the airport in Entebbe to where we're staying on the outskirts of capital city Kampala, and it's also a straight shot. The entire way here two nights ago, I was just gaping out the window at a miles-long strip of oddities--to my Western assumption at least. Storefront shacks with their big steel doors propped open, with people just hanging out. Crews of teenagers on motorbikes, crowds of seedy looking gentleman shooting pool on an outdoors billiards table, countless lean-to's doubling as bars equipped with loud reggae and black lights, people walking aimlessly in the no man's lands in between pockets of structures and "establishments". And everything was so dark, as if their society still subsists on candlelight--or at least a handful of flickering, dimming bulbs.
I sent two text messages last night. One was to my mom, telling here I got here safe and sane (thank God!), and the other was to my dad as I was driving along that road. It read, simply put: "This place is freakin' wild."
No exclamation point, no tongue in cheek, this place is just plain "wild" in every sense of the word. It's rough, crazy, out there, out of control, and even animalistic in some respects. Wild. This place is freaking wild. Untamed. It just feels like, I don't know…like there's any number of things out there that will either kill you or give you serious diarrhea. Wild.
Banana Trees - African Bible University
Lubowa, outside Kampala, Uganda
Yet I do understand why ex-pats flock here. It's beautiful, and it's beauty is positively raw. From the gentle mists that hang amongst the sloping hills in the distance, the exotic birds swooping down low from up high, the smells of wood-burning ovens wafting through the open doors and window panes of red-roofed buildings. Even the dirt is stunning, in its on dirty way. A bright and brilliant reddish color when it is freshly overturned, you almost don't want to brush the dust off of your feet. It makes you feel like you've been somewhere, like you're bearing the evidence that you've walked somewhere important.
Yet they don't call it the dark continent for nothing. There's something deeply mysterious about this place, almost as if there's a collective secret amongst its citizenry. It's an eerie sort of sensation--but it makes you want to dig deeper, to overturn rocks and renew the adventurous spirit you've all but lost. It makes you want to do crazy things. I can understand why earlier European explorers cut through this continent, writing riveting journals and novels like "The Heart of Darkness". I get why years later, their ancestors are returning as ex-pats.
Sustainability - African Bible University
Lubowa, outside Kampala, Uganda
But is it good that they're coming back?
Ex-pat stands for ex-patriot--someone who has all but left behind their home country, nationality, and in some respect, culture, to relocate to somewhere completely foreign and outside themselves, usually somewhere tropical. Germans, French, Dutch, British, Americans, and a host of other white folks.
All jesting aside, I'm not sure how I feel about Africa-bound ex-pats--especially coming from Europe. Marks of the former British colonizers are all over the place here in Lubowa, from the tea breaks at 10:00 am and 4:00 pm, the British electrical outlets, the right-hand drive cars, and the fact that everyone seems to speak English, one of two national languages alongside Swahili. Yet I understand that what's done is done. I usually have a lot of opinions on a variety of different things, but honestly I don't really know what the future should look like here. I know some descendants of colonizers have a vision, and the sons and daughters of those indigenous are starting to form their own vision. But if I'm being honest, it's hard not to look with a raised eyebrow at all the Americans and Europeans coming back to "fix" a place like Uganda. Maybe it's honest restitution for all the sins of their ancestors. Maybe it's a softer form of colonization--forced culture even. What I do know that despite the number of those with ill intentions, there are some real Christian missionaries here who truly want what God wants, and are trying their hardest to do His will.
So that's it--the end of this blog posting. Please forgive me if I am overtly cynical, I guess that God has a lot of work to do with me before I leave Uganda. The hardest things to cope with here haven't been sleeping in a mosquito net (actually pretty comfortable), brushing my teeth with bottled water, or making sure I take my daily anti-malaria pills. It's actually been the war of ideals going on in my head--of knowing where I fit into all of this. Of knowing where I should fit in through all of this.
Maybe I'm being self righteous, but any time I'm in a situation, especially a Christian one, I try my hardest to find the realest around. I know that I can be a tad negative at times, but it's only my knee-jerk reaction to those things I perceive to be not exactly right just under the surface. I don't feel inclined to be phony or fake about things. God receives no glory from my negativity--but fakeness and falsehood are of no value to Him either. Okay, help me down from this soapbox.
That's better.
So I know I usually end my postings with some sort of realization or tying up of loose ends. I don't have a neat little package in which I can wrap things up this time. All I have is a world's worth of new sites, sounds and smells, uncomfortable confusion, shallow mediations, and a deep sinking feeling in my stomach that I hope isn't something I ate...
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