Written on just such a day.
Subtitle: A Conglomeration of Stories and Tales from Classroom and Otherwise, Taught to Me by a Collection of Bright, Incorrigible Fourth-Graders in Room 4-B
Well, friends, it has been many a week (or month, I'm afraid!) since I have written on anything particularly practical or mundane, for the (to me!) very obvious reason that I'm not a huge fan of the mundane and practical generally. However, as the Lord grows each and every one of his children in their different, respective areas of weakness, He has been slowing opening my eyes to the beauty of... reality. The commonplace. Therefore, I intend to write a blog merely about the commonplace in my life, and perhaps I'll learn to appreciate it to a greater extent. God can do anything, right?
Of course right.
(Aha, quote that film!)
Where to begin... ah - Tuesday.
Well, for those of you who do not know me particularly well, my toughest of tough days generally falls on a Tuesday. The weekend has ended, my catch-up day has come and gone, and Tuesday strikes like a ticking bomb, just waiting for the opportune moment to explode and send pieces of me everywhere. It generally does.
Let's see... how did my last one go...
I woke up at a singularly early hour, (I shall not stipulate an exact number, since Heather is sure to beat me for considering THAT early!) and hopped in the shower for a quick clean-up. I jumped in, set the dial right in the middle, and waited... and waited... for the water to get warm. It never did. It got hot. Flexible as I am, I decided I could work with hot and began my routine. Well, this turned out to be one of those hot-cold showers where the water can't seem to quite make up its mind (much like my attitude that morning!) and goes everywhere from scalding to freezing when the arrow on the dial is set right to the middle. Some of you who are not of that singularly cheery race known as the "morning people", or have recently evolved out of the "morning person" stage and into the "I'll-get-up-then-if-it-is-absolutely-necessary" stage, will understand me when I say that a shower and its temperature (trivial as they may be) can often decide my opinion of the morning.
My major may have changed, but I’m finishing out this one last education semester with the last ounce of tolerance I have for this tolerant "accept everything that comes your way" worldview and its practices. I have, as of three Tuesdays ago, begun my Exceptional Learning Practicum - which is a very great and ponderous name cooked up by a commitee of eccentric professors and various and sundry other miscellaneous collegiate staff that really means the commonly accepted "student teaching". However, this class has an interesting little twist - Exceptional Learning means "special ed". (I had to translate this terminology for my dad, too… he thought an ‘exceptional learner’ meant a smart cookie, like himself. The rest of the family had a good laugh when I told the self proclaimed "exceptional learner" what the term really meant!!!) Now, as this is my fourth semester in this strange and interesting world of college study - particularly in the area of education - I knew exactly what had to be done. Today, with my opinion of the day in general firmly set (alas for hot-cold showers!), I threw on something "professional" to create an illusion of wisdom and experienced maturity (you know, skirt, jacket, heels). I then ventured out into the world and down Elliot Road to Dobson Academy, a culturally diverse charter school located somewhere on Dobson (go figure), and, on Tuesdays, located in my schedule as a firmly-set definition of my morning.
I was ready to go in a mere 45 minutes.
(You must understand that this includes not only showering, blow drying the mane, throwing an outfit together, spending some time in the Word, and getting my morning's share of everyone's latest blog entries in.) Now THAT, my friends, would be a record.
I'm expecting a call from Guiness any day now...
After signing various forms, getting my picture taken for my official volunteer badge (an obvious oxymoron), and officially signing in on my very own sheet with my very own name, I climbed a few flights of stairs to Mrs. Bracker - a young, assertive, and very pregnant 4th grade teacher - and her 4th grade classroom. Today was "observation" - but you don’t enter any elementary classroom and expect to just sit and watch the action. Oh no. I was soon grading last week’s big literature tests, and, much to my own very personal delight, filling out report cards. I felt so old and mature and teacherish, looking out on the classroom, high and mighty from behind my own secluded and spacious desktop. What an envigorating moment.
It was about this point in the day when Mrs. Bracker loudly cleared her throat and addressed the class authoritatively:
"Class, perhaps you've happened to notice a new face among us."
About thirty pairs of eyes simultaneously turn to me. Apparently they had.
"This young lady is studying to be a teacher (I haven't told her of the major change! - ha, no pun intended), and she almost is one. So anything she says goes. You obey her like you would obey me, and I mean it. (And she meant it.) You are to treat her with the utmost respect. You will all address her as Miss Paasch."
Miss Paasch? Oh snap. I wouldn't answer to that if the entire class screamed it in unison. But... I was a 'Miss', nonetheless.
But… it was, after all, just a moment, and the next I was just an official underage volunteer again. Report cards complete, I was then employed in the rigorous task of removing all of the dozens of vocabulary words that had been accumulated throughout the year, posted in precarious locations all over the western wall. (I know it was west because of the large colorful WEST poster at the very tip-top.) About halfway through this project I was bombarded by questions of all sorts from a small group of 10 year old girls whose curiosities had held out as long as was humanly possible, and they wanted answers. The foremost of the foursome was Carrera, a thirty year old stuck in a ten year old body, with more smarts than a lot of eighteen year old high school graduates I’ve been in class with. I watched as she acted as a second teacher to the rest of the normal children who shared a classroom with her, and wasn’t in the least bit surprised when she told me of her intentions to go in to Harvard law. (!)
As soon as all the grading and busy work was done, Mrs. Bracker (I assume to get me off her hands) sent me to art class with the rest of the children and my particular charge, Kaya. One student and one student alone needs "special needs" assistance in the classroom - however, I have yet to discover Miss Kaya's disability. (Oh, the things labeled "disabilities" these days...) So I ran down to art with my one student, introduced myself to a skeptical art teacher, and took a seat amidst the excited hullabaloo of disorganized fourth graders. I soon found myself next to Kaya, Jerry, and Carrera, and some little girl named after one of the seasons. (Spring or Summer or Autumn... I'm not sure.) After a rather awkward, silent beginning, I broke the ice by a "crayon war" (don't ask) and I soon had three bosom friends. Kaya told me largely about her life story, her mom, her brothers, and her life in New York. Jerry chimed in whenever he possibly could, and Carrera... oh, Carrera. It's funny - I never really stop and just listen to children's conversation. I'm around it constantly, but I've never taken the opportunity. You can learn so many things about yourself just listening to them talk. Everything, to them, is fascinating; everything in black and white - no shades of grey have developed in their young minds. (That just might be a good thing, too.) They're trying desperately to figure out who they are and who they're going to be, who's going to be their friend and who's not (I think I witnessed a few definitive conversations of that sort!), what to believe in and how exactly. There are no words to adequately describe this stage in life - and few that would encompass my own ecstasy at being somehow a very small part of it in the lives of a few children going through the general experience.
Approaching the end of my last Tuesday with them, school pictures were in order, it being Casual Tuesday and all. I decided to go along. Turned out to be a good idea. By the end of that short period my student, Kaya - who, a week ago, couldn't look me square in the eye - took a seat on my lap, put her arms around my neck, and called me her very own "Mama". I was shocked and a little shaken and just the tiniest bit "Christian proud"(a phrase my very wise mother once coined). When it came time for reading, she carefully arranged my place in the corner of the room, made it as comfortable as possible, and earnestly entreated me to please "read with her". Now, I'm not generally the mushy type, but I could have - could have, mind you - (I'm wording this very carefully so as not to confuse anyone) - cried right then and there. I had done nothing - absolutely nothing... in fact, I hadn't the least idea how to talk to a fourth grader, and assessing my progress as of last week, I was getting nowhere fast. And I was struck- yes, right then and there - by the sovereignty and good grace of God even in these little things, little things like learning to read. I saw the holiness of God in the commonplace, and took a moment to thank Him for His thoughtful blessing.
Sometimes the greatest blessing - and the greatest humbling - comes when I least expect it. (Me being human and all.) And suddenly, an undertaking that I once feared and grumbled over has become the best learning opportunity of my year so far. Funny how God works, isn't it? Perhaps merely because His ways are so foreign, so utterly unlike us. So far above and beyond us.
I am NOT (and by that I mean nothing), but I know I AM.
So, friends, I'm finally beginning to learn the beauty of the commonplace. After all, we're here on earth for a reason - we aren't here to spend all our time thinking about getting out of it - something I do far too often. I've gotten rather good at making up all sorts of nice strategies and lovely ideas - but nothing tangible, and ultimately, nothing really God-glorifying. Now that's what we're really here for, to make His name known. And how am I to accomplish this if I only ever discuss how I might go about doing so, if I were ever to get up the nerve to get up off my rear end and my complacency and do something. Really do something for Him. The purpose of life, after all, is not to get all of the heavens and their intricate workings into one's head; oh no. What an unfruitful life that would be! Rather one ought to attempt to get his head merely into the heavens; to leave his collective fate and destiny in the hands of an almighty and powerful God. Once this significant burden is lifted from our shoulders and onto the back of One who can support it, we will be more free to serve Him with a radical passion and abandon. Much as change frightens and undoes me - I would rather be undone than to merely stay complacently put. So this is my goal: to take my life to the foot of His throne, and to leave it there, that I might live a few more radical years in His service before an eternity of bliss. It's not a bad trade-off, is it? A few fleeting years of hard work in exchange for an everlasting rest when they're over. Sounds pretty good to me. And there is glory to be given Him even in the very little task of helping a little girl learn to read.
What a privilege it is, friends, such a privilege - to serve the great I AM. What a peace awaits us in His service! I encourage you to do the same - to consider Him who gave His life that we might live abundantly. Might we not give ourselves as well? For even Tuesdays are a chance to spread - and see - His glory.
And even in the midst of a certain Mrs. Bracker's fourth grade, classroom 4-B, He IS.
Our God is marching on...
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
I Am Compelled
It always amazes me how close the world sometimes comes to truth. Oh, the voices we hear calling us to realize we were meant to live for so much more, that there must be more to this life. Something, I believe, that was implanted in us before we were even born makes us strive toward meaning. Every now and then I can see a glimmer of hope in a life that has almost tasted of true purpose - hope that fades with the realization that nothing in this world can satisfy. To the grand majority of the world, this is hopelessness. To the few of us who know salvation, this is the very foundation of hope.
I've always wondered about purpose. Who am I? Why am I here, and where do I fit? God has given me this life - what would He have of me? Yet although I'm not sure what God has for me - although I don't know what my future looks like - I am sure of one thing. I am on the other side of something, of a fear that I once knew. I now have purpose. I have a new hope.We were all meant to live for something, for an express purpose. That's why so many are destined to live out life endlessly searching - wasting away precious years, searching for fulfillment, something to fill the endless void, the bottomless pit that is our need for a Savior. We were all created to worship... something. And so we will worship anything in search of the one and only thing that truly satisfies. That's why the life in Christ is such a beautiful thing - the human soul in Him finally has the power and the freedom to really live. Because of Him I now have reason to go on living, reason to sing. And so I will - I am compelled.
I'll always remember the fall of my seventh grade year - a painful season to some, but a definite growing season for me. (Although growing is, more often than not, plenty painful!) I was beyond nervous - I had just recently moved back from Mexico, and was far more comfortable in Hispanic culture. I had just begun to attend a Christian school in Gilbert, and was hard at work accustoming myself to being, once again, in the United States - troubled, as before, with a new culture and a new way of life. The real temptations of the world were suddenly becoming clear to me, and my head was spinning. I'll never forget the day that I stepped into choir class, unsure of myself, wary of those around me, and I heard the incredible words of this old Quaker hymn:
My life flows on in endless song above earth's lamentation
I hear the real, though far off song, that hails a new creation
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that Rock I'm clinging -
It sounds an echo in my soul...
How can I keep from singing?
What though the tempest round me roar
I know the truth - it liveth
What though the darkness round me close
Songs in the night it giveth
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that Rock I'm clinging -
Since God is Lord of heav'n and earth,
How can I keep from singing?
How can I keep from singing?
Only a heart that has met its true purpose could sing such words, and I prayed that day, that I might sing them with the same conviction with which its author penned them. Through Him I no longer have to try so hard, to be so proud, to stand so tall. I don't have to search for meaning - I don't have to question. Who am I, you ask? I'm a daughter of the King. I'm a servant of the most high God, and in Him I find my purpose. I am now compelled to live for Him. Never in myself, in my sinful nature could I make this decision - for it is no longer me, but Christ who lives in me. This truth is a mystery to a carnal heart - a saved heart's only glory.
COMPELLED
Sara Groves
I have a new hope...
What a relief it is to know
I'm a slave to Christ
Of all the masters I have known
I'm compelled to live this life
Free for You
I'm on the other side of something -
I'm on the other side of something...
And I have a new hope that blows away
The small hopes I knew before
And at the end of the day I amYours
And I am compelled
You've written on my very soul
Where no man can legislate
The law of Your love has taken hold
With Your holiness and grace
There's no mistake
I'm on the other side of something
I'm on the other side, the other side...
Drawn and driven, I am compelled
You have written it, I am compelled
You live in me
I can't help myself
I have a new hope...
... How can I keep from singing?
I've always wondered about purpose. Who am I? Why am I here, and where do I fit? God has given me this life - what would He have of me? Yet although I'm not sure what God has for me - although I don't know what my future looks like - I am sure of one thing. I am on the other side of something, of a fear that I once knew. I now have purpose. I have a new hope.We were all meant to live for something, for an express purpose. That's why so many are destined to live out life endlessly searching - wasting away precious years, searching for fulfillment, something to fill the endless void, the bottomless pit that is our need for a Savior. We were all created to worship... something. And so we will worship anything in search of the one and only thing that truly satisfies. That's why the life in Christ is such a beautiful thing - the human soul in Him finally has the power and the freedom to really live. Because of Him I now have reason to go on living, reason to sing. And so I will - I am compelled.
I'll always remember the fall of my seventh grade year - a painful season to some, but a definite growing season for me. (Although growing is, more often than not, plenty painful!) I was beyond nervous - I had just recently moved back from Mexico, and was far more comfortable in Hispanic culture. I had just begun to attend a Christian school in Gilbert, and was hard at work accustoming myself to being, once again, in the United States - troubled, as before, with a new culture and a new way of life. The real temptations of the world were suddenly becoming clear to me, and my head was spinning. I'll never forget the day that I stepped into choir class, unsure of myself, wary of those around me, and I heard the incredible words of this old Quaker hymn:
My life flows on in endless song above earth's lamentation
I hear the real, though far off song, that hails a new creation
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that Rock I'm clinging -
It sounds an echo in my soul...
How can I keep from singing?
What though the tempest round me roar
I know the truth - it liveth
What though the darkness round me close
Songs in the night it giveth
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that Rock I'm clinging -
Since God is Lord of heav'n and earth,
How can I keep from singing?
How can I keep from singing?
Only a heart that has met its true purpose could sing such words, and I prayed that day, that I might sing them with the same conviction with which its author penned them. Through Him I no longer have to try so hard, to be so proud, to stand so tall. I don't have to search for meaning - I don't have to question. Who am I, you ask? I'm a daughter of the King. I'm a servant of the most high God, and in Him I find my purpose. I am now compelled to live for Him. Never in myself, in my sinful nature could I make this decision - for it is no longer me, but Christ who lives in me. This truth is a mystery to a carnal heart - a saved heart's only glory.
COMPELLED
Sara Groves
I have a new hope...
What a relief it is to know
I'm a slave to Christ
Of all the masters I have known
I'm compelled to live this life
Free for You
I'm on the other side of something -
I'm on the other side of something...
And I have a new hope that blows away
The small hopes I knew before
And at the end of the day I amYours
And I am compelled
You've written on my very soul
Where no man can legislate
The law of Your love has taken hold
With Your holiness and grace
There's no mistake
I'm on the other side of something
I'm on the other side, the other side...
Drawn and driven, I am compelled
You have written it, I am compelled
You live in me
I can't help myself
I have a new hope...
... How can I keep from singing?
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Fine Art of Brotherly Love
Love thy... legal neighbor?
He pulled up on that worn, red bicycle - his prized and only means of transportation - next to the window of our comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle one summer morning. His name was Alejandro, a newcomer to Hispanic mission Pan de Vida, and he made his home amidst the Latino-dominated barrios of Chandler. Excitedly he told us of the new job he had found, mowing lawns and trimming trees as a day laborer. My mind wandered to the Latino laborers who came every Tuesday to our neighborhood, mowing our lawns and trimming our trees, working for incredibly low wages and long hours. The light in his eyes was bright, animated, although it dimmed slightly at the mention of the wife and baby he left three years ago. He told us of the equipment he meant to buy for a family bakery in southern Mexico, when he returned to home and family in two years or so more. 2 years, that's all. He rode away at last, after the proclamation of his hopeful scheme, his legal status doubtful, as every one of us in the van knew that there was no legal Visa even existent for his type of work.
I was torn.
This whole idea of immigration - particularly illegal immigration - has troubled, fascinated, and - more than anything - saddened me the longer I live here again in the States. I am puzzled at how intricate, how complex the issue has been made... when the solution, to me in theory, is so simple.
And yet, in our world today, I doubt that it really is.
If I take the issue as an 'idea' (which is all the normal American knows about it anyway) - I consider it all an outrage. I think I was born a conservative Republican - from the time I could talk, it seems, I have had a firm grasp on what I consider right and what I consider wrong.
And this whole idea of thousands invading our border, wilfully and illegally, is most definitely wrong. Four years ago, though, I got to see the other side - in both the physical and ideal sense of the word - and I think, now, I understand. That's why I jumped on the opportunity to thoroughly research the whole issue - inside and out - last semester in English 102 at Chandler-Gilbert.
Allow me, for a moment, to share a few facts, a few thoughts, and a parting idea with you.
For a moment - just one - try to forget prejudice, any deep-rooted preconceptions of the idea (for all your protests otherwise, I promise you have a few!) , and perhaps you'll see more clearly once I'm through. More than anything, I pray that you might remember, as a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, the call that we have as Christians to love and serve all. This is not a suggestion, not a guideline... this is a command.
As early as the 1830's, the regulation of immigration went almost unchecked as thousands of immigrants barraged the eastern border for entrance to America (our ancestors, by the way!) The Irish, for example, came in hordes during the Great Potato Famine of the 1840's, eager for work, shelter, and most of all, food. During this time, the regulation of immigration was under the control of individual states, a situation that continued until 1875 when Congress ultimately took control. As the century progressed into the 1880's, racism took control of the influx of immigrants, and many Asians and Eastern Europeans were consequently barred from entry. However, the end of World War II opened the doors to immigration, and on into the 1990's record numbers of immigrants are documented, and the immigrant population of Hispanics from Mexico and South America began to grow by huge numbers. And it was then Congress began to take action, albeit cautiously. And in 1996, the unclear, long-ignored subject of immigration was finally raised, and the chronically gray area of immigration policy became more visibly defined with the passing of the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA), and even more especially the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigration Responsibility ACt (IIRIRA). Unfortunately, these new policies only increased the complexities of this body of law when it came to their implementation.
And so we reach today, the millennium attained, the year 2006. Immigration numbers have never been greater - an estimated 1.1 million immigrants will enter the U.S. this year. According to a study conducted by the Pew Hispanic Center, our state of Arizona has a population of 500,000 undocumented immigrants. While I understand that the mass illegal immigration is wrong and should be abolished, may I suggest a second side to the issue. I believe that today's immigration system needs a complete reform - a system whereby workers here might obtain their legal work visa, and immigrants entering the country might do so legally.
For those who have read "There and Back Again", may I remind you of my Saturday mornings at the San Luis mission - an experience which has permanently changed my view and perspective on life as it should be. Squatters a few years hence had built shacks of aluminum and cardboard - other more permanent residences consisted of worn adobe and dirt floors. Here, in the dust and squalor, is where dreams of a new life start. Four hours from the border, a trek on foot would be nothing compared to the journeys some make to the United States. And this is why the majority of the 1.1 million influx of immigrants per annum come from Mexico and countries similar, making this pilgrimage every year. Dreaming of new lives and better conditions for their children, they will do whatever (and I really mean the word) to get across that border. (Sounds familiar... remember our ancestors - the ones we hail as heroes of freedom and democracy?) Their need is real, their plight genuine. And entirely overlooked. According to an interview I conducted with an expert on the subject, 'if the [immigrant] is trying to better his life through immigration and working in positions of manual labor and landscaping... there is no process wherein he can receive a valid Visa to remain here.'
Get that. So pretty much any Latino you see doing any kind of unskilled labor - construction, landscaping, lawn maintenance, etc. - is - without doubt - illegal. Imagine one day - one day - without them.
Oh yes, I know what you all are thinking. That's all well and good... but why does that mean we should accept them? Why do we have to carry their weight? After all, they are able to obtain free medical service in our own emergency rooms. Why should we have to support them?
Fact is - the true fact is - we don't.
We never have.
Men and women with Alejandro's purpose and determination, with their dreams and hopes, contribute hugely to the American economy. We don't support them... not really. Think of where they work. Think of what they do! East Valley Bible Church has a ministry to a small church in Queen Creek, feeding migrant workers who work literally day and night in the orchards of Queen Creek and Gilbert. Never have I seen men more physically tired - "time off" is an unknown term to them - their work ethic exceeds anything even I could imagine. Who else would do these menial, seemingly worthless jobs but for them? Few Americans would work for the insignificant income it affords those who do, and few of us (and I really mean few!) know how important they really are. They landscape and build in the spring and summer, harvest our orchards in the fall, work as day laborers in the winter. They are the backbone of our daily life - but do we even notice it? According to that aforementioned interview, they provide 'a tremendous amount of low income labor that helps to keep the price of produce and construction low. They do a tremendous amount of work with very little compensation.'
According to discussions I have conducted with Jose Manuel Hernandez, the pastor of Pan de Vida, and Mike Paasch, World Ministries pastor at East Valley, obtaining Visas for such unskilled labor is virtually impossible. The system is both impersonal and too personal, it disregards individual situations, and yet all power to bestow said Visa is in the hands of whoever happens to interview you. The records kept are not sufficient - this same Jose Manuel Hernandez recently struggled with an identity conflict keeping him in Mexico for nearly 5 weeks, for lack of proper information about him - he who had crossed the border completely legally since 1983 and kept completely above board with his Visa situation. His fingerprints - eventually proving his innocence - were lost twice in transit from Nogales, Sonora to Washington D.C. for analysis. Visitors visas can be nigh on impossible to obtain - let alone a worker Visa. Months, maybe years, and a minimum of 2000 dollars later, you can have a worker Visa, for a skilled labored position. Maybe. And yet the number of illegal immigrants into the States shocks and outrages us - we should rather ask ourselves what could possibly be more likely! But the media chooses to portray all immigrants as criminals, law-haters - we are told 'illegal aliens are not doing work Americans won't do' (direct quote!!) - but do we see any great number of Anglo Americans doing the base unskilled labor employing these aliens? The vast majority of America's aliens have come to work, and work hard.
Some would say that illegal aliens make very little difference in the American economy, or some would even imply that they take more than they supply. They are criminals, looking to ruin and tear down the American economy, robbing Americans of work, funds, and sheer space. I fully respect the opinions and fears of these people, who fear for the legal residents of this country. I can and do sympathize, for I was there, too. Give me leave, as well, to set these fears at rest - 'there is a tremendous pull to the United States', as companies and organizations solicit their help in agriculture, construction, and other jobs of this kind. The very difficulty and impersonality of the U.S. border system keeps them from the dignity of legal status. And as for their role in the American economy, it is unquestionable. 'There is a fairly large pool of unskilled labor soliciting their help'. The temptation to come illegally, since there is no process or program to provide them coverage, is therefore huge. And point blank, Americans, employed or otherwise, are not providing the labor necessary in these professions. So they come.
And so we are blessed - more than we can ever know, living in and protected by a government founded and built up in democratic freedom, both political and economic. We are blessed beyond measure, stomachs filled, closets brimmings, possessors of things unimaginable - here in this grand, beautiful, free country, the United States of America. Think about it - we spend every day, every night in America - free to speak what we think, to see and hear what we want, to do and worship as we please. Who wouldn't want this kind of freedom? Yet we here we are, building walls, building vigilante border patrol, building processes and border systems virtually impassible - keeping out those who want what we have, merely because we have given them no way to obtain the visas they need to enter legally. Has our maximum occupancy been attained?
Finally, friends, as believers, we have a much higher calling than we do as citizens of the United States of America. Even this wonderful country we call our home for a few passing years is not where we belong. We are citizens of the kingdom above - a reign that will never end. Why then, is these immigrants' illegality such an insuperable barrier? It is wrong - yes. And yet even those who speak out strongest against these people's sin toward the government break the same laws they supposedly support by speeding on their way home from work. Let us examine ourselves! Don't get me wrong - I want nothing more than the laws of the land and of God to be fully upheld. Let us, though, love our neighbor - yes, even the illegal neighbor. For neighbors they are.
'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Matthew 25:34 - 36
I, as a firm Bible-believing Christian, however, thoroughly recognize that we are told (Romans 13:1-7) quite plainly to submit to the governing authorities. This is our duty. And this I believe. However, many Hispanics don't see the American government as their authority (wrong though it may be). It is the primary view of the Hispanic culture - and it is biblical as well - that each father has a duty to supply for their family's needs (1 Timothy 5:8) . A twelve-hour work day in Mexico, doing the exact same work they do here, brings in a total income of (maybe) 10 dollars a day. Nothing - nothing to support a family. And that's if they can find work! To add to their despair, grocery prices are shocking - I remember paying 4 dollars for a mere gallon of milk. They don't come for just any reason - they come because they have nowhere else to go.
So why, I ask myself, do we look down on them, frown on their sin and berate them to such an ungodly degree? Are we not also to blame? Do we not have a rather large plank in our own eyes as well? It is these few remaining days that we have here on earth that can make a difference in the kingdom of God. These immigrants are the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the unclothed, the sick, the imprisoned... and we, as believers in the Lord Jesus Christ, have a far greater calling to them than to citizenship in the United States of America. And think of this - we have an opportunity to reach out to peoples we would never encounter otherwise! Romans 17:26 says 'From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him...' He - in his infinite sovereignty - has brought them to us! Let us hope, by their arrival, that they might come to know Him. Perhaps we are not lawmakers or legislators that can make a dramatic difference in this area of immigration reform. However, let us love, yes, both our legal and illegal neighbor, for this command, friends, is the second of the two greatest laws we have been given, and it is our duty to put these - and no others - first.
Let us love.
(I have not included a bibliography of my sources... I can do so if anyone should deem it necessary.)
He pulled up on that worn, red bicycle - his prized and only means of transportation - next to the window of our comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle one summer morning. His name was Alejandro, a newcomer to Hispanic mission Pan de Vida, and he made his home amidst the Latino-dominated barrios of Chandler. Excitedly he told us of the new job he had found, mowing lawns and trimming trees as a day laborer. My mind wandered to the Latino laborers who came every Tuesday to our neighborhood, mowing our lawns and trimming our trees, working for incredibly low wages and long hours. The light in his eyes was bright, animated, although it dimmed slightly at the mention of the wife and baby he left three years ago. He told us of the equipment he meant to buy for a family bakery in southern Mexico, when he returned to home and family in two years or so more. 2 years, that's all. He rode away at last, after the proclamation of his hopeful scheme, his legal status doubtful, as every one of us in the van knew that there was no legal Visa even existent for his type of work.
I was torn.
This whole idea of immigration - particularly illegal immigration - has troubled, fascinated, and - more than anything - saddened me the longer I live here again in the States. I am puzzled at how intricate, how complex the issue has been made... when the solution, to me in theory, is so simple.
And yet, in our world today, I doubt that it really is.
If I take the issue as an 'idea' (which is all the normal American knows about it anyway) - I consider it all an outrage. I think I was born a conservative Republican - from the time I could talk, it seems, I have had a firm grasp on what I consider right and what I consider wrong.
And this whole idea of thousands invading our border, wilfully and illegally, is most definitely wrong. Four years ago, though, I got to see the other side - in both the physical and ideal sense of the word - and I think, now, I understand. That's why I jumped on the opportunity to thoroughly research the whole issue - inside and out - last semester in English 102 at Chandler-Gilbert.
Allow me, for a moment, to share a few facts, a few thoughts, and a parting idea with you.
For a moment - just one - try to forget prejudice, any deep-rooted preconceptions of the idea (for all your protests otherwise, I promise you have a few!) , and perhaps you'll see more clearly once I'm through. More than anything, I pray that you might remember, as a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, the call that we have as Christians to love and serve all. This is not a suggestion, not a guideline... this is a command.
As early as the 1830's, the regulation of immigration went almost unchecked as thousands of immigrants barraged the eastern border for entrance to America (our ancestors, by the way!) The Irish, for example, came in hordes during the Great Potato Famine of the 1840's, eager for work, shelter, and most of all, food. During this time, the regulation of immigration was under the control of individual states, a situation that continued until 1875 when Congress ultimately took control. As the century progressed into the 1880's, racism took control of the influx of immigrants, and many Asians and Eastern Europeans were consequently barred from entry. However, the end of World War II opened the doors to immigration, and on into the 1990's record numbers of immigrants are documented, and the immigrant population of Hispanics from Mexico and South America began to grow by huge numbers. And it was then Congress began to take action, albeit cautiously. And in 1996, the unclear, long-ignored subject of immigration was finally raised, and the chronically gray area of immigration policy became more visibly defined with the passing of the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA), and even more especially the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigration Responsibility ACt (IIRIRA). Unfortunately, these new policies only increased the complexities of this body of law when it came to their implementation.
And so we reach today, the millennium attained, the year 2006. Immigration numbers have never been greater - an estimated 1.1 million immigrants will enter the U.S. this year. According to a study conducted by the Pew Hispanic Center, our state of Arizona has a population of 500,000 undocumented immigrants. While I understand that the mass illegal immigration is wrong and should be abolished, may I suggest a second side to the issue. I believe that today's immigration system needs a complete reform - a system whereby workers here might obtain their legal work visa, and immigrants entering the country might do so legally.
For those who have read "There and Back Again", may I remind you of my Saturday mornings at the San Luis mission - an experience which has permanently changed my view and perspective on life as it should be. Squatters a few years hence had built shacks of aluminum and cardboard - other more permanent residences consisted of worn adobe and dirt floors. Here, in the dust and squalor, is where dreams of a new life start. Four hours from the border, a trek on foot would be nothing compared to the journeys some make to the United States. And this is why the majority of the 1.1 million influx of immigrants per annum come from Mexico and countries similar, making this pilgrimage every year. Dreaming of new lives and better conditions for their children, they will do whatever (and I really mean the word) to get across that border. (Sounds familiar... remember our ancestors - the ones we hail as heroes of freedom and democracy?) Their need is real, their plight genuine. And entirely overlooked. According to an interview I conducted with an expert on the subject, 'if the [immigrant] is trying to better his life through immigration and working in positions of manual labor and landscaping... there is no process wherein he can receive a valid Visa to remain here.'
Get that. So pretty much any Latino you see doing any kind of unskilled labor - construction, landscaping, lawn maintenance, etc. - is - without doubt - illegal. Imagine one day - one day - without them.
Oh yes, I know what you all are thinking. That's all well and good... but why does that mean we should accept them? Why do we have to carry their weight? After all, they are able to obtain free medical service in our own emergency rooms. Why should we have to support them?
Fact is - the true fact is - we don't.
We never have.
Men and women with Alejandro's purpose and determination, with their dreams and hopes, contribute hugely to the American economy. We don't support them... not really. Think of where they work. Think of what they do! East Valley Bible Church has a ministry to a small church in Queen Creek, feeding migrant workers who work literally day and night in the orchards of Queen Creek and Gilbert. Never have I seen men more physically tired - "time off" is an unknown term to them - their work ethic exceeds anything even I could imagine. Who else would do these menial, seemingly worthless jobs but for them? Few Americans would work for the insignificant income it affords those who do, and few of us (and I really mean few!) know how important they really are. They landscape and build in the spring and summer, harvest our orchards in the fall, work as day laborers in the winter. They are the backbone of our daily life - but do we even notice it? According to that aforementioned interview, they provide 'a tremendous amount of low income labor that helps to keep the price of produce and construction low. They do a tremendous amount of work with very little compensation.'
According to discussions I have conducted with Jose Manuel Hernandez, the pastor of Pan de Vida, and Mike Paasch, World Ministries pastor at East Valley, obtaining Visas for such unskilled labor is virtually impossible. The system is both impersonal and too personal, it disregards individual situations, and yet all power to bestow said Visa is in the hands of whoever happens to interview you. The records kept are not sufficient - this same Jose Manuel Hernandez recently struggled with an identity conflict keeping him in Mexico for nearly 5 weeks, for lack of proper information about him - he who had crossed the border completely legally since 1983 and kept completely above board with his Visa situation. His fingerprints - eventually proving his innocence - were lost twice in transit from Nogales, Sonora to Washington D.C. for analysis. Visitors visas can be nigh on impossible to obtain - let alone a worker Visa. Months, maybe years, and a minimum of 2000 dollars later, you can have a worker Visa, for a skilled labored position. Maybe. And yet the number of illegal immigrants into the States shocks and outrages us - we should rather ask ourselves what could possibly be more likely! But the media chooses to portray all immigrants as criminals, law-haters - we are told 'illegal aliens are not doing work Americans won't do' (direct quote!!) - but do we see any great number of Anglo Americans doing the base unskilled labor employing these aliens? The vast majority of America's aliens have come to work, and work hard.
Some would say that illegal aliens make very little difference in the American economy, or some would even imply that they take more than they supply. They are criminals, looking to ruin and tear down the American economy, robbing Americans of work, funds, and sheer space. I fully respect the opinions and fears of these people, who fear for the legal residents of this country. I can and do sympathize, for I was there, too. Give me leave, as well, to set these fears at rest - 'there is a tremendous pull to the United States', as companies and organizations solicit their help in agriculture, construction, and other jobs of this kind. The very difficulty and impersonality of the U.S. border system keeps them from the dignity of legal status. And as for their role in the American economy, it is unquestionable. 'There is a fairly large pool of unskilled labor soliciting their help'. The temptation to come illegally, since there is no process or program to provide them coverage, is therefore huge. And point blank, Americans, employed or otherwise, are not providing the labor necessary in these professions. So they come.
And so we are blessed - more than we can ever know, living in and protected by a government founded and built up in democratic freedom, both political and economic. We are blessed beyond measure, stomachs filled, closets brimmings, possessors of things unimaginable - here in this grand, beautiful, free country, the United States of America. Think about it - we spend every day, every night in America - free to speak what we think, to see and hear what we want, to do and worship as we please. Who wouldn't want this kind of freedom? Yet we here we are, building walls, building vigilante border patrol, building processes and border systems virtually impassible - keeping out those who want what we have, merely because we have given them no way to obtain the visas they need to enter legally. Has our maximum occupancy been attained?
Finally, friends, as believers, we have a much higher calling than we do as citizens of the United States of America. Even this wonderful country we call our home for a few passing years is not where we belong. We are citizens of the kingdom above - a reign that will never end. Why then, is these immigrants' illegality such an insuperable barrier? It is wrong - yes. And yet even those who speak out strongest against these people's sin toward the government break the same laws they supposedly support by speeding on their way home from work. Let us examine ourselves! Don't get me wrong - I want nothing more than the laws of the land and of God to be fully upheld. Let us, though, love our neighbor - yes, even the illegal neighbor. For neighbors they are.
'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Matthew 25:34 - 36
I, as a firm Bible-believing Christian, however, thoroughly recognize that we are told (Romans 13:1-7) quite plainly to submit to the governing authorities. This is our duty. And this I believe. However, many Hispanics don't see the American government as their authority (wrong though it may be). It is the primary view of the Hispanic culture - and it is biblical as well - that each father has a duty to supply for their family's needs (1 Timothy 5:8) . A twelve-hour work day in Mexico, doing the exact same work they do here, brings in a total income of (maybe) 10 dollars a day. Nothing - nothing to support a family. And that's if they can find work! To add to their despair, grocery prices are shocking - I remember paying 4 dollars for a mere gallon of milk. They don't come for just any reason - they come because they have nowhere else to go.
So why, I ask myself, do we look down on them, frown on their sin and berate them to such an ungodly degree? Are we not also to blame? Do we not have a rather large plank in our own eyes as well? It is these few remaining days that we have here on earth that can make a difference in the kingdom of God. These immigrants are the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the unclothed, the sick, the imprisoned... and we, as believers in the Lord Jesus Christ, have a far greater calling to them than to citizenship in the United States of America. And think of this - we have an opportunity to reach out to peoples we would never encounter otherwise! Romans 17:26 says 'From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him...' He - in his infinite sovereignty - has brought them to us! Let us hope, by their arrival, that they might come to know Him. Perhaps we are not lawmakers or legislators that can make a dramatic difference in this area of immigration reform. However, let us love, yes, both our legal and illegal neighbor, for this command, friends, is the second of the two greatest laws we have been given, and it is our duty to put these - and no others - first.
Let us love.
(I have not included a bibliography of my sources... I can do so if anyone should deem it necessary.)
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
There and Back Again
A tale of two cultures, 10 different cities, 15 different locations within those cities, and 1 very strange young girl.
There were about six of us gathered together on Sunday night, at the Paasch place, as usual. Almost every Sunday after the 6 o'clock service at East Valley we (a very fluctuating, colorful 'we' that is not very clearly defined) get together and eat, talk, talk some more, eat, watch a movie every now and then... and generally "make merry" in a Christian sort of way. :) Well, it was one of these Sunday nights when, around a pot of Starbucks Sumatra, the topic of conversation turned toward character types. Turns out about oh, 7 years or so ago my parents learned this code for different personalities (one of many) - the DISC code. It works this way. "D" stands for determined, "I" for influential, "S" for steady, and "C" for conscientious. If someone's a little tricky, then they get a combination. My dad's an IS. My mom's a DDDDDDIIIII (I made up that variation - anyone who knows my mom will agree with me!). My sister's plain "I". Me, well... I'm, just...
I'm just...
different.
My mom - my MOM - whose skills in the art of pinning anyone's characteristics, be they physical, emotional, spiritual, you-name-it are positively psychic - has yet to pin me down. I've been trying to figure it out myself... and decided that the explanation couldn't be restricted to acronyms and I'd have to write a blog.
Which is great. I love to write.
Let me give you an idea of where it all began. If I were to be entirely thorough, I would probably use up more computer space than I'm at present willing to part with, so I'll [attempt to] be brief. :) (Brief for me, however, is something entirely than different than "brief" for the rest of the world.) My life began right here in Scottsdale, Arizona, some years back. (We won't specify how many presently!) My life was very, very... normal for the first six years - we had a lovely little home in Mesa, complete with large backyard, full-grown trees, and white shutters... knowing my mom (then!), we would have had the picket fence too, if the HoA would have permitted it. Then, soon before my seventh birthday, my life changed forever.
Yeah, I actually have one of those stories.
My parents went on a harmless little mission trip to Matamoros, Tamaulipas on the border of Texas that summer... and came back missionaries. Needless to say, I was shocked, irate, and very, very scared. I had read about these "missionaries" before. Weren't they all eaten by cannibals, or imprisoned for years on end with little food and no bathroom? Talk about gross! Weren't they the types that sold everything they owned and lived in the bush and who all either died of some kind of fever or were tortured to death by foreign savages?
That didn't sound like much fun.
And I swore I would never, ever go. That nothing - nothing - in the world would make me.
Fortunately, my parents took little consideration of that opinion (and fortunately, I was all talk!), and as soon as humanly possible, we were on the road to Texas. We were on the road a lot after that. We lived in Texas for seven months - and almost everywhere else you can imagine (as long as your imagination stays somewhere in North America). There was language school in Baja California, missionary training school in North Carolina, a year on the border of Nogales, numerous transitional apartments, and finally, three years in the capitol of Sonora, Hermosillo. We traveled through most of the eastern and central and midwestern United States, a good 11 states in my second home country (Mexico), and a few Canadian provinces here and there. All this change, all this moving - just what I had dreaded most.
God certainly has a sense of humor. And He chose to exercise His sovereignty in my life in many (and, to me, very mysterious!) ways.
About the time we reached Hermosillo I had had just about enough. Yes, I had experienced far more than the average kid my age, had been on more incredible adventures than many adults could boast. Throughout its entirety I was learning... my mother was quite determined that my sister and I would have a complete, thorough education - and despite the odds, we did! I learned my multiplication tables driving through Virginia; I counted to a thousand for the first time on one particularly long trek from Carolina to Jersey. I had memorized my prepositions in a small trailer home in Ensenada, written my first poems in a small drafty ranch house on the border's very brink in Nogales, Arizona. But I was ready to be done. Still mourning the loss of my last abode (I cried over every house I left but one), the idea of "settling down" to me seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.
But... God had something different in mind for me.
It had been a long fourteen hour drive, an all day ordeal, but finally the great town of Hermosillo, Sonora loomed in front of us, all lights and traffic and endless streets. It wasn't a new sight - we had visited before, but everything seemed dim and surreal, unable to fully register its reality in my mottled brain. Could this be happening to me - again? When my parents had decided to move to Mexico as missionaries, I thought they were crazy and had vowed I would never go. And yet, somehow, life was beginning again for me - in a new life, an entirely new world. Shortly after arriving, once the first excitment of our new surroundings had worn off, we began to realize how incredibly different we were, culturally, from the Mexicans around us. We had heard of culture shock, and laughed - now, we got to have our own up close and personal experience with it. Our first taste of this new culture came with our first Mexican fiesta. Our neighbors closed our street off entirely to make room for their little girls's 1st birthday party. Shocked, we shortly began t realize that such a procedure really was necessary in this case, considering the fact that most, if not the entire neighborhood was invited to the celebration (and most of the next!!!), and we were even more taken aback to find that they would stay at the fiesta until about 1 or 2 in the morning, regardless of the events of the next day. Never in my life had I seen seen such a grand affair - certainly not next door and even more certainly not to celebrate merely the passing of a child's very first year in the world. I tried my first bit of Mexican candy that night, too - being the master of drama that I was (and am), I immediately began to dry-heave the stuff up, handed the rest to my sister, and swore I'd never try it again.
What a revolting place, I thought. They make up their own rules without so much as an if-you-please, stay up and play loud mariachi music until all hours of the night, and this candy... why would you ever, EVER put chile and sugar together? I don't think that God ever intended any such disastrous combination.
I don't know if I can do this.
It's funny how nearly anything can grow on you if you just give it time.
(I can eat chile by the pound now... and yes, even with sugar.)
Shortly after moving in, finding a church became our primary object - and, for some reason, none seemed fitting. Everyone was either falling all over the ground and speaking something that didn't sound much like Spanish - or stoic and legalistic and rather altogether frightening. Finally, we found it - Maranatha, it was called, and it seemed to be MADE for us. But the necessity of learning Spanish soon became acutely obvious. My sister and I were sent to school, and quickly became quite "popular". Not, of course, because of anything either of us said or did (because we obviously couldn't), but, being 'la Americana', 'la gringa', I was instantly accepted, for what could be more of a novelty than a little white girl with light skin and blue eyes?
About the time I started sixth grade, the focus of our history class turned to the Texas revolution in class. Now, for those of you who didn't know, this subject is one that is still rather tender in the hearts of the Mexicans, and many are still quite bitter about the whole idea of Texas and the Southwest being taken from them. I soon found, much to my own personal chagrin, that the subject considered a huge victory against the cruel hearted Mexicans in America was regarded in a quite different light in Mexico. As we were told of the wrongs done to fellow countrymen by the heartless Americans - how their land was stolen from them (told with all the patriotic candor of a true hearted Mexican!), I began to sink lower and lower in my seat, my face hidden by the offending history book, hoping against hope that no one would associate me with those cold blooded Americans told of in THIS account of the Mexican American War. Thankfully, the connection was not made, at least verbally, and I began to see a different side to the biased version of history I had always known.
That first summer in Hermosillo I learned a few things. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, we would drive through the breadth of the grand capitol of Sonora, past la Zona Hotelera (the hotel zone), the gigantic, ominous homes of the few opulent in colonia Pitic and La Jolla, past our home church ‘Maranatha’ - past la Fiesta Americana, the largest and most precocious hotel in the city’s perimeter. Just outside of the city - a mile or so further - lay the barrios of San Luis Combate. Some years back this land had been overrun by squatters - those homeless with nowhere else to go, and here they remained. Here they made their living, constructing a life and a home with whatever they could find: carton (cardboard), corrugated tin... anything. And here, every Saturday morning, the San Luis children's mission was held. About fifty smiling, bare-footed children would congregate under that tree, rain or shine, all of those who weren't already hard at work - and enough stray dogs for each of them. Three years or so before our arrival they had come - no one had claimed the open land, and, without other hopes or prospects, they had settled here and built a life and home on what little they could - carton (cardboard), corrugated aluminum, anything to keep a roof over their heads. Never have I met a more kind and welcoming people - who offered generously out of their nothing and came faithfully to hear the word of God preached. Needless to say, I was every week shamed in my egotistic materialism, and, even without realizing it, I was gaining new perspective on life.
I became quite a different person those few years in Hermosillo. I learned to understand and even appreciate the many cultural differences, to see beyond myself and my own very limited way of thinking. I realized - and it was a colossal realization - that my citizenship was not here on earth, that my identity couldn't be found in one particular country or place, persay - no, I was a citizen of heaven. Here were people who loved the same Lord and worshipped him with the same faith ... although, perhaps, their faith and worship may have looked a little different. ;)
Three years later, the day came when we were to leave Hermosillo and move back to the States. I had no time to think about trifles of that sort however... my Hispanic band was playing at church that morning, and, before I left, I had to see this last performance through. Upon my early arrival at the church, I was told, with typical Mexican timing, that I was to make a speech that morning to open the band's presentation. Even though I had no time to plan or prepare for anything of the sort, I quickly wrote out (with a little help from our faithful band director) an address to the audience, and took a few precious moments to make sure I had all the songs by heart. As I stepped onto the stage, I looked out across the audience, my heart beating with all its eleven year old might, trying to get my bearings. I took a deep breath and delivered the important little speech, introducing our songs and the band, and, as I finished, the music began to play. Our last act went off without a hitch, a roar of applause succeeding our exit from the stage. And as the service ended and we drove out of town, I knew I would never, ever forget Hermosillo: my second home. The culture, the people, the life that I lived in Mexico has become a part of me, it has shaped who I am and the direction I'm headed now - I would never trade those few years for a life of leisure anywhere else. Without His divine intervention, I never would I have left a life where I was, once, content.
And gaining a new one.
So, I've been 'There'...
...Now what?
There were about six of us gathered together on Sunday night, at the Paasch place, as usual. Almost every Sunday after the 6 o'clock service at East Valley we (a very fluctuating, colorful 'we' that is not very clearly defined) get together and eat, talk, talk some more, eat, watch a movie every now and then... and generally "make merry" in a Christian sort of way. :) Well, it was one of these Sunday nights when, around a pot of Starbucks Sumatra, the topic of conversation turned toward character types. Turns out about oh, 7 years or so ago my parents learned this code for different personalities (one of many) - the DISC code. It works this way. "D" stands for determined, "I" for influential, "S" for steady, and "C" for conscientious. If someone's a little tricky, then they get a combination. My dad's an IS. My mom's a DDDDDDIIIII (I made up that variation - anyone who knows my mom will agree with me!). My sister's plain "I". Me, well... I'm, just...
I'm just...
different.
My mom - my MOM - whose skills in the art of pinning anyone's characteristics, be they physical, emotional, spiritual, you-name-it are positively psychic - has yet to pin me down. I've been trying to figure it out myself... and decided that the explanation couldn't be restricted to acronyms and I'd have to write a blog.
Which is great. I love to write.
Let me give you an idea of where it all began. If I were to be entirely thorough, I would probably use up more computer space than I'm at present willing to part with, so I'll [attempt to] be brief. :) (Brief for me, however, is something entirely than different than "brief" for the rest of the world.) My life began right here in Scottsdale, Arizona, some years back. (We won't specify how many presently!) My life was very, very... normal for the first six years - we had a lovely little home in Mesa, complete with large backyard, full-grown trees, and white shutters... knowing my mom (then!), we would have had the picket fence too, if the HoA would have permitted it. Then, soon before my seventh birthday, my life changed forever.
Yeah, I actually have one of those stories.
My parents went on a harmless little mission trip to Matamoros, Tamaulipas on the border of Texas that summer... and came back missionaries. Needless to say, I was shocked, irate, and very, very scared. I had read about these "missionaries" before. Weren't they all eaten by cannibals, or imprisoned for years on end with little food and no bathroom? Talk about gross! Weren't they the types that sold everything they owned and lived in the bush and who all either died of some kind of fever or were tortured to death by foreign savages?
That didn't sound like much fun.
And I swore I would never, ever go. That nothing - nothing - in the world would make me.
Fortunately, my parents took little consideration of that opinion (and fortunately, I was all talk!), and as soon as humanly possible, we were on the road to Texas. We were on the road a lot after that. We lived in Texas for seven months - and almost everywhere else you can imagine (as long as your imagination stays somewhere in North America). There was language school in Baja California, missionary training school in North Carolina, a year on the border of Nogales, numerous transitional apartments, and finally, three years in the capitol of Sonora, Hermosillo. We traveled through most of the eastern and central and midwestern United States, a good 11 states in my second home country (Mexico), and a few Canadian provinces here and there. All this change, all this moving - just what I had dreaded most.
God certainly has a sense of humor. And He chose to exercise His sovereignty in my life in many (and, to me, very mysterious!) ways.
About the time we reached Hermosillo I had had just about enough. Yes, I had experienced far more than the average kid my age, had been on more incredible adventures than many adults could boast. Throughout its entirety I was learning... my mother was quite determined that my sister and I would have a complete, thorough education - and despite the odds, we did! I learned my multiplication tables driving through Virginia; I counted to a thousand for the first time on one particularly long trek from Carolina to Jersey. I had memorized my prepositions in a small trailer home in Ensenada, written my first poems in a small drafty ranch house on the border's very brink in Nogales, Arizona. But I was ready to be done. Still mourning the loss of my last abode (I cried over every house I left but one), the idea of "settling down" to me seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.
But... God had something different in mind for me.
It had been a long fourteen hour drive, an all day ordeal, but finally the great town of Hermosillo, Sonora loomed in front of us, all lights and traffic and endless streets. It wasn't a new sight - we had visited before, but everything seemed dim and surreal, unable to fully register its reality in my mottled brain. Could this be happening to me - again? When my parents had decided to move to Mexico as missionaries, I thought they were crazy and had vowed I would never go. And yet, somehow, life was beginning again for me - in a new life, an entirely new world. Shortly after arriving, once the first excitment of our new surroundings had worn off, we began to realize how incredibly different we were, culturally, from the Mexicans around us. We had heard of culture shock, and laughed - now, we got to have our own up close and personal experience with it. Our first taste of this new culture came with our first Mexican fiesta. Our neighbors closed our street off entirely to make room for their little girls's 1st birthday party. Shocked, we shortly began t realize that such a procedure really was necessary in this case, considering the fact that most, if not the entire neighborhood was invited to the celebration (and most of the next!!!), and we were even more taken aback to find that they would stay at the fiesta until about 1 or 2 in the morning, regardless of the events of the next day. Never in my life had I seen seen such a grand affair - certainly not next door and even more certainly not to celebrate merely the passing of a child's very first year in the world. I tried my first bit of Mexican candy that night, too - being the master of drama that I was (and am), I immediately began to dry-heave the stuff up, handed the rest to my sister, and swore I'd never try it again.
What a revolting place, I thought. They make up their own rules without so much as an if-you-please, stay up and play loud mariachi music until all hours of the night, and this candy... why would you ever, EVER put chile and sugar together? I don't think that God ever intended any such disastrous combination.
I don't know if I can do this.
It's funny how nearly anything can grow on you if you just give it time.
(I can eat chile by the pound now... and yes, even with sugar.)
Shortly after moving in, finding a church became our primary object - and, for some reason, none seemed fitting. Everyone was either falling all over the ground and speaking something that didn't sound much like Spanish - or stoic and legalistic and rather altogether frightening. Finally, we found it - Maranatha, it was called, and it seemed to be MADE for us. But the necessity of learning Spanish soon became acutely obvious. My sister and I were sent to school, and quickly became quite "popular". Not, of course, because of anything either of us said or did (because we obviously couldn't), but, being 'la Americana', 'la gringa', I was instantly accepted, for what could be more of a novelty than a little white girl with light skin and blue eyes?
About the time I started sixth grade, the focus of our history class turned to the Texas revolution in class. Now, for those of you who didn't know, this subject is one that is still rather tender in the hearts of the Mexicans, and many are still quite bitter about the whole idea of Texas and the Southwest being taken from them. I soon found, much to my own personal chagrin, that the subject considered a huge victory against the cruel hearted Mexicans in America was regarded in a quite different light in Mexico. As we were told of the wrongs done to fellow countrymen by the heartless Americans - how their land was stolen from them (told with all the patriotic candor of a true hearted Mexican!), I began to sink lower and lower in my seat, my face hidden by the offending history book, hoping against hope that no one would associate me with those cold blooded Americans told of in THIS account of the Mexican American War. Thankfully, the connection was not made, at least verbally, and I began to see a different side to the biased version of history I had always known.
That first summer in Hermosillo I learned a few things. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, we would drive through the breadth of the grand capitol of Sonora, past la Zona Hotelera (the hotel zone), the gigantic, ominous homes of the few opulent in colonia Pitic and La Jolla, past our home church ‘Maranatha’ - past la Fiesta Americana, the largest and most precocious hotel in the city’s perimeter. Just outside of the city - a mile or so further - lay the barrios of San Luis Combate. Some years back this land had been overrun by squatters - those homeless with nowhere else to go, and here they remained. Here they made their living, constructing a life and a home with whatever they could find: carton (cardboard), corrugated tin... anything. And here, every Saturday morning, the San Luis children's mission was held. About fifty smiling, bare-footed children would congregate under that tree, rain or shine, all of those who weren't already hard at work - and enough stray dogs for each of them. Three years or so before our arrival they had come - no one had claimed the open land, and, without other hopes or prospects, they had settled here and built a life and home on what little they could - carton (cardboard), corrugated aluminum, anything to keep a roof over their heads. Never have I met a more kind and welcoming people - who offered generously out of their nothing and came faithfully to hear the word of God preached. Needless to say, I was every week shamed in my egotistic materialism, and, even without realizing it, I was gaining new perspective on life.
I became quite a different person those few years in Hermosillo. I learned to understand and even appreciate the many cultural differences, to see beyond myself and my own very limited way of thinking. I realized - and it was a colossal realization - that my citizenship was not here on earth, that my identity couldn't be found in one particular country or place, persay - no, I was a citizen of heaven. Here were people who loved the same Lord and worshipped him with the same faith ... although, perhaps, their faith and worship may have looked a little different. ;)
Three years later, the day came when we were to leave Hermosillo and move back to the States. I had no time to think about trifles of that sort however... my Hispanic band was playing at church that morning, and, before I left, I had to see this last performance through. Upon my early arrival at the church, I was told, with typical Mexican timing, that I was to make a speech that morning to open the band's presentation. Even though I had no time to plan or prepare for anything of the sort, I quickly wrote out (with a little help from our faithful band director) an address to the audience, and took a few precious moments to make sure I had all the songs by heart. As I stepped onto the stage, I looked out across the audience, my heart beating with all its eleven year old might, trying to get my bearings. I took a deep breath and delivered the important little speech, introducing our songs and the band, and, as I finished, the music began to play. Our last act went off without a hitch, a roar of applause succeeding our exit from the stage. And as the service ended and we drove out of town, I knew I would never, ever forget Hermosillo: my second home. The culture, the people, the life that I lived in Mexico has become a part of me, it has shaped who I am and the direction I'm headed now - I would never trade those few years for a life of leisure anywhere else. Without His divine intervention, I never would I have left a life where I was, once, content.
And gaining a new one.
So, I've been 'There'...
...Now what?
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Waiting
Written while faced with life.
I’ve been quiet for quite a while…
That just won’t do any longer.
It’s the dark dead of night right now – an unearthly hour for the ordinary college student on a week day – but it’s only at times like these when my mind becomes clear and I can really say what I mean.
I guess I didn’t know how or what to say at first, but I’ve decided that I really just need to be honest.
Honest with myself.
Honest with God.
I have quite a few things to say.
I was at Costco a week or so ago, helping the family with an ordinary grocery run, when something rather strange happened. It was coming on lunch time, and, unwilling to resist a voracious hunger any longer, I stepped in line to order something – anything. Engrossed in my own thoughts, it took about five minutes before I realized who was in front of me. Staring up at me with a strange look in her eyes was a young girl, probably eight or so, who, after a second glance, I realized bore a very strange resemblance to myself. The same dark hair, light eyes, white skin (alright, she was a little bit tanner than me - that's not hard), round face – I took little notice of her at first, but, after a moment’s thought, I took a second look. There was something in her eyes that was very odd, and yet somehow familiar. I tried to pretend like I wasn’t looking at her – but she didn’t even attempt to stop looking at me. It was really rather awkward at first. I felt my hair, looked down at my shirt – just to make sure that I hadn’t drastically spilled anything. It was then that I realized that I had once had that look – a longing, waiting look. She paid for her food quickly (the exact same order as me!) – and then she was gone. But I remembered her.
When I was younger I used to wait for a lot of things. Being tall (I guess I’ve never quite achieved that – although comparatively, I’ve gotten somewhere), being able to do things, go places, have adventures, Prince Charming… the usual. I used to wait for life to happen, and it seemed so far away.
And it seems that I’m waiting again.
I’ve never liked waiting. Throughout most of my life I haven’t had to, so I guess I never learned how to rightfully cope with it. I’ve always got through things – through life – as fast as it was in my power to do. And I’ve never seemed to lack for “power”. With the help of two dedicated parents, my sister and I got through eight grades in four years when we were very young – I’ve worked my way through life and work with a rock solid determination. My life has never lacked for adventure – and although change has never been easy for me, I’m far more accustomed to that than this waiting.
There’s a lot of things I’m waiting for right now. Waiting for next semester. Waiting for school to end. Waiting for progress. Waiting to mature in my faith… to know what to do with my life. Waiting to someday go home.
I guess what I need is patience. In the words of someone much smarter than me… I want to know the ending, of things hoped for, and not seen – but I guess that’s the point of hoping anyway.
Sometimes I think that I’m trying too hard. We’re told to strive, to leave behind every encumbrance and the sin that so easily entangles and set our sights on things above. And yet I’ve realized that I can’t even set my sights alone. It seems that the things I’ve struggled with my whole life never seem to go away. . I know that He will complete the work that He began - but I can’t see much progress as yet! I can’t see the road ahead. I want to know. I want to be sure. I want to feel that I am on the right path, headed the right direction - that I am somehow in the right. And maybe that’s the problem. I want to feel. I want to know. And yet He hasn’t chosen to reveal what it is that I seek.
Sometimes I almost feel as if I ought to know. As if I have a right to understand what my life should look like. I know that I am called to something – to use my life to His glory in some way. And yet I find it hard to see beyond the small patch of light that is my current existence. I am blind, but for the next step directly in front of me. Even that is, at times, hazy.
Maybe that is the Christian walk. Maybe it’s meant to be one step at a time, that our faith might grow ever stronger in the One who does know what lies ahead.
I don’t know how to make decisions. I've never been very good at that. The life I have led has been far different than I would ever have planned for myself - I know that this is God's sovereignty, and I feel that I now have a calling to fulfill. But I don’t how to decide the course of my life - and I feel so hindered by the fact that He doesn’t directly speak to me. My humanity desires some sort of tangible two-way communication. I’m programmed for direct communication.
That’s not really true, though, is it?
He programmed me Himself.
I have always known my goal - to glorify God in all that I do, and make Him famous. Everything within me cries that is the truth. But how? For all my battles against practicality… there is an intense desire to know what true Christian faith - what my Christian faith, my life, my work, ought to look like. I don’t know where to begin.
I know that he knows what I’m destined for. But I’m afraid that I’ll miss it, that I’ll be too busy to notice. Or even to care. That apathy would somehow take over and control me. I pray that it would not be! Apathy has to be one of the most destructive forces that can overtake a believer. It is an enemy to truth. Not that it directly defies it… but in its very essence it is designed to render the saved heart worthless - to make it search for happiness, for joy in the things of this world until it is of no further use to the kingdom.
And this, my friends, is my deepest, darkest fear.
To miss it.
To waste it.
I don’t want to waste anything that the Lord throws my way. John Piper wrote the poem, when he was still a boy. These are the first four lines:
Long I searched for the earth’s hidden meaning,
Long as a youth my search was in vain.
Now as I approach my last years waning,
My search I must begin again.
Piper himself says this:
I want - and the word seems too weak - to live radically. And yet I know that ‘radical’ for me will look different than ‘radical’ for someone else. I do know this. I have yet to define what ‘different’ is, though.
So I’m busy waiting. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting and choosing joy in the process.
There are a few things that I know for sure. I am saved by the blood of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and God himself, who died on a cross to save His chosen people from their sins, that they might live no longer for themselves, but for Him. He came to glorify Himself. And He was glorified. He was resurrected on the third day, and is at the right hand of the Father in heaven. I am free. These things I know. I will never cease to know them, for they are written on my soul with an indelible ink.
I’ve made a decision, friends: I've decided to let Him take charge of my life - for I know I will make a sad mess of it myself. I've decided to relinquish hold. Perhaps, with divine assistance, I might be able to let go of the steering wheel of my life that I have gripped so tightly... the wheel that I never really drove anyway. I never took one step on my own.
That's a comforting thought.
Perhaps, if I could look away from myself for a moment... perhaps if I could somehow let go... I might be able to converse more freely with the true Driver.
Now I'm getting excited.
As it seems to have become a tradition of mine to include some encouraging lyrics that I've heard throughout the week, I think I'll post some (again, from my favorite writer, Sara Groves... if you've never heard her, you really should) that have particularly encouraged me as of late. I'm even learning to play this one... (!)
It's called Painting Pictures of Egypt.
I don't want to leave here
I don't want to stay
It feels like pinching to me
Either way
And the places I long for the most are
The places where I've been
They are calling out to me
Like a long lost friend
It's not about losing faith
It's not about trust
It's all about comfortable
When you move so much
And the place I was wasn't perfect but I had
Found a way to live
And it wasn't milk or honey, but then...
Neither is this
I've been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard and I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned
The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy
To discard
And I was dying for some freedom but now I
Hesitate to go
I am caught between the promise and
The things I know
I've been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard and I want to go back...
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned
If it comes too quick...
I may not appreciate it.
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand
If it comes too quick...
I may not recognize it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
Sometimes it feels as though I just can't hear Him. Sometimes it feels as though He's forgotten. I am caught between His promise and the things I know. And yet, that's the trouble... my life can't be governed by what I feel. If it were... you can't even imagine what a colossal disaster that would be.
And so I am thankful that I'm incapable.
I am thankful that I don't have to go it alone.
I'm excited to see what's in store for me.
And I'm ready to just be still and listen and wait. And hope.
I don’t have to know it all.
Phil. 3:7-16 " I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. All of us who are mature should take such a view of things. And if on some point you think differently, that too God will make clear to you. Only let us live up to what we have already attained."
(emphasis mine)
Now there's tangible communication for you. Let us press on - let us live up to what we have already attained: the salvation that comes through faith in Christ Jesus and the hope of heaven. We have a glorious hope. A hope that surpasses understanding.
… how can I keep from singing?
Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus
Just to take Him at His word
Just to rest upon His promise
Just to know, "Thus saith the Lord".
... Oh for grace to trust Him more.
I’ve been quiet for quite a while…
That just won’t do any longer.
It’s the dark dead of night right now – an unearthly hour for the ordinary college student on a week day – but it’s only at times like these when my mind becomes clear and I can really say what I mean.
I guess I didn’t know how or what to say at first, but I’ve decided that I really just need to be honest.
Honest with myself.
Honest with God.
I have quite a few things to say.
I was at Costco a week or so ago, helping the family with an ordinary grocery run, when something rather strange happened. It was coming on lunch time, and, unwilling to resist a voracious hunger any longer, I stepped in line to order something – anything. Engrossed in my own thoughts, it took about five minutes before I realized who was in front of me. Staring up at me with a strange look in her eyes was a young girl, probably eight or so, who, after a second glance, I realized bore a very strange resemblance to myself. The same dark hair, light eyes, white skin (alright, she was a little bit tanner than me - that's not hard), round face – I took little notice of her at first, but, after a moment’s thought, I took a second look. There was something in her eyes that was very odd, and yet somehow familiar. I tried to pretend like I wasn’t looking at her – but she didn’t even attempt to stop looking at me. It was really rather awkward at first. I felt my hair, looked down at my shirt – just to make sure that I hadn’t drastically spilled anything. It was then that I realized that I had once had that look – a longing, waiting look. She paid for her food quickly (the exact same order as me!) – and then she was gone. But I remembered her.
When I was younger I used to wait for a lot of things. Being tall (I guess I’ve never quite achieved that – although comparatively, I’ve gotten somewhere), being able to do things, go places, have adventures, Prince Charming… the usual. I used to wait for life to happen, and it seemed so far away.
And it seems that I’m waiting again.
I’ve never liked waiting. Throughout most of my life I haven’t had to, so I guess I never learned how to rightfully cope with it. I’ve always got through things – through life – as fast as it was in my power to do. And I’ve never seemed to lack for “power”. With the help of two dedicated parents, my sister and I got through eight grades in four years when we were very young – I’ve worked my way through life and work with a rock solid determination. My life has never lacked for adventure – and although change has never been easy for me, I’m far more accustomed to that than this waiting.
There’s a lot of things I’m waiting for right now. Waiting for next semester. Waiting for school to end. Waiting for progress. Waiting to mature in my faith… to know what to do with my life. Waiting to someday go home.
I guess what I need is patience. In the words of someone much smarter than me… I want to know the ending, of things hoped for, and not seen – but I guess that’s the point of hoping anyway.
Sometimes I think that I’m trying too hard. We’re told to strive, to leave behind every encumbrance and the sin that so easily entangles and set our sights on things above. And yet I’ve realized that I can’t even set my sights alone. It seems that the things I’ve struggled with my whole life never seem to go away. . I know that He will complete the work that He began - but I can’t see much progress as yet! I can’t see the road ahead. I want to know. I want to be sure. I want to feel that I am on the right path, headed the right direction - that I am somehow in the right. And maybe that’s the problem. I want to feel. I want to know. And yet He hasn’t chosen to reveal what it is that I seek.
Sometimes I almost feel as if I ought to know. As if I have a right to understand what my life should look like. I know that I am called to something – to use my life to His glory in some way. And yet I find it hard to see beyond the small patch of light that is my current existence. I am blind, but for the next step directly in front of me. Even that is, at times, hazy.
Maybe that is the Christian walk. Maybe it’s meant to be one step at a time, that our faith might grow ever stronger in the One who does know what lies ahead.
I don’t know how to make decisions. I've never been very good at that. The life I have led has been far different than I would ever have planned for myself - I know that this is God's sovereignty, and I feel that I now have a calling to fulfill. But I don’t how to decide the course of my life - and I feel so hindered by the fact that He doesn’t directly speak to me. My humanity desires some sort of tangible two-way communication. I’m programmed for direct communication.
That’s not really true, though, is it?
He programmed me Himself.
I have always known my goal - to glorify God in all that I do, and make Him famous. Everything within me cries that is the truth. But how? For all my battles against practicality… there is an intense desire to know what true Christian faith - what my Christian faith, my life, my work, ought to look like. I don’t know where to begin.
I know that he knows what I’m destined for. But I’m afraid that I’ll miss it, that I’ll be too busy to notice. Or even to care. That apathy would somehow take over and control me. I pray that it would not be! Apathy has to be one of the most destructive forces that can overtake a believer. It is an enemy to truth. Not that it directly defies it… but in its very essence it is designed to render the saved heart worthless - to make it search for happiness, for joy in the things of this world until it is of no further use to the kingdom.
And this, my friends, is my deepest, darkest fear.
To miss it.
To waste it.
I don’t want to waste anything that the Lord throws my way. John Piper wrote the poem, when he was still a boy. These are the first four lines:
Long I searched for the earth’s hidden meaning,
Long as a youth my search was in vain.
Now as I approach my last years waning,
My search I must begin again.
Piper himself says this:
"Across the forty years that separate me from this poem I can hear the fearful
refrain, "I’ve wasted it! I’ve wasted it!" Somehow there had been wakened in me
a passion for the essence and the main point of life. The ethical question
"whether something is permissible" faded in relation to the question, "what is
the main thing, the essential thing?" The thought of building a life around
minimal morality or minimal significance - a life defined by the question, "What
is permissible?" - felt almost disgusting to me. I didn’t want a minimal life. I
didn’t want to live on the outskirts of reality. I wanted to understand the main
thing about life and pursue it."
I want - and the word seems too weak - to live radically. And yet I know that ‘radical’ for me will look different than ‘radical’ for someone else. I do know this. I have yet to define what ‘different’ is, though.
So I’m busy waiting. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting and choosing joy in the process.
There are a few things that I know for sure. I am saved by the blood of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and God himself, who died on a cross to save His chosen people from their sins, that they might live no longer for themselves, but for Him. He came to glorify Himself. And He was glorified. He was resurrected on the third day, and is at the right hand of the Father in heaven. I am free. These things I know. I will never cease to know them, for they are written on my soul with an indelible ink.
I’ve made a decision, friends: I've decided to let Him take charge of my life - for I know I will make a sad mess of it myself. I've decided to relinquish hold. Perhaps, with divine assistance, I might be able to let go of the steering wheel of my life that I have gripped so tightly... the wheel that I never really drove anyway. I never took one step on my own.
That's a comforting thought.
Perhaps, if I could look away from myself for a moment... perhaps if I could somehow let go... I might be able to converse more freely with the true Driver.
Now I'm getting excited.
As it seems to have become a tradition of mine to include some encouraging lyrics that I've heard throughout the week, I think I'll post some (again, from my favorite writer, Sara Groves... if you've never heard her, you really should) that have particularly encouraged me as of late. I'm even learning to play this one... (!)
It's called Painting Pictures of Egypt.
I don't want to leave here
I don't want to stay
It feels like pinching to me
Either way
And the places I long for the most are
The places where I've been
They are calling out to me
Like a long lost friend
It's not about losing faith
It's not about trust
It's all about comfortable
When you move so much
And the place I was wasn't perfect but I had
Found a way to live
And it wasn't milk or honey, but then...
Neither is this
I've been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard and I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned
The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy
To discard
And I was dying for some freedom but now I
Hesitate to go
I am caught between the promise and
The things I know
I've been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard and I want to go back...
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned
If it comes too quick...
I may not appreciate it.
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand
If it comes too quick...
I may not recognize it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
Sometimes it feels as though I just can't hear Him. Sometimes it feels as though He's forgotten. I am caught between His promise and the things I know. And yet, that's the trouble... my life can't be governed by what I feel. If it were... you can't even imagine what a colossal disaster that would be.
And so I am thankful that I'm incapable.
I am thankful that I don't have to go it alone.
I'm excited to see what's in store for me.
And I'm ready to just be still and listen and wait. And hope.
I don’t have to know it all.
Phil. 3:7-16 " I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. All of us who are mature should take such a view of things. And if on some point you think differently, that too God will make clear to you. Only let us live up to what we have already attained."
(emphasis mine)
Now there's tangible communication for you. Let us press on - let us live up to what we have already attained: the salvation that comes through faith in Christ Jesus and the hope of heaven. We have a glorious hope. A hope that surpasses understanding.
… how can I keep from singing?
Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus
Just to take Him at His word
Just to rest upon His promise
Just to know, "Thus saith the Lord".
... Oh for grace to trust Him more.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Las Buenas Nuevas
In English, that means the good news. Here's the good news about what's going on (just to keep my readers - if I have any - well posted!).
Well, sometimes it proves to be difficult figuring out what you're going to do with life. I have found this to be true. So, I evaded the question for a while - but the question has now hit me smack dab between the eyes and I must face up to it, what with ASU and my last two years of college coming up in the fall and all. So... I have made a few crucial decisions, and I feel much, MUCH better.
That's usually a good sign.
Anyway, as some of you (might!) know... I have, for the past two years, been pursuing a degree in education. Bilingual elementary education, to be quite exact. However, as the very thought of standing up in front of kids of any age made me quake in my boots, I was beginning to question that decision. It went from very subtle, half-conscious thinking, to conscious thinking, to a brand new decision. Brand new decisions, I do confess - change in GENERAL - has proved extremely hard for me, but this I have learned: that God is sovereign even over the little details of my life .... like what I'm going to do with the rest of it, and all that good stuff. So, I put it in His hands, and I am now officially pursuing a degree in Spanish, after which I will officially be qualified for a translator's certificate.
Now that's my kind of job.
More than anything, though, I'm a writer. I always have been. Since age 3 I've told my family that I was going to be an author and an illustrator. The illustrating went nowhere, since I figured out very early on that I have no artistic abilities whatsoever. But the writing has stuck. So, as soon as I am graduated with a B.A., a legal adult and the normal age for a college kid (I've decided to embrace my age and forget that it was ever a source of great insecurity), I'm going to, Lord willing, pursue an Associate's in Screenwriting. ! ! ! Everything within me shouts YES!!!! That sounds like the best two years of my life, and I'm duly excited. Maybe I'll use it - maybe not. Point is, I'm doing it anyway. And I don't think it's by accident, either. :)
In fact, I know it's not.
And that's a comforting thought, now isn't it?
Anyhow, now that I have announced the major change, let's talk about small things. I'm taking my first full time semester online at Rio Salado (I've been full time at CGCC for a while now), and am fighting many battles against the grand mystery that is technology. I said fighting - but I'm losing a lot of them. :) I guess it just takes practice. Procrastination, too, is a constant pitfall - one that I don't try hard enough to avoid. God is good, though, and I haven't forgotten any major assignments or papers, as of yet. :)
Secondly, I'm teaching (with plenty help) an Advanced ADVANCED Spanish class for a select few that gather weekly at Pan de Vida, East Valley's Hispanic mission. My students (homeschoolers, and, as my Hispanic friends would say, 'muy listos' : crazy smart) like to call it Advanced Squared. Kinda catchy, huh? We taught our first class this last Thursday, and, scared as I was, it went very well. You'll never find a more attentive set of students, and thankfully, I got my point across somehow. I don't know what I would do without my sister or almost-sister Mexican friend Ruth, whose Spanish, of course, is impeccable and always grammatically correct (which is more than I can boast!).
Other than that, the rest of life is... steady. Steady life, I confess, is sometimes the hardest for me. I'm so dramatic and adventurous and, when life is steady, or routine, I suppose you could say, I've got to make a conscious decision everyday to choose joy. A very, very conscious decision. :) Thank goodness - no, thank the LORD - that I don't have to try to 'choose' on my own.
Well, just a bit of 'buenas nuevas' for you all ... much less serious and deep than some other things I've written, but necessary, too. I hope the Lord is blessing each of You with the grace that only He can give. One last thing, friends - choose joy.
Well, sometimes it proves to be difficult figuring out what you're going to do with life. I have found this to be true. So, I evaded the question for a while - but the question has now hit me smack dab between the eyes and I must face up to it, what with ASU and my last two years of college coming up in the fall and all. So... I have made a few crucial decisions, and I feel much, MUCH better.
That's usually a good sign.
Anyway, as some of you (might!) know... I have, for the past two years, been pursuing a degree in education. Bilingual elementary education, to be quite exact. However, as the very thought of standing up in front of kids of any age made me quake in my boots, I was beginning to question that decision. It went from very subtle, half-conscious thinking, to conscious thinking, to a brand new decision. Brand new decisions, I do confess - change in GENERAL - has proved extremely hard for me, but this I have learned: that God is sovereign even over the little details of my life .... like what I'm going to do with the rest of it, and all that good stuff. So, I put it in His hands, and I am now officially pursuing a degree in Spanish, after which I will officially be qualified for a translator's certificate.
Now that's my kind of job.
More than anything, though, I'm a writer. I always have been. Since age 3 I've told my family that I was going to be an author and an illustrator. The illustrating went nowhere, since I figured out very early on that I have no artistic abilities whatsoever. But the writing has stuck. So, as soon as I am graduated with a B.A., a legal adult and the normal age for a college kid (I've decided to embrace my age and forget that it was ever a source of great insecurity), I'm going to, Lord willing, pursue an Associate's in Screenwriting. ! ! ! Everything within me shouts YES!!!! That sounds like the best two years of my life, and I'm duly excited. Maybe I'll use it - maybe not. Point is, I'm doing it anyway. And I don't think it's by accident, either. :)
In fact, I know it's not.
And that's a comforting thought, now isn't it?
Anyhow, now that I have announced the major change, let's talk about small things. I'm taking my first full time semester online at Rio Salado (I've been full time at CGCC for a while now), and am fighting many battles against the grand mystery that is technology. I said fighting - but I'm losing a lot of them. :) I guess it just takes practice. Procrastination, too, is a constant pitfall - one that I don't try hard enough to avoid. God is good, though, and I haven't forgotten any major assignments or papers, as of yet. :)
Secondly, I'm teaching (with plenty help) an Advanced ADVANCED Spanish class for a select few that gather weekly at Pan de Vida, East Valley's Hispanic mission. My students (homeschoolers, and, as my Hispanic friends would say, 'muy listos' : crazy smart) like to call it Advanced Squared. Kinda catchy, huh? We taught our first class this last Thursday, and, scared as I was, it went very well. You'll never find a more attentive set of students, and thankfully, I got my point across somehow. I don't know what I would do without my sister or almost-sister Mexican friend Ruth, whose Spanish, of course, is impeccable and always grammatically correct (which is more than I can boast!).
Other than that, the rest of life is... steady. Steady life, I confess, is sometimes the hardest for me. I'm so dramatic and adventurous and, when life is steady, or routine, I suppose you could say, I've got to make a conscious decision everyday to choose joy. A very, very conscious decision. :) Thank goodness - no, thank the LORD - that I don't have to try to 'choose' on my own.
Well, just a bit of 'buenas nuevas' for you all ... much less serious and deep than some other things I've written, but necessary, too. I hope the Lord is blessing each of You with the grace that only He can give. One last thing, friends - choose joy.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Tia's Story
I wrote this short story about a year ago, as a creative branch of my ENG102 research. Seeing an old friend a few weeks ago, her son Abraham, reminded me once again of Tia and Hermosillo, which I once called home. I have labelled it simply, Tia's Story.
I had known Tia for over four years now - yes, ever since the incorrigible little redhead spitfire had walked through the door to our little house in Hermosillo, we had become fast friends. She came to clean and organize our home on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I would always be by the door, waiting for her arrival. When I occasionally forgot, I would be play-scolded for my negligence and prodded out of bed to a hot breakfast of eggs and chorizo. Her real name was Socorro, meaning 'help' in Spanish, but we affectionally called her 'Tia', or aunt, and she was like a second mother to me, scolding and spoiling and teaching constantly. She taught me the ways of Sonora - how to talk like a true Sonoran, how to consume chiles like a real Sonoran, and she taught my sister - she never quite trained me - to wear those crazy spindly high heels that Sonorans wear. Two years later, when we moved back to the United States, Tia became, of course, a regular visitor to our home in the States, our honored guest - and, as she could never be idle, she began to work, cleaning and organizing people's homes, and excelling at it with her usual spirit and determination. She never forgot Amy and I, though, and every night we would have our daily tournament, or war, rather, of her favorite board game, Sorry. Besides, every extra peso helped in her little home back in Sonora.
It was one of those trips, her Christmastime visit, the end of a week of grueling hard labor, and finally she was home again with us, sitting on the guest bedroom floor, counting her earnings. I watched as she slowly and deliberately counted every dollar with precision going over her addition twice on the paper I provided her. Her money counted, she began to divide it carefully into categories. Clothes for the boys - $30.
"They need uniforms for school," she said. "They haven't had new ones in nearly two years now. And my oldest, he's grown so much - he needs a new pair of pants. Do you think you mother could drop me off at the thrift store later?"
"No problem," I replied, rather absentmindedly, watching her meticulous counting.
Food - $100.
Savings - $50.
The ticket home - $30.
"I have been so blessed by this trip," she exclaimed, her voice gushing with excitement and joy. "Look how much I made! 100 dollars in one day! Your aunt was most kind to give me that much."
New sweater for her husband - $5.
"Now, if I can just get another cleaning engagement for tomorrow, I will ahve work for 3 more days - I will go home Saturday night. There - I'm done counting."
Total: $300.
"Tia, you work too hard! Give yourself a break! Can't you just hang out tomorrow? It's about time! I have the day off - we could go shopping, or play Sorry..."
"You come with me, Anita! You know I can always use a translator. Some of these tall blonde ladies, they talk so fast as if they expect me to understand, and then leave me a long list of to-dos in English!"
"Tia!" I gasped. "What do you do? I know for a fact you can't read a word of English. You told me so yourself!"
"And you know just as well that I hae never left anyone unhappy with my work. I just do a thorough cleaning, you know, and organize just the tiniest bit, and everyone's always happy."
Just a little organizing, right. Tia's organizing was renowned in our home - whenever anything went missing, ask Tia. And we usually asked the right person, too. Every six months we had the seasonal cleaning-out of my closet to take care of - a nightmare for me, but a joy for someone like Tia. She would wake us both up bright and early, hand each of us a large garbage bag, and tell us to fill it, or else she would. Nevertheless, she was right - my closet was always spotless after her, and most clients wouldn't recognize anything rearranged for a couple of days anyway, at least until Tia was safely out of the country.
"Speaking of organizing - I haven't seen my black dress shoes since last summer, Tia. Would you happen to know where they are?"
"Hm, let's see... now that you remind me, I think I might know the pair you mean."
A quick raid of an obscure un-searched corner of my closet produced the coveted shoes I had recently replaced. That Tia.
She did work those last four days, and that Saturday she left us, waving emphatically as the bus pulled out of the station, her arms filled with discounted buys and surprises for her family back home, cast away items from the houses she had cleaned. South, further south she went, going home with clothing, food, and a little to spare. "I'll be back this summer, you know I will," she had promised. For now, her extra little income had kept her family above water - for now. True to her name, she was taking help home to her family, in many different shapes and sizes. My eyes filled as I remembered the little Christmas gift I had found on my bed before she left. All her saving and economy, and she hadn't forgotten me. And it was then that I realized how truly blessed I was, not only in material possessions, but to have a friend like my 'Tia'.
I had known Tia for over four years now - yes, ever since the incorrigible little redhead spitfire had walked through the door to our little house in Hermosillo, we had become fast friends. She came to clean and organize our home on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I would always be by the door, waiting for her arrival. When I occasionally forgot, I would be play-scolded for my negligence and prodded out of bed to a hot breakfast of eggs and chorizo. Her real name was Socorro, meaning 'help' in Spanish, but we affectionally called her 'Tia', or aunt, and she was like a second mother to me, scolding and spoiling and teaching constantly. She taught me the ways of Sonora - how to talk like a true Sonoran, how to consume chiles like a real Sonoran, and she taught my sister - she never quite trained me - to wear those crazy spindly high heels that Sonorans wear. Two years later, when we moved back to the United States, Tia became, of course, a regular visitor to our home in the States, our honored guest - and, as she could never be idle, she began to work, cleaning and organizing people's homes, and excelling at it with her usual spirit and determination. She never forgot Amy and I, though, and every night we would have our daily tournament, or war, rather, of her favorite board game, Sorry. Besides, every extra peso helped in her little home back in Sonora.
It was one of those trips, her Christmastime visit, the end of a week of grueling hard labor, and finally she was home again with us, sitting on the guest bedroom floor, counting her earnings. I watched as she slowly and deliberately counted every dollar with precision going over her addition twice on the paper I provided her. Her money counted, she began to divide it carefully into categories. Clothes for the boys - $30.
"They need uniforms for school," she said. "They haven't had new ones in nearly two years now. And my oldest, he's grown so much - he needs a new pair of pants. Do you think you mother could drop me off at the thrift store later?"
"No problem," I replied, rather absentmindedly, watching her meticulous counting.
Food - $100.
Savings - $50.
The ticket home - $30.
"I have been so blessed by this trip," she exclaimed, her voice gushing with excitement and joy. "Look how much I made! 100 dollars in one day! Your aunt was most kind to give me that much."
New sweater for her husband - $5.
"Now, if I can just get another cleaning engagement for tomorrow, I will ahve work for 3 more days - I will go home Saturday night. There - I'm done counting."
Total: $300.
"Tia, you work too hard! Give yourself a break! Can't you just hang out tomorrow? It's about time! I have the day off - we could go shopping, or play Sorry..."
"You come with me, Anita! You know I can always use a translator. Some of these tall blonde ladies, they talk so fast as if they expect me to understand, and then leave me a long list of to-dos in English!"
"Tia!" I gasped. "What do you do? I know for a fact you can't read a word of English. You told me so yourself!"
"And you know just as well that I hae never left anyone unhappy with my work. I just do a thorough cleaning, you know, and organize just the tiniest bit, and everyone's always happy."
Just a little organizing, right. Tia's organizing was renowned in our home - whenever anything went missing, ask Tia. And we usually asked the right person, too. Every six months we had the seasonal cleaning-out of my closet to take care of - a nightmare for me, but a joy for someone like Tia. She would wake us both up bright and early, hand each of us a large garbage bag, and tell us to fill it, or else she would. Nevertheless, she was right - my closet was always spotless after her, and most clients wouldn't recognize anything rearranged for a couple of days anyway, at least until Tia was safely out of the country.
"Speaking of organizing - I haven't seen my black dress shoes since last summer, Tia. Would you happen to know where they are?"
"Hm, let's see... now that you remind me, I think I might know the pair you mean."
A quick raid of an obscure un-searched corner of my closet produced the coveted shoes I had recently replaced. That Tia.
She did work those last four days, and that Saturday she left us, waving emphatically as the bus pulled out of the station, her arms filled with discounted buys and surprises for her family back home, cast away items from the houses she had cleaned. South, further south she went, going home with clothing, food, and a little to spare. "I'll be back this summer, you know I will," she had promised. For now, her extra little income had kept her family above water - for now. True to her name, she was taking help home to her family, in many different shapes and sizes. My eyes filled as I remembered the little Christmas gift I had found on my bed before she left. All her saving and economy, and she hadn't forgotten me. And it was then that I realized how truly blessed I was, not only in material possessions, but to have a friend like my 'Tia'.
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